The Silo Novels & Stories

"You did a good thing tonight. Silas's men used to do worse, and nobody ever hit them back." "Good things don't fill stomachs," I said. "We're going to be short on bread by Tuesday." The old man leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low hiss. "Silas was a paranoid dog. He didn't trust the main granaries either. There’s a space, deep under the old ventilation shafts. He called it his 'insurance.' Only the lifters knew it existed, and most of them are dead. But I remember where the doors are."

“But this time they are silent.” Silence from an aggressive hedge fund could mean many things. It could mean retreat. It could mean preparation. Or it could mean they were waiting for the right moment. I stood and walked toward the window again. The city lights were beginning to glow across the skyline. “There will be another move,” I said. “You are certain.” “Yes.” “And when it comes.” I watched the reflection of the office lights in the glass. “Then we will respond the same way we always do.” “With calm.”

"Silas, tell the board why the warehouse is short on Moon Essence. Tell them where the barrels went." Silas stood at the end of the table, his hands shaking so much he had to hide them behind his back. He looked at me for a split second, then looked away. "I... I am so sorry," Silas stammered. "The warehouse did away with some bad ethanol. We had a massive contamination. The Moon Essence was thin. It was dangerous. If we had kept it with the other ones, it would have ruined the whole batch." I blinked. What? What is Silas saying?

The last thing I needed was to draw attention and get hauled away for violating curfew. The abandoned greenhouse emerged from the trees like a ghost. Glass panes shattered. Iron frame rusted. The perfect hiding place for someone who didn't want to be found. I ducked inside. "Silo." Nothing. "Silo, I know you're here." A rustle from the corner. Then Silo's wiry frame materialized out of the shadows, his sharp eyes catching the faint moonlight. "You're late," he said. "I'm here." "Barely." He pulled a small pouch from his pocket and tossed it to me. I caught it. Weighed it in my palm.

The presence of the "Mercury Pixel" in the real forest was a terminal intrusion. Silas Blackwood stood on the porch of the wooden house, his muscles tensing with a instinctual aggression that the "Silence" had momentarily dulled. He felt the sensory dissonance of the scene—the smell of the damp pine needles clashing with the sterile, ozone-heavy scent of the "Correction."

It swung open, revealing the dark, cavernous interior of Silo 3. The moment they stepped inside, the smell hit them. It was the heavy, sweet, earthy scent of thousands of tons of wheat. The air was thick, almost suffocating, with floating golden dust that caught the faint light filtering through the exterior vents. It looked like they were swimming in a sea of gold pollen. "He wasn't kidding," Vane whispered, waving a hand in front of his face. "One match, and this place goes up like a powder keg." "Stay on the catwalks," Tristan ordered, drawing his rapier. "Move fast. Move quiet."

" Silence fell on the other side of the camera. I gave a wry smile and picked up my tray to continue working. It wasn't until 2:00 am that I dragged my exhausted body out through the bar's front door. The woman approached me again. "Julian, do you need the money because you're in some kind of trouble? I might be able to help you." The moment I looked up, blood suddenly gushed from my nose. A cry of alarm came from behind the camera. "Julian!"

The air on the high catwalk was freezing, rushing through the open ventilation louvers in long, whistling gasps that smelled of the open ocean and the dying reef. Silas reached the mid-level platform, his bare feet bleeding now where the sharp edges of the rusted iron grate had sliced through his skin. He didn't look down at the blood; he looked at the heavy, counter-weighted iron arm of the old salt conveyor that hung over the center of the silo like a gallows.

"The safety purges inside the core are completely immobilized by the cold, Silas. The thermite triggers won't fire at this temperature. The data is entirely stable." Silas walked down the iron steps from the observation platform. He had rolled his shirtsleeves down. His dark silk vest was unbuttoned enough to give him room to move. His stormy gray eyes carried an unyielding intensity. He didn't look at the vault. He stepped into her space. His large hand came down over her shoulder to gently pull her back from the frame.

Sandino: “Money buys a lot of silence. That’s the real flex.” Inside the penthouse the silence was not bought so much as enforced. Two floors down, Raphaël lay awake longer than he should have, the memory of her weight on his lap and the soft sound of her frustrated hiss replaying against his better judgment. He had made the only choice that kept him employed and breathing. He still whispered the same three words into the dark.