The hand of the church must be firm.

Weakness is another name for failure.

The Manuals of the Bunker, Vol. 1, Verse 8

The bishop's gaze probed me through the openings in the wall panel. There was just no way he could not see us.

Then he rubbed his puffy cheeks with the palms of his hands and turned his head back at the manual before him.

He picked it up and frowned. Using the cloth of his sleeve, he wiped the paper.

I looked over at Amy, but she ignored me, her gaze on the man at the altar. I wondered if she was even aware of the booger traces she had left in the book.

The bishop placed the manual back on the table, closed his eyes, folded his fingers upon each other, and prayed.

I didn't hear the words—they were no more than a murmured ripple of syllables. But the familiarity of their melody soothed my mind. Tired relief replaced the tension in my muscles.

As the prayer went on and on, I leaned back, blessing the good fortune granting us a stack of pillows in our hideaway.

Amy nudged me. When I looked at her, she held up her hand, closing and opening her fingers against her thumb like a mouth blabbering.

It wasn't right to make fun of someone's prayer, let alone the bishop's, but I still had to smile. She grinned.

A pretty smile, despite that dark gap in the center of her teeth.

Or in particular because of that gap.

Amy settled into the pillows. She yawned, squinting her eyes closed and opening them again. I realized that I didn't know their color—the weak light here lacked the strength to reveal it. The meaning of her gesture was clear, though. We hadn't slept much last night.

And the only thing we could do was wait.

The bishop's voice droned on and on, and I sank into its steady flow.

---

Words woke me—not the dull, soft rumble of the bishop's prayer, but syllables of a much harsher, throaty nature. Rubbing my eyes, I tried to make sense of the world around me.

I was still hidden behind the wall panel, and Amy was stirring at my side.

She opened her eyes. They were brown.

The light had more strength now, slanting through the carved openings with the resolve of a day started.

At the altar, the bishop was talking to a visitor wearing a blue ribbon around his waist—captain Wolfe.

"—I saw it myself, bishop," the captain said. "The swamp has collapsed. Its surface has sagged, and any new water we pour into it just drains away."

"It's supposed to drain away." The bishop's voice carried a plaintive note, higher than usual, as he stepped from the dais into the aisle.

"Not like that." Wolfe tugged at his ear. "It shouldn't drain so quickly. And even though we keep feeding water to that pond, less than normal is pumped back into our cisterns. Their water level is falling. If we don't do anything, we'll run out in two weeks. We need to ration it."

I had a vague idea where all that water went. From the corner of my eyes, I glanced at Amy. Her gaze was on the two men in the hall while she was biting her lips.

The bishop walked down the aisle, passing Wolfe, and turned around. "But that new foreman... what's his name?"

"Frank," Wolfe said.

I smirked at the thought of someone calling Frankie by his grown-up name. But that was probably what he thought of himself now—Frank, the foreman. I didn't envy him for the job he had, though.

"Yes... This Frank, he promised he would dig out that pond and fix it for good."

"That's what he said, right." Wolfe nodded. "He told me he ordered the crane to dig deeper than they ever had, cleaning all the silt away. After that, they filled the sand and earth back in."

"Tell him to dig it out again, deeper, and to check everything." The loud words carried anger and spittle. "And have the water rationed."

"He has already dug real deep," Wolfe said, scratching his head. "Let's hope he can fix it. And I'll see to the rationing. But we can't cut back on the irrigation. The crops would wither. So we'll have to ration personal water allowances. And the people won't like that."

The bishop shrugged. "People will have to cut down on the washing until the swamp's fixed. I'll issue an order. But fortunately, we already have the culprit. We can make an example. The people will like that."

"The culprit, bishop?" Wolfe frowned.

"Yes, the old foreman... Abraham, or whatever his name is. And that guy who ran the crane."

My father and the craner!

"Are you sure they're the culprits, bishop?"

"Who else?" the bishop asked. "The mess began when that Abraham was the foreman, and the crane man did the digging, so it's their fault. And the people always enjoy a good show."

"But..." The captain hesitated. "Don't the Manuals say that truth matters?"

"Yes. But they also say that the hand of the Church must be firm. Life in the bunker is founded on rules and discipline."

"True." Wolfe nodded. "But that won't solve the problem with the swamp."

The bishop threw his hands up. "Either they'll fix the bloody swamp, or we'll keep the water rationed. It won't be that bad. And don't forget..." He stepped closer to Wolfe and held up a finger. "The bishop carries the burden of knowledge and rulership. He must not be denied."

Wolfe bowed his head. "Yes, sir."

The bishop placed a hand on Wolfe's should. "You know that I don't like to be such a harsh ruler. But this world would fall apart without discipline. The Manuals teach us so. Or do you doubt the holy words?"

Wolfe looked right into the bishop's face. "No, I don't doubt the holy words. It's the Manuals' law that has kept this society running for more than ten generations. The rule and order of the verses are the marrow of our survival."

"Well said." The bishop nodded. "Order is crucial. Disorder and change destroyed the world above." He pointed at the ceiling. "The bunker is an equilibrium, carefully established by the Engineers. Change and unbalance would destroy it. The only way to survive is stasis... the absence of change. If nothing changes, the bunker can keep running for all generations to come."

"Yes, sir. The bunker brings stasis and ends all change." Wolfe nodded as he cited the Manuals.

"Right," the bishop said. "And this can be hard on the people. Humans want new experiences. They crave variety. So, that's what we have to give them every now and that, and it's not an easy task. However, now we can offer them something to keep their minds and mouths busy. We will have a trial tomorrow, and then we will hang the crane cripple and that foreman... What about his son, by the way? Did you find him?"

"No." Wolfe shook his head. "The craner says he dropped him off at the stairs to the upper cavern, and the boy ran. I don't know where he's hiding now."

"Make sure you catch him soon. He must either be in this cavern or the other one. There's nowhere else for him to hide."

"There's..." The captain hesitated, then he shook his head. "Right, there's nowhere else he could be. I'll find him. But why do you need him?"

"When you execute someone, hatred is seeded in all of their offspring. And such hatred has decades to ferment and to grow. We don't want that. Family can be sticky. Do you understand?"

"I never had a family, sir, so I'm no expert in such matters." Wolfe bit his lip.

The bishop nodded. "Good for you. It makes life easier. Just trust my judgment. That son must be found. That can't be so hard. We need him time for trial tomorrow at noon. The people demand action. And the executions must come right after that."

The captain said nothing. He just stood there.

"Any other bad news?" the bishop asked.

"No, bishop. I'll be on my way, then."

Wolfe turned and left the hall.

The bishop's shoulders sank forward as he stood next to the doors of the temple.

The executions right after the trial, he had said. And trial would be tomorrow.

He shook his head and murmured something—short, harsh words.

Amy snickered. "This doesn't sound like a prayer, holy man."

My reply died as I saw the bishop looking in our direction, frowning.