THE RUNNER

*1*

Ace lowered himself into the frigid water as echoes of squealing children drifted down the stairwell. Their excited trills drowned out his thundering heartbeat, making him yearn for such carefree days.

A splash erupted from the murky surface. The children went silent.

Ace peered toward the source of the disturbance. A porcelain doll bobbed up and down amid the ripples, its expression blank, almost peaceful, before it slipped beneath the water. Another casualty of the Great Flood.

Those kids had better be careful, he thought, or it'll be more than a doll tumbling down the stairwell…

Ace's new diving partner angled into view above him and held out a long, rubber tube.

"You sure you don't want the air hose today, boss?" Tommy asked. Ace wasn't really his boss, but among the divers, he'd been around the longest. Although he refused to rely on that unreliable tube to supply his air, he was one of the few original divers who hadn't yet drowned in the silo's flooded depths.

"No thanks, Tommy. Not today."

Not ever, he thought bitterly. He'd seen too many kinked hoses, watched too many young men and women give their lives to the flood. Countless times he'd had to pull able bodies from the water, zip them into black bags only to pass on to the porters, who would haul the corpses up to feed the roots of the dirt farms.

Ace checked his utility belt to make sure his wrenches and crowbars were secure. When satisfied, he pushed himself away from the partially submerged landing and paddled into the middle of the lake, trying to visualize what lay beneath him.

"See you in six minutes, boss?"

"I'm going to try for seven today," Ace replied. "Yesterday I hit six and a half and I had a bit left in me." He slowed his breathing, preparing for the dive. "But hey, don't wait up for me, all right?"

He gave his partner a wink as he began bobbing up and down in the water, each bob taking him further down, and then higher up than the last. He timed his breaths in a rhythm, inhaling deeper and exhaling more air each time. Tommy hit the switch that activated the spotlights suspended above the pool, causing Ace to squint against the sudden brightness.

"See you in six," Tommy said, forgetting, or not wanting to believe that Ace was willing to push for seven minutes. "Good hunting down there."

Ace kicked his feet as hard as he could while inhaling the largest breath his lungs could muster. He performed a graceful half twist as gravity and acceleration pulled his body down.

The shock was immediate as his head broke the surface of the cold water, but this was nothing he wasn't used to. The suffocating press of water that terrified most others had become part of his daily routine. Alone in these silent depths, his dives were the only thing that got him through the day, the only thing that gave his life purpose anymore.

Ace thrust his legs away from the surface, pushed his arms in sweeping arcs, and was careful not to let the slightest mouthful of air escape as he descended. The glare from the spotlights refracted through the shimmering green water, and as he swam through the shadows, he noted that the further down he got, the more sludge clung to the metal stairs, the more algae coated the walls, like gossamery spider thread. He was amazed at how much plant life grew down here. Strands of hair-like seaweed swayed against a gentle current, flourishing in the same water that had destroyed so many lives.

This was the fifth year since the flooding had begun, and the fifth year since Mick had been sent cleaning—swallowed by the great outside. But, it wasn't the outside that killed him, Ace reminded himself. It had been those inside the silo who had had a message to send. Ace grimaced, thinking back to that horrific day. Some memories were too painful to forget, but even if Ace could forget, he wasn't sure if he'd want to.

Red paint, peeling like rotting flesh, knocked Ace out of his gloomy reverie. "Ninety-eight," it read. It had been about two minutes since he'd gone under, and his lungs combated the effects of oxygen depletion that would plague a less experienced diver.

The door to ninety-eight was already open—the result of yesterday's dive—and as Ace pulled himself through, he lost most of the light which filtered down from above. He reached up and flipped on his head-lamp, illuminating an abandoned hall, brown scum flaking off walls and swirling like motes of dust in his wake. He came to a T at the end of the hallway, turned his head down each corridor, and then chose one at random.

Three minutes.

