Chapter 1: 分：出去

03

•三年前•

“老天！”艾莉森惊呼起来，“老公，你看这个。太不可思议了。暴动并不是只有一次，你知

道吗？”

霍斯顿本来低头盯着腿上的档案夹，一听到她说话，立刻抬头看着她。七零八落的文件，

像一条棉被似的把他们整张床都占满了，东一堆西一堆，有的是旧档案夹，有的是还没处理的

申诉书。床尾有一张小书桌，艾莉森就坐在那里。他们住的这一间独立住宅，是从原先一间更

大的住宅分隔出来的，不过几十年来，他们这一楼层只重新隔过两次，所以还不算太挤，还有

足够的空间可以放得下书桌和有床架的大床。还好，他们不需要睡那种固定在墙上的卧铺。

“我怎么会知道呢？”他反问她。太太转身过来看着他，伸手把一撮头发拨到耳朵后面。霍

斯顿拿起一个档案夹，朝她电脑屏幕的方向挥了一下。“你一直在想办法破解那些几百年前的机

密档案，已经搞了一整天，那么，你觉得我有可能会比你更快知道吗？”

她朝他吐了一下舌头：“那只是我的口头禅嘛。我有事情要告诉你的时候，开头都是这么说

的。可是怎么搞的，你似乎不怎么好奇？你没听到我刚刚说了什么吗？”

霍斯顿耸耸肩。“大家都知道的那次暴动，我从来就不认为那会是第一次。那只不过是最近

的一次。干我这个工作，如果说还学得到什么的话，那大概只有一个道理：犯罪也罢，暴动也

罢，那都是些历史悠久的老玩意儿，不是什么新发明。”说着，他举起膝盖上那个档案夹，“这

是一个偷水的案子，那么，你觉得这会是全地堡第一次吗？会是最后一次吗？”

艾莉森立刻转身看着他，椅脚摩擦瓷砖地板“嘎吱”一声响。她身后书桌上的电脑屏幕上，

布满了一闪一闪的资料文字。那是她从地堡的旧服务器里撷取出来的。那些档案，很久以前就

已经被删除掉了，而且曾经被覆写过好几次，她找到的是一些零碎的残留资料。霍斯顿到现在

还是搞不懂，那些资料怎么有办法复原？她是怎么办到的？还有，她这么聪明的脑袋，怎么会

笨到爱上他？但不管怎么样，这种结果他很乐于接受，而且，他也相信她找到的资料都是真

的。

“这是我从一些旧报告里拼凑出来的。”她说，“如果这些都是真的，那么，那意味着从前的

暴动是定期发生的，大概每隔一个世代就会出现一次。”

“古老的时代，有太多东西是我们不知道的。”霍斯顿边说边揉眼睛，脑子里想的是他没有

处理完的这些文件，“你知道吗，说不定从前，他们没有设备可以用来清洁监视器镜头。我敢跟

你打赌，顶楼的景观一定是变得越来越模糊，后来，大家都受不了，发疯了，所以就起来暴

动。最后，他们终于逼某些人到地堡外面去，把镜头擦干净。或者，那也有可能是因为地堡人

口太多，所以就自然而然地发生暴动，人口才会自然而然地减少。了解了吗？说不定在生育抽

签发明之前，人口都是靠这种方式在控制的。”

艾莉森摇摇头：“我可不这么认为。我开始觉得——”她迟疑了一下，低头瞄瞄霍斯顿旁边

那些文件。看到那些堆积如山的犯罪档案，她似乎小心翼翼在思索接下来该说什么。“我不想太

快下结论，我不敢断言谁对谁错。我只是推测，暴动期间，服务器里那些档案也许不是被暴动

分子删除的。总之，并不是像传言中的那样。”

