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ChapterOne
The mimosa fronds are turning yellow at the edges—undeniable evidence of drought stress. I snap several discolored leaves from their stems and tuck them into a worn envelope. Leadership can’t put me off again with vague promises about forming a study group. The trees are dying, and we can’t just ignore it anymore.
Well,somepeople can.
Neil Jackson can ignore all manner of reasonable requests, but I don’t blame him. As Head Administrator, the future of the bunker rests on his shoulders, and he has to balance the departments’ competing needs. I get that. He swore an oath to the Articles of Incorporation.
For the life of me, though, I can’t explain why Bennett insists on refusing to face facts. He’s started to rush through dinner so he doesn’t have to listen to me talk about the trees. Lately, I’m already in bed by the time he gets home from the office. He says he’s swamped, but after twenty years together, I know when he’s avoiding me.
It’s not like I’m blaming him or suggesting this wouldn’t be happening if I was in charge. He acts like every fight we have is really about how my father designated him as his successor when he died instead of me. It was a shock when I learned Dad had made Bennett Head of AP—Agricultural Preservation—but that was three years ago. It’s water under the bridge. I’m not still mad, but Bennett is definitely still defensive about it.
The fact is the trees would be struggling no matter who was in charge. This isn’t about ego. It’s about water. Trees grow—at least they’re supposed to—and if you decrease their water too much, too quickly, they die. It’s not rocket science. It’s arboriculture.
Like potatoes don’t grow as big if the soil is depleted. And the cacti do well if there is an increase in carbon dioxide in the air.
“All good, boss?” Alan the intern asks as he passes, hauling a barrel of debris for composting.
“All good.” I quickly tuck the envelope into the pocket of my coveralls, fixing my face so I don’t look concerned. I don’t want anyone worried before they have to be. As Dad drummed into my head since I could walk, the most dangerous threats in a bunker are fire, airborne disease, and panic, and panic is by far the worst.
“Have a good one if I don’t see you later,” Alan says.
“You, too.” I smile like I don’t have a rock sitting in my belly. I thought I had a month to prepare before confronting Neil, but his secretary called yesterday to push up our skip-level meeting.
I’m ready for the best-case scenario—Neil concedes the bunker’s most recent water allocation is shortchanging agriculture, and I have to convince him to risk Sanitation and Food Service’s ire by submitting a revised budget to the Assembly.
I am in no way prepared for the worst-case scenario—the thing that keeps me awake in bed at night while I wait for Bennett to come home—that something has happened to the filtration system, and the bunker is running out of water.
Is that why Bennett is so distant these days? Because he knows, and he’s protecting me from reality as long as he can?
That’s just not how Bennett and I work. We’ve always been a team, at our best when we’re collaborating on a project or advocating for AP together on the floor during Common Sessions, fighting side by side. Dad called usJabandCross. Bennett wasJabbecause he’s got the charisma, so he takes the lead and gets the people on our side. I wasCrossbecause I follow up with the detailed plans to fix the issue.
I can’t fix a problem that no one will talk about. Neil is just going to have to pull his head out of the sand. He can’t ignore dead leaves.
I blow out a breath and brush my hands on my thighs. I need to get going.
“Gloria?” Amy, a tech in Heirloom Produce who is something of a protégé, stops me before I can get ten feet. “You got a minute?”
“For you, always.” I tune out my nerves and tune in to what she’s saying. She’s a fruit whisperer, but she’s not very confident and tends to beat around the bush, so you need to wear your satellite ears to make sure you’re picking up what she’s putting down.
“Have you seen the Brandywine tomatoes lately?”
“I haven’t. How are they doing?”
“Good, good.” She bobs her head nervously and shifts in her boots.
If this were anyone else, I’d figure she was fishing for a compliment, but Amy doesn’t like talking to people enough to bring this up for a pat on the head. Something’s wrong. Bennett hasn’t cut any water to edible produce, though, as far as I know.
Not that he’s keeping me apprised of things these days unless I ask.
“Good but . . . ?” I smile so she knows I won’t be mad to hear bad news.
“I don’t like the way they’re looking.”
They seemed red to me when I last passed by. “Too pale?”
She shakes her head. “It’s not that. I don’t know how to put it. They’re not hanging right.”
I have no idea what that means, but I have no doubt Amy is on to something. “What do you suggest?”