Ace swam down the hall as far as he dared and began working on one of the doors. He tried the handle first, but of course it didn't budge—they never did, this far submerged. He pulled a carbon crowbar from his belt and worked it into the slot of the door. He punched the end of it outward and felt the door pop as it came ajar, bracing himself as he released the handle. Gravity welcomed the water into the previously empty apartment, creating a torrent around him. Bubbles poured out angrily, distressed for being disturbed after so long, and collected along the top of the hall. He swam up and put his lips into the tiny pocket of trapped air, taking a small, testing breath. It was good air. He emptied his lungs of stale oxygen and then went back for a refill, adding five minutes to his mental clock. Ace smiled to himself.

Tommy is going to have a conniption fit if I'm not back soon.

But Ace knew he wouldn't always get so lucky. Sometimes the air in these rooms didn't add to his time underwater at all. Either it had been deprived of its oxygen by fire, or worst case, decomposing bodies inside the apartments made the air unbreathable.

He continued back along the way he'd come, opening half a dozen doors until the current became nearly too strong to fight. Only two of the apartments had contained good air, the rest affording nothing but the space into which the water would flow into. Each apartment lowered the flood line a foot, two feet if they were lucky. This was his mantra as he worked: Flood the apartments, gain back the silo.

He paused at the last door. It was larger than the rest, and he struggled to remember what was behind it. There wasn't always a pattern to the levels of the silo, the creators hadn't made a uniform design. But he was feeling giddy, perhaps from the lack of O2, so he decided to try his luck.

This door required no crowbar but he jammed his foot against the doorframe and used his wrench to latch onto the great wheel on the front of it. After a few heaves, he was able to shake the wheel loose. He turned and turned until finally the door gave a start. He felt it pulling away from him and braced his foot against the wall. It took a lot of energy to keep the door from swinging inward, and he thought of all the glorious air pressure trapped in the spacious chamber beyond—all the feet of reclaimed silo this would grant them.

With a massive shove, he kicked away from the frame as he let the wheel go. A muffled bang rang out as the door crashed into the wall inside the room. He turned toward the entrance of the level, pumping his legs. But something was wrong. As hard as he swam, he wasn't moving. He had just enough strength the keep himself in the same place as water rushed past him to fill the large cavern he had exposed.

Shit, how long until the current stops?

He knew he didn't have time to find out. He hadn't found clean air in nearly five minutes, and his lungs were beginning to burn. Ace thought of Tommy, pacing in circles far above, likely holding the air hose that could save his life. But to hell if he was going to rely on those stinking wind pipes to keep him alive.

The pipes!

He glanced up and his head lamp illuminated tracks of rusty pipes running along the ceiling. Yes, if only he could grab onto one. He tried swimming upward but the current held him in place. He kicked furiously, which was dangerous because he could feel his lungs trying to take a breath, pleading with him to open his mouth and inhale.

Inch by hard-fought inch Ace worked his way up toward the ceiling as water grabbed at him, rimy fingers pulling him into an icy tomb. He grasped out with flailing hands and felt himself getting dizzy.

In a last-ditch attempt his fingers connected with the pipe, and he latched onto it. With enormous effort he hauled himself hand over hand toward the great stairwell. Spots appeared before his eyes, tiny white lights floating across his vision.

He wasn't going to make it. Not this time.

He'd pushed his luck too far, tried to open one too many doors.

Oh well. It wasn't much of a life anyway, not with Mick gone, the only person he'd ever cared about. Even so, he pulled himself along, aware that it was just his body's survival instincts forcing him onward, overpowering his mind's waning desire to keep alive.

Finally, finally he reached the open water and felt the current slow to an imperceptible tug, like a distant magnet losing its charge. But a quick look up to the far-away surface assured him that he wasn't going to make it.

He kicked his legs, and perhaps rose a few feet, but the pain in his lungs was too severe. His body did automatically what his mind had been struggling to avoid. Ace spasmed and inhaled an enormous lungful of water, coughing, which did not make for a pleasant experience underwater.

This was it. Over. Done. No more diving.

No more life.

The water burned inside him, his body disappointed in this thick substance that was not air, that would not keep him alive. He thought of Mick as his limbs stopped moving, thought of him walking through that airlock, all the way up on the top floor of the silo: ground level. He pictured him cleaning those tarnished sensors, scrubbing them with furry pads of wool, liberating them of the grime that had built up over so many years—performing a service for those who had cast him out.