这时霍斯顿开始全神贯注了。服务器怎会变成一片空白，至今依然是一个谜。为什么世世

代代祖先的历史是一片空白？对此，地堡里的人都很困惑。服务器里的资料被删除，这件事一

直都只是模模糊糊的传说。他合上看了一半的档案夹，丢到一边。“那你认为是谁删掉的？”他

问太太，“是意外吗？火灾？还是电力中断？”他举出了几个常听到的说法。

艾莉森皱起眉头。“都不是。”接着她忽然压低声音，转头看看四周，神情有点紧张，“我认

为，硬盘里的资料是被‘我们’删掉的。不是暴动分子。”说完她又转头凑近屏幕，伸手指向屏幕

上的几个数字。霍斯顿坐在床上，看不见屏幕上那些数字。“二十年。”她说，“十八年。二十四

年。”她的手指划过屏幕，发出刺耳的吱吱声。“二十八年。十六年。十五年。”

霍斯顿把盖在脚上的几张文件拿起来，放到另一堆上面，然后从一堆堆的文件中间挤到书

桌旁边，然后坐到床尾，一手搭在太太脖子后面，头凑到太太肩上看着屏幕。

“那些是日期吗？”他问。

她点点头：“平均大概每隔二十年就会有一次大规模的暴动。这个档案里有统计。上一次‘我

们’暴动的时候，很多档案被删掉了，这个档案就是其中之一。”

她说出“我们”这两个字时，那口气仿佛她和她的亲朋好友都活在那年代。不过，霍斯顿知

道她的意思。在成长的过程中，他们始终活在那次暴动的阴影中。仿佛，他们都是在暴动的孕

育中长大的。仿佛那次大规模的冲突事件像乌云一样笼罩着他们的童年，笼罩着他们的父母，

还有祖父母。只要一提到暴动，就会引来旁人侧目，引来旁人交头接耳指指点点。

“你为什么会认为是‘我们’？我们不是好人吗？为什么要删掉服务器里的资料？”

她微微侧过头冷笑了一下：“谁说我们一定就是‘好人’？”

霍斯顿吓了一跳，搭在她脖子后面的手忽然抬起来：“你又来了！不要再说了，说不定

——”

“跟你开玩笑的啦。”她说。问题是，这种事是不能拿来开玩笑的。再多说两句，可能会招

来“叛乱”的罪名，然后被送出去“清洗镜头”。“我的推论是这样的。”她说出“推论”两个字的时

候，刻意提高音调。“我刚刚说过，每隔一个世代，大概二十年左右，就会发生一次暴动，没错

吧？我的意思是，在一百多年期间，或是更长的时间里，应该会发生好几次暴动，周期性的，

就像时钟一样。”她指着屏幕上那些日期，“一直到现在，我们听说过的暴动，就只有上回那一

次。而那次暴动期间，有人把服务器的资料删掉了。可是我必须告诉你，想删掉服务器的资

料，并没有那么简单，不是按几个按键或是放把火就可以了事。服务器有备援设计，任何一笔

资料都有无穷尽的备份，想删除干净，那是非常麻烦的浩大工程，不是一个简单的动作就可以

删得干净，比如，单纯的意外，或是匆匆忙忙想删掉，或甚至把电脑弄坏——”

“可是你没办法推测是谁干的。”霍斯顿强调。毫无疑问，他太太是电脑天才，可是，推理

办案并不是她的专长。那是他的专长。

“我推论的重点是……”她继续说，“很久以前，每隔二十年左右就会发生暴动，可是，从上

次暴动到现在，已经一百多年……”

艾莉森说到这里就不说了。

霍斯顿猛然抬起头。

他转头看看四周，认真思索她刚刚说的话。他忽然有一种滑稽的感觉，仿佛他推理办案的

能力突然被太太偷走，然后太太用这种能力破了案。

“所以你的意思是——”他搓搓下巴，仔细想了一下，“有人把过去的历史抹灭了，免得我们

再重蹈覆辙？”

