She wondered why he wasted the time on useless shit like this. Only weak minds needed this crap. Not a trained soldier like herself.
Krista used the auxiliary stairwell to head down, the rubber tread of her boots plinking against the mesh of the metal steps. She preferred to keep her descent in rhythm, the sound of her foot plants acting as a PT cadence of sorts. It reminded her of her early days in the Army. Back when her eyes were bright and her heart remained filled with honor and hope.
Thirty seconds later, she passed the last of the community information boards with the words NO INJURIES IN 502 DAYS. The tally had been written with a messy hand and in white chalk. The other two boards hung in the mess hall and crew quarters, each of them kept in sync by Rod Zimmer, Supply Chief.
The last accident cost a life—a gruesome fall down the missile shaft. Some thought it was suicide. Others figured a misstep. Nobody knew for sure.
Krista took a right and proceeded until her trek stopped at Professor Edison’s lab. She knocked three times on the solid metal door, her knuckles landing just below the fancy infinity symbol welded to its surface. She held her position, waiting for the man in charge to confirm entry.
“Door’s open,” Edison said, his tone light and welcoming.
Krista walked in, moving to the right to make her way around the tables and other clutter. The place was a mess, much like the bunks she’d passed on her way to this meeting. She didn’t understand how people could function with such disorder in their lives.
Four heads turned to greet her, their pre-teen smiles a welcome respite from the stress of the day.
Krista sent a smile to one of the kids, then brought her eyes to Edison. “Professor, I really need to speak with you. In private.”
“Sure. I think we can arrange that,” Edison said, his wire-rimmed spectacles sitting at a slight angle across his nose.
His hair was all white and combed back into an old hippie-style ponytail; his white beard was freshly trimmed into a ZZ Top style look. The bags under his eyes looked more profound than normal, drooping like soggy noodles. She figured he hadn’t been sleeping well, probably more so than normal.
Edison’s attention went to a list of words on the grease board hanging along the front wall of the room. He wrote another item at the bottom, adding the number ten in front of it. Above the list was the title Ten Uses for Organic Solar Cells.
The Professor turned to the kids, who were busy taking notes at their stations. “Children, Security Chief Carr and I need a few minutes of privacy. Why don’t you head to lunch? I’m sure Chef Watson has something yummy waiting for you. We’ll resume study tomorrow. Same time. Okay?”
A series of “Yes, Professors” were sent back as the kids gathered their belongings and scampered out the door.
Before Krista could speak, Edison beat her to it, grabbing a stack of cardboard tear-offs from the credenza behind his desk. “I’m glad you’re here, Krista. I need you to take these down to Mr. Zimmer. He’s expecting them.”
Krista took the signs in hand, reading the topmost inscription: Put your future in good hands — your own. ~Mark Victor Hansen
“Is there something I should know?” she asked, wondering how long it had taken the sixty-eighty-year-old to write all these messages. The black ink from the marker seemed to be fading a bit the farther down the stack she checked.
“I’m getting a sense that morale is dropping a bit. I’m hoping these motivational quotes will help restore equilibrium in our ranks.”
“You mean help with some of the depression.”
Edison gave her a single nod. “I hear the rumblings. Not everyone is comfortable living here, especially some of the new folks.”
“I’m not sure that’s it exactly. I think it has more to do with the feel of the place. I know some think it’s depressing. But I don’t mind the whole industrial look. It’s comforting, knowing we are deep underground and protected by eight feet of reinforced concrete.”
Edison held his arms out, like a preacher giving thanks. “And the genius of the men who designed this place.”
She cleared her throat, not wanting to sound insubordinate, but the Professor’s statement needed revision. For accuracy’s sake. “Men and women, sir.”
“You’re absolutely right—the men and women who designed this place. I stand corrected. Just as my lovely wife June would have done if she were still with us.”
“Yes sir. She was a great lady,” Krista said, feeling compelled to say those words. For some reason, Edison had this overwhelming desire to have others validate his sense of loss. June had died a long time ago. It was time for him to move on already.
She decided to jump ahead and change the subject. “When I walk these corridors late at night, sometimes I think I should have joined the Navy as a submarine specialist. That’s what this facility reminds me of—a boomer,” she said, her mind running through the facts: numerous tunnels, endless pipes and gauges, heavy grates and scaffolding, and miles and miles of cabling and electronics. All of it close, and all of it filled with people. Too damn many people.
“I can see why,” he said. “But I’m afraid not everyone loves this place as much as you.”
“Can’t really blame them,” she said, skipping the other words she wanted to say.
“No, I suppose not. But I wish they would realize that sometimes, out of tragedy comes hope. One of my wife’s favorite sayings, God rest her soul.”
Krista didn’t want to debate the man who’d built this place and saved the lives of everyone with his foresight, but if Edison brought in any more new members, the impenetrable concrete walls might just explode outward and bury them all in an earth-filled grave. Greater numbers meant greater problems, usually of the personal nature.
She let the silence in the room linger a few seconds more before she decided it was time to move the conversation forward. “I saw the new sign in the hallway.”
“What do you think?”
“Worth a try, I guess. But not everyone is allowed down here.”
“That’s why I need you to take those signs to Zimmer. He’ll hang them where they need to go.”
“He agreed to do it?”
“Been doing it,” Edison said, nodding. “It took some convincing, but in the end, I usually get my way.”
She smiled, wanting him to know she was onboard with whatever he needed. Well, most everything.
“Navy, huh?” he asked, taking a seat in his chair before bringing his hands together. “Why the Army, then?”
“Seemed like the best fit for me at the time. I wanted infantry, where all the action was. Imagine my surprise when they assigned me to Watercraft Operations.”
“You didn’t have a say in the matter?”
“No, sir. Just told me my MOS was 88K.”
Edison looked puzzled.
“MOS means Military Occupational Specialty. When I found out that it was 88K, I had to look it up. Didn’t even know the Army had boats.”
“Or soldiers who operated them, I’m sure.”
She nodded. “You never know what the brass is going to assign. Sometimes a MOS is pre-determined by special arrangement at enlistment, but for everyone else, they get doled out by the thousands. Usually randomly, but in my case, I think they may have looked into my background.”
“Your father. The mechanic.”
“Muscle car rebuilds, mostly. That’s where I learned my skills with a wrench. Never knew those days as a kid would help me score off the charts in the mechanical maintenance section of the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery Test.”
“Everything happens for a reason. Only sometimes it takes a while to understand why.”