He saw Mick stumble, and then fall, collapsing only yards away from the sensors, his crumpled form burnt into the wall screens of the cafeteria, spoiling their view of a dead and toxic world. The image of his body lying there, just out of reach, had haunted Ace, had made falling asleep unbearable. It wasn't until he accepted the diver's position in the down deep that he'd been able to grab a few hours rest, months after the cleaning.

He told himself that it was the physical distance, that being so far away from those wall screens was what made it easier. But now he knew the sad truth: It was his job that made it easier. It was knowing that any dive could be his last, that every day he was risking his life, and with every great risk, was an opportunity to get closer to the place where Mick was.

Funny, that in a way they would both die the same way: from not having breathable air.

As Ace lost consciousness, his last thoughts were of Mick holding him, cradling his head, and pulling at his arms, upward. But why would Mick pull his arms like that? So rough. It didn't matter, because all he could see was Mick's face, getting brighter, and closer, like those glowing spotlights that beckoned above the water's rippling surface.

Too far away to do any good…

*2*

Five Years Earlier

Mick stormed into Ace's apartment, waiving precious pieces of paper above his head. "Ace, you're not going to believe this." His eyes burned with unrestrained fury.

Ace sprung from his cracked leather chair and put his arms on Mick's broad shoulders. "Calm down," he said, attempting to meet Mick's wild eyes, hoping to summon his attention back to reality. He hadn't been expecting Mick for another few days so this was a surprise. Mick was rarely one for surprises.

"What's the matter?" Ace asked, stroking the side of Mick's arms.

"They're gone! They're all gone." Mick's chest heaved in and out as he tried to relax, but Ace could feel him trembling.

"What's gone, Mick?"

"The emails, Ace. Dozens of them."

Ace didn't have to ask which emails Mick was talking about. They were the ones sent between the two of them over the last few years. Ace worked in the up-top in the accountants bureau while Mick was one of the chief engineers in the down deep, a distance separated by over ninety levels. Email was the only way they could communicate with each other during the long stretches of absence.

"Are you sure you didn't delete them by mistake?" Ace asked.

"Of course I'm sure. I keep them in a special folder. It's encrypted for silo's sake." Mick slumped down into the leather chair.

"What's that in your hand?" Ace asked.

Mick smoothed out the paper on his lap. "These are all I have left. The ones I printed out. My favorites." The fight was gone from his eyes.

"Maybe it was a glitch," Ace suggested. "Here, let me check mine. I should have them all in my sent folder."

He walked across the living room to his desk—a beautiful rosewood his grandfather had left him—and flipped a switch on his computer. Ace could hear Mick fumbling around in the kitchen while the terminal booted up. The monitor flashed to life and he clicked on a folder marked simply "M".

When it loaded Ace felt his heart drop. He couldn't believe what he saw, or rather, what he didn't see. Only a dozen emails populated the folder, out of the previous hundreds that he had saved. And to make it worse, the subject lines to the remaining ones indicated that they were simply the generic, "see you in five minutes" kind of emails. The missing letters were the ones of real substantial worth, much more personal; the ones where they'd completely opened up to each other, poured their hearts out onto a screen. And now they were all gone.

Mick came up behind him with two cups of steaming green tea. "Yours are gone too…"

"Who would have access to our accounts?" Ace asked as he accepted the tea.

"Who else?" Mick countered.

"IT?"

"Bingo. They control the servers, maintain the fibre optic lines and manage passwords and database storage—"

"Yeah, but why would they care?" Ace asked. "Why would anyone care what we say to each other in private?"

"It's not about what we say," Mick told him. "It's about what we do…or not do as it were."

"What are you talking about?"

"Look, you're thirty-five and I'm pushing forty, and neither of us are married—no kids, no families."

"So what?"

"So, that's not how the silo works. It's not how life works, Ace."

"The Pact?"

"Yes, the Pact. People have to make babies; we have to sustain the population. Have you seen the view screens lately? There's no one else to do this for us." Mick took a sip of the piping hot tea, holding the mug with both hands.

