EThree days after Lilith left, the unidentified root vegetable still sat in its serving dish with its handwritten label.
FOOD. EAT IT.
Helen had written it herself. Her administrative handwriting carried the weight of thirty years dealing with people who needed simple concepts explained. The label failed to convince Gerald. Gerald had spent the better part of the morning attempting to leverage his former P.A.C.I.F.I.C. Tier-3 Executive clearance code to access the reserve food stores. He implied his clearance code still meant something in a Silo dismantled by a Warlord three weeks ago.
Helen listened to Gerald with the terrifying patience of someone watching a child test a boundary.
"Your code returns an error," she said. She didn't look up from her clipboard. "The administrative architecture that processed it no longer exists."
"Then who do I speak to about escalating—"