“或者，更可怕的……”她伸出双手抓住他的双手，严肃的表情变得更严厉，“说不定，引发

暴动的原因，也在硬盘的资料里，会不会？有没有可能，有一部分的历史档案被他们删掉了？

比如说，和外面世界有关的资料，还有，很久很久以前，我们人类为什么会住进地堡里？诸如

此类的资料。还有，万一地堡里的人看到这些资料，说不定会丧失理智，甚至发疯，或甚至

想‘出去’？会不会？”

霍斯顿摇摇头。“你最好不要再想那些。”他警告她。

“我并不是说他们暴动是对的。”她说话又开始小心了，“不过，根据我拼凑出来的资料，我

的推测就是这样。”

霍斯顿用狐疑的眼神瞄了屏幕一眼。“你最好不要再动那些资料了。”他说，“我搞不懂你怎

么找得到那些资料，而且，我觉得你一开始就不应该去碰那些东西。”

“亲爱的，那些资料并不会凭空消失。它们永远都在那里，就算我现在没有拼凑出来，总有

一天还是会被人发现的。更何况，如果你已经把神灯里的精灵放出来了，那就再也没办法把它

塞回去了。”

“什么意思？”

“我已经印了一本手册，内容就是教大家要怎么复原被删除的档案，或是被覆写的档案。我

资讯区那些同事已经把手册发给大家了，如果有人不小心把重要的档案删掉，那本手册可以帮

得上他们。”

“我还是觉得你最好不要再碰了。”他说，“这实在不是什么好事。我看不出来这样做有什么

好处——”

“真相对我们没有好处？知道真相永远都有好处。而且，如果发现真相的人是我们，或许情

况会比较好，换成是别人，结果就很难预料了，不是吗？”

霍斯顿又回头去看他的档案。五年了。距离上次送人出去清洗镜头，到现在已经五年了。

外面的影像，一天比一天更模糊。身为保安官，他必须赶快找到人送出去。他有压力。那种压

力越来越大，仿佛地堡里充满了蒸汽，随时会有某个人被炸出去。每次大家感觉到时候到了，

就会开始紧张。那就仿佛某种诅咒，时候到了就会应验，到头来，那种紧张的气氛总是会导致

某个人情绪失控，说出令自己遗憾的话。然后，他们就会被关进羁押室，看着墙上那模糊的日

落景象。这辈子最后一次。

霍斯顿逐一翻找身旁那些档案，心里暗暗祈祷，希望能够从里面找到他要的东西。只要能

够让地堡里的蒸汽消散，他愿意明天就送一个人出去面对死亡。此刻，他太太仿佛手上拿着一

根针，刺向一个快要爆炸的巨大气球。霍斯顿迫不及待想赶快把气球里的气放掉，免得她手上

那根针真的刺到气球。

Part 1 Holston 4

Part 1 Holston

4

Present Time

Holston sat on the lone steel bench in the airlock, his brain numb from lack of sleep and the surety of

what lay before him. Nelson, the head of the cleaning lab, knelt in front of him and worked a leg of

the white hazard suit over Holston’s foot.

“We’ve played around with the joint seals and added a second spray-on lining,” Nelson was

saying. “It should give you more time out there than anyone has had before.”

This registered with Holston, and he remembered watching his wife go about her cleaning. The

top floor of the silo with its great screens showing the outside world was usually empty for cleanings.

The people inside couldn’t bear to watch what they’d done—or maybe they wanted to come up and

enjoy a nice view without seeing what it took to get it. But Holston had watched; there was never any

doubt that he would. He couldn’t see Allison’s face through her silver-masked helmet, couldn’t see

her thin arms through the bulky suit as she scrubbed and scrubbed with her wool pads, but he knew

her walk, her mannerisms. He had watched her finish the job, taking her time and doing it well, and

then she had stepped back, looked in the camera one last time, waved at him, then turned to walk

away. Like others before her, she had lumbered toward a nearby hill and had begun climbing up,

trudging toward the dilapidated spires of that ancient and crumbling city just visible over the horizon.