"So what, they think that just because we're not planning on having kids, they can snoop through our private documents? Destroy our property?"

Mick waived a hand."That's just it, it never was our property. Think about it: The computer's on lease from the silo, electricity is deducted from our pay, the information is stored externally…" He shook his head. "I don't even know why we thought they were safe in the first place."

Ace paced back and forth in front of Mick. "I still don't understand what they hope to accomplish by deleting a few emails. The words have already been said."

"It's not about the emails. They're trying to send us a message here. Those in charge don't approve of what we're doing."

"Who, the mayor? I'm sure old Ozgoode doesn't care that we're—"

"No, not Ozgoode." Mick said. "I'm talking about the people who are really in charge around here."

"Not this again." Ace let out a sigh. How many times would he have to listen to these conspiratorial rants?

"No, I'm serious, Ace. I used to have friends. Best friends. Like Tony Rogers. He used to work the circuit boards on the generator feeds down in Mechanical. The two of us could clear a billiards table in three minutes flat. Then, a few years ago, Tony got recruited up to IT, and you know how many times I've seen him since then? Twice. And one of those times was by accident. And when I ask him about his new job, he can't even talk about it. He won't even tell me what he does for a living, and we grew up together for silo's sake. What are they doing up in IT that's so damned important they can't talk about it? To their own best friends?"

Ace knew this kind of talk was dangerous. Even thinking of such things could get you sent cleaning. Men and women have cleaned for less offences. He needed to defuse this bomb, and quickly.

"Hey, Mick, maybe you should take it easy. You're tired from the trip up. Let's just kick back and enjoy ourselves a bit."

But Mick's clenched jaw and stern gaze was a look Ace recognized. It was like that time Mick had to re-assign his shadow a few years back, send him back up-top. The kid just wasn't cutting it in Mechanical and Mick had moped around for days before dropping the news on the young man.

"I don't know, Ace. I've been thinking," Mick said as he placed his cup on the side table beside a charcoal picture of the two of them. "I don't know if we should do this anymore. Maybe they're right. Maybe we should just pair off, each find a nice girl, have some kids."

The look in Mick's eyes left no room for doubt. They told Ace to proceed with caution. Mick was a stubborn man, and once he had his mind set on something, it was nearly impossible to convince him otherwise.

"Mick," Ace said slowly, "I'm not in love with any girls. I barely even know any. Who am I going to marry, huh?" He put a hand on Mick's arm and squeezed. "I'm happy the way things are, I don't want anything to change."

"Well, some things are beyond our control, aren't they? This silo needs more from us, Ace. We can't just do things for our own benefit anymore. We have to grow up, have to think of the future. Otherwise what legacy will we leave behind?"

Ace was taken aback; he hadn't anticipated that Mick would take this so badly. "Is that what this is about," Ace frowned, "your desire to leave some kind of genetic legacy?"

Mick heaved a great sigh and stood from the old chair. Ace was a tall, well built man, but Mick was even larger. His normally booming voice was barely audible when he spoke next. "No, you're right. We shouldn't let these people push us around. Force us into something that we don't want. I guess that's why I always like talking to you about serious stuff. You don't seem to get phased by any of it the way I do. No, I can see clearly now what has to happen."

"Thanks Mick, that's what I'm here for," Ace gave him a wink and took Mick's calloused hand into his smooth one: One the result of pushing heavy crates around the down deep, the other the result of pushing paper around an accountant's desk.

"So you'll agree to let this go?" Ace probed.

"Yes, I will. But it doesn't change the fact that they deleted my personal emails. And for that, I'll need to get my revenge." Mick's lips turned up into his first smile of the evening.

Ace paused for a moment, about to say something else, but Mick's breathing had returned to normal, and he desperately wanted to change the subject, get Mick's mindset away from these dangerous ideas. After all, they were now on someone's radar.

"Come on, let's get dinner going." Ace pulled him toward the kitchen. "I bought some fresh basil this morning, I'll teach you how to make pesto."

Mick grinned, allowing Ace to guide him. "Sure, sounds great."

But a darkness lingered in his eyes, which remained for the duration of the evening.