Wool by Hugh Howey Page A

the roots of the fruit trees. It was too soon to mention it, much less applaud it.
    “I normally wire this sort of thing to you,” she said, “but since we were passing by, and you won’t be up for the next committee meeting for, what, another three months … ?”
    “The years go fast,” Bernard said.
    “I just figured we could informally agree to this now, so I could offer our best candidate the job.” She glanced up at Marnes. “Once she accepts, we can finish the paperwork on our way back up, if you don’t mind.” She slid the folder toward Bernard and was surprised when he produced one of his own, rather than accept hers.
    “Well, let’s go over this,” Bernard said. He opened his folder, licked his thumb, and flipped through a few pieces of high-quality paper. “We were wired about your visit, but your list of candidates didn’t hit my desk until this morning. Otherwise, I would have tried to save you the trip down and back up.” He pulled out a piece of paper devoid of creases. It didn’t even look bleached. Jahns wondered where IT got such things while her office was held together with cornflour paste. “I’m thinking, of the three names listed here, that Billings is our man.”
    “We may consider him next—” Deputy Marnes started to say.
    “I think we should consider him now.” He slid the paper toward Jahns. It was an acceptance contract. There were signatures at the bottom. One line was left blank, the mayor’s name neatly printed underneath.
    She had to catch her breath.
    “You’ve already contacted Peter Billings about this?”
    “He accepted. The judge’s robe was going to be a little stifling for him, being so young and full of energy. I thought he was a fine choice for that role, but I think he’s an even better one now for the job of sheriff.”
    Jahns remembered Peter’s judicial nomination process. It had been one of the times she’d gone along with Bernard’s suggestion, seeing it as a trade for a future pick of her own. She studied the signature, Peter’s hand familiar from his various notes sent up on behalf of Judge Wilson, under whom he currently shadowed. She imagined one of the porters who had flown past them on the steps that day, apologizing as they went, rushing this very piece of paper down.
    “I’m afraid Peter is currently third on our list,” Mayor Jahns finally said. Her voice suddenly felt tired. It sounded frail and weak in the cavernous and wasteful space of that underused and outsized conference room. She looked up at Marnes, who was glaring at the contract, his jaw clenching and unclenching.
    “Well, I think we both know Murphy’s name is on this list for flattery. He’s too old for the job—”
    “Younger than me,” Marnes interrupted. “I hold up just fine.”
    Bernard tilted his head. “Yes, well, your first choice simply won’t do, I’m afraid.”
    “And why is that?” Jahns asked.
    “I’m not sure how … thorough your background check has been, but we’ve had enough problems with this candidate that I recognized her name. Even though she’s from Maintenance.”
    Bernard said this last word like it was full of nails and might gut him to spit it out.
    “What kinda problems?” Marnes demanded.
    Jahns shot the deputy a look of warning.
    “Nothing we would have wanted to report, mind you.” Bernard turned to Marnes. There was venom in the small man’s eyes, a raw hatred for the deputy, or perhaps for the star on his chest. “Nothing worth involving the law . But there have been some … creative requisitions from her office, items rerouted from our use, improper claims of priority and the like.” Bernard took a deep breath and folded his hands together on top of the folder in front of him. “I wouldn’t go as far as calling it stealing, per se, but we have filed complaints with Deagan Knox as head of Mechanical to inform him of these … irregularities.”
    “That’s it?” Marnes growled. “Requisitions?”
    Bernard