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Page 31.
Chapter 25
 Wally came and apologized for his outburst. "Sorry about the other day." He awkwardly shook her hand, wrapping both his huge brown paws around her hand.
"It's okay. I went home early and slept a long time after an uncomfortable conversation with Werner von Werner."
"Ah yes, our political officer." Wally sat down and carefully unwrapped a peanut butter brittle candy bar dipped in milk chocolate. He offered a bite, she declined, and he bit in. Chewing a large mouthful, as if it were medicine for some ailment, he said: "I think there is a lot of political undertow here, and someone is afraid that you may upset their apple cart. That's why they're doing to you what they are doing."
Her heart sank, and her stomach lurched. "What—who is doing what to me?"
He stopped chewing, wide-eyed. "They didn't tell you?"
She shook her head slowly.
He put his hand over his mouth, either to try and recapture his words, or to cover the chocolate dribbling down his chin. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his lower face. Recomposed, he leaned forward with his hands folded prayerfully between his knees, and his shoulders slumping regretfully. "I was told they are moving you into the stacks near Bottom."
"What?" Was that life-threatening, she wondered. "That sounds awful."
He shrugged. "Well, it could be worse."
"You mean I'm going to have to live inside that—that model?"
"Not live, for now anyway. Work. When you report for work each day, you won't come through here anymore. There is a special entrance for heavy equipment and cargo."
"Oh, thanks a whole bunch! Who the hell is doing this to me, and why? What does it mean?"
He shrugged again. "I think they are just trying to move you someplace where you can't make trouble."
"Am I making trouble?" she fairly yelled. She sat with her arms akimbo, glaring at him.
"I'm just the messenger," he said with defensively upraised palms. "Don't shoot me."
She glared at him, noting he'd said she would only go into the Intereal during work hours, but he'd left open the question of whether they would permanently move here out of the Fortress and into the Intereal. "Who is doing this to me, and where can I appeal?"
He rubbed his palms on his thighs as if trying to warm them. Then he rose. "I'll see what I can find out. Meanwhile, I suggest you empty your desk and get ready to move. Do you need a box or anything?"
"No, I don't need a box. All I have is a few pencils and a stack of paper with calculations on them."
He nodded curtly. "They absolutely want everything of yours to go with you." Before walking away, he did something very odd. He winked at her. She wasn't sure if it was just a wink of reassurance, or if it meant something entirely different was afoot. She stared after him in a mix of powerful emotions—anger, pain, even humiliation; even separation, for she had come to treasure her friendships with the humorous and vibrant denizens of the Bit Cave. Now the small island world of stability she'd built here was being torn from her. She felt a deep, visceral sense of betrayal and abandonment, being torn from the womb of this sheltered place of night work with its board games and seeming immunity from the bombs that continually rained down on West Gotha from her gray, industrial neighbor to the east.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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