Holston hadn’t moved the entire time. Even as she fell on the side of the hill, clutching her helmet,

writhing while the toxins first ate away the spray-on linings, then the suit, and finally his wife, he

hadn’t moved.

“Other foot.”

Nelson slapped his ankle. Holston lifted his foot and allowed the tech to bunch the rest of the suit

around his shins. Looking at his hands, at the black carbon undersuit he wore against his skin,

Holston pictured it all dissolving off his body, sloughing away like flakes of dried grease from a

generator’s pipe while the blood burst from his pores and pooled up in his lifeless suit.

“If you’ll grab the bar and stand—”

Nelson was walking him through a routine he’d seen twice before. Once with Jack Brent, who had

been belligerent and hostile right up to the end, forcing him as sheriff to stand guard by the bench.

And once with his wife, whom he had watched get ready through the airlock’s small porthole.

Holston knew what to do from watching these others, but he still needed to be told. His thoughts were

elsewhere. Reaching up, he grabbed the trapezelike bar hanging above him and pulled himself

upright. Nelson grabbed the sides of the suit and yanked them up to Holston’s waist. Two empty

arms flapped at either side.

“Left hand here.”

Holston numbly obeyed. It was surreal to be on the other side of this—this mechanical death-walk

of the condemned. Holston had often wondered why people complied, why they just went along.

Even Jack Brent had done what he was told, as foulmouthed and verbally abusive as he’d been.

Allison had done it quietly, just like this, Holston thought as he inserted one hand and then the other.

The suit came up, and Holston thought that maybe people went along with it because they couldn’t

believe it was happening. None of it was real enough to rebel against. The animal part of his mind

wasn’t made for this, to be calmly ushered to a death it was perfectly aware of.

“Turn.”

He did.

There was a tug at the small of his back, and then a noisy zipping sound up to his neck. Another

tug, another zip. Two layers of futility. The crunch of industrial Velcro over the top. Pats and double-

checks. Holston heard the hollow helmet slide off its shelf; he flexed his fingers inside the puffy

gloves while Nelson checked over the dome’s innards.

“Let’s go over the procedure one more time.”

“It’s not necessary,” Holston said quietly.

Nelson glanced toward the airlock door leading back to the silo. Holston didn’t need to look to

know someone was likely watching. “Bear with me,” Nelson said. “I have to do it by the book.”

Holston nodded, but he knew there wasn’t any “book.” Of all the mystic oral traditions passed

through silo generations, none matched the cultlike intensity of the suit makers and the cleaning

techs. Everyone gave them their space. The cleaners might perform the physical act, but the techs

were the people who made it possible. These were the men and women who maintained the view to

that wider world beyond the silo’s stifling confines.

Nelson placed the helmet on the bench. “You got your scrubbers here.” He patted the wool pads

stuck to the front of the suit.

Holston pulled one off with a ripping sound, studied the whorls and curls of the rough material,

then stuck it back on.

“Two squirts from the cleaning bottle before you scrub with the wool, then dry with this towel,

then put the ablating films on last.” He patted the pockets in order, even though they were clearly

labeled and numbered—upside down so Holston could read them—and color-coded.

Holston nodded and met the tech’s eyes for the first time. He was surprised to see fear there, fear

he had learned well to notice in his profession. He almost asked Nelson what was wrong before it

occurred to him: the man was worried all these instructions were for naught, that Holston would walk

out—like everyone in the silo feared all cleaners would—and not do his duty. Not clean up for the

people whose rules, rules against dreaming of a better place, had doomed him. Or was Nelson

worried that the expensive and laborious gear he and his colleagues had built, using those secrets and

techniques handed down from well before the uprising, would leave the silo and rot to no purpose?

“You okay?” Nelson asked. “Anything too tight?”

Holston glanced around the airlock. My life is too tight, he wanted to say. My skin is too tight. The

walls are too tight.

He just shook his head.

“I’m ready,” he whispered.