Be true and honest, and the Church will reward you.

The Manuals of the Bunker, Vol. 3, Verse 14

We hadn't noticed when the rain stopped falling.

Nor when blue rifts had torn through the lid of clouds.

Now, I stood at the water after having quenched my thirst and washed. Amy squatted in the bushes.

I couldn't stop watching the landscape, reveling in its unbounded vastness. Before me, the land rose in a massive structure of rock, reaching for the clouds, its jagged peaks not quite touching them. Its flanks shone in brilliant colors of white, yellow, and gray where the sun caressed them, and displayed softer hues where it didn't.

At the base of the rock, the trees stood in every shade of green.

And between the trees and the rock, hidden from my view, the bunker's entrance was calling me.

None of the people below knew about this.

And my father and the craner were down there still, held captive by the bishop and his guards, waiting for trial and execution.

Today.

I had to go back there. Right now.

A finger of sunshine probed the grass between the trees and me. Gazillions of drops glittered under its touch.

Such an abundance of fresh water, vibrant plants, and warm light.

My pondering was cut short by something hitting my shoulder. A projectile tumbled into the grass at my feet. It was an apple.

I turned to find Amy standing by the water, the backpack slung over her shoulder. She was beaming, her gap-toothed smile wide enough for two.

My shoulder hurt where the apple had hit. I rubbed it. "Ow! What are you doing?"

"I'm feeding ye." She rubbed her hands, grinning. "Like when ye smacked me in the face with that bloody carrot."

It took me a moment to remember her and me in the upper cavern, in that garden, eating. I had thrown a carrot at her, expecting her to catch it, but it had hit her face.

And triggered her quick anger.

I picked up the fruit, and it brought me another memory, one involving another apple and another girl—and buttocks.

"Whatcha thinking?" Amy tilted her head and dug a finger in her ear to give it a scratch.

The clouds moved, and the light of the sun turned her hair into gleaming copper.

I shrugged. "Nothing in particular. It's just... everything's so beautiful up here."

"It is, right." She sucked her finger. "Better up here than down there. And it smells better than—" Her eyes widened, and she pointed towards the river.

I turned my head to see a pair of flying, yellowish animals. I first thought they were birds, with their wings flapping wildly to keep themselves aloft, but they were smaller, about the size of a tree leaf, with bodies like short pieces of twig. I had never seen anything like them.

"They're butterflies," Amy said. "Like on my mom's ring." She held it up, and it gleamed in the sunshine.

The animals fluttered around the many yellow flowers by the bank of the canal, briefly alighting on them, just to fly off again.

"Maybe, the flowers are butter flowers, then," I said.

"Must be. Right."

"They're beautiful," I said, my eyes still on the animals. "They're like a miracle. We don't have anything like them in the bunker."

"S'right." She pointed at the ground. "The bunker's a crap bucket full of shite."

Yes, compared to here, down there was shite. Smelly, dreary, and drained of color.

But I had to turn back there now. Climb down and somehow stop the trial.

And the people deserved to know the truth. I had to tell them about the world up here and that the machines that ran the bunker were failing.

I shook my head. No, I could not remain here.

"What's the matter?" She eyed me curiously, her grin gone. "Ye look all pale and serious now. As if ye've seen a Gath."

I pointed a thumb at the rock behind me. "I've gotta go back. The bishop said the trial would be today, at noon."

I was running out of time.

She nodded. "Right, you've gotta save your father and your friend. This is what matters and what's right." She fiddled with the strap of her pack as she had her eyes on the channel, looking forlorn.

"What about your father?" I had wondered about that for some time now. I didn't think he had been among the group of people down at the pumps. Probably, he had died in that cave-in the had had.

She took a deep breath. "I don't know him. Me mom never told me who he was. But..." She looked straight at me, her eyes boring straight into mine. "But my father doesn't matter now. It's yours who counts. We'll go down there and safe him, right now, whatever it takes."

"No!" The word didn't require thought. "You'll stay here where it's safe. I'll come back with the others."

Hopefully.

She took a step towards me. "Ye must be kidding. Ye won't get away from me that easily."

"Look, this isn't your fight," I said. "And these are not your people. You don't need—"

She seized my shirt in a fist and pulled me towards her. "Listen, boy. What I don't' need is someone to protect me. Nor to order me around. And I won't have ye going down there alone." She released me and poked my breastbone with her finger. "And as I said yesterday, ye wouldn't stand a chance without me. Ye know it."

There was a menace in her brown eyes. And truth, too.

She was her own boss and didn't need me to look after her.

Knowing defeat, I held up my hands. "Okay. But let's be careful."

"I'm always careful." She didn't smile, and I wasn't sure if she was joking.

So I just nodded.

"What's the plan, then?" she asked.

"Good question..." I saw only one possibility. "When there's a trial, almost everyone will come, from both caverns. We have to tell them about this world here. I thought we'd take along some apples and a manual from the control room. We'll show them that their beliefs are wrong. We also can show them the letter of the dead woman, Anne, and tell them that the machines are failing."

The plan left a sallow taste on my tongue. Was it strong enough to break the doubts of the bishop and the guards?

And would the bishop and the guards just listen while we told our tale?

She tugged her earlobe, a frown on her face. It looked as if she were sharing my doubts.

"Or do you have any better ideas?" I asked.

"Sure." She stooped by the water and raked her fingers through the reddish, fine silt at its bank. Then she smeared the stuff on her face, painting a rust-colored, muddy line above her brows and two shorter ones below the eyes. She glowered at me from between them.

"And how's that going to help us?"

"S'warpaint. Me mom told me about it. They used to have it, up here on the surface, when they had fights. It shows we're serious. It shows we're fighting till the end. To win or to die. Don't ye people do warpaint?"

No, we didn't. We didn't do war at all, with or without paint. But telling her wouldn't help the cause, so I shrugged. "It does look fierce." It did fit the angry color of her hair.

"Ye should have some, too," she said.

"Er..."

"Don't be a wuss."

I scooped up some of the mud and sniffed it. It smelled a bit like the shit we shoveled in our cavern down under. I placed a small smear of the stuff between my brows and wiped the rest on my trousers. "I think that's enough."

"If ye say so." She frowned, apparently not convinced. "But it matters bug shite. We've got something else, too." She took off her backpack, retrieved the gun, and weighed it in her hands. "This." Her grin was feral.

"But it doesn't shoot."

"Do they know?"