The Oasis Vault : When water runs dry, loyalty evaporates.

The Vault came first before the people. A low hiss filled the dome as recycled air passed through filtration vents—cool, purified, and metallic. Faris Al-Khatib awoke to it. That little breath was his true alarm clock, more reliable than any hand-held tick-counter. He came up in dim bunklight, removing sleep from his face as his hand instinctively found the iron wrench hidden under his pillow. His father's. He jammed it into his belt and rose. Chamber walls were dripping with last night's pressure drop condensation—sweating, the old-timers called it. The water had to be somewhere. The League just didn't enjoy it when it went off-script. The tunnels to the Ration Core were empty. Thin columns of blue vaultlight cast wisps of dust into the air, making it seem as if ghosts passed through. Faris tapped his badge against the first checkpoint gate. It glowed green. Welcome, Guardian Faris Al-Khatib. Hydration Cycle: 3. Time Remaining: 04:42:09. He hastened on. The Vaults were never late, and time was on water. The Ration Core rested like a sacred engine at the center of Vault 9. Six main taps, dozens of numerical readouts, copper valves arranged like an ancient pipe organ. The whole room vibrated ever so gently with the pulse of flow sensors chanting against the dome's central reservoir. It was beautiful, in a way—ugly from age, corroded in the corners, but living. Faris stood before the master panel. His fingers above the tap codes. Enter the cycle flow. Read information. Adjust if needed. He'd been doing this every third morning for two years. But today, the numbers flashed at him like something was wrong. Vault Reserve: -2.47% (Delta -0.31% from previous cycle) He blinked. Checked the backup readout. It reaffirmed the same. The Vault was pulling water faster than it was programmed to. Not catastrophic—not yet—but not within specifications. He checked the tap logs. Someone had gone and edited the file already. "Authorization: League High Command | Override: Code Blue Alpha." No sign. No footprint. Faris's flesh turned cold. He pulled out his wrench—not to use it, but just to feel the weight in his hand. His father used to say: "If the numbers lie, check the pipes. The pipes never lie." He adjusted the central valve pressure down by 3%, just enough to slow the flow without triggering alerts. Then he wiped the sweat from his palms and exited the chamber, trying not to look over his shoulder. --- The corridors of the Vault came alive now—shift workers, water trundlers, tank sweepers all emerging from their dens. Above them, upper tiers filtered pale sun through glass shields. The desert outside was already hot, but here everything was held back. Supposedly. Faris passed a pair of youth wardens from Dome 6, chuckling too much. They wore their hydration badges as symbols of pride. One nodded at Faris. "League's golden boy," he muttered. Faris kept moving. He arrived at the spiral tower for Central Command as the buzzer sounded. He walked in with a dozen others—each wearing blue-gray League uniform—and stood in silence as the elevator whistled its way up. On the top floor, Commander Rahim waited. His broad shoulders, shaved head, and granite-like eyes gave him the appearance of a man chiseled out of concrete. His uniform wore the dark blue of senior command, the kind reserved for men who made decisions with consequences. "Guardians," he said, voice unshaken, "you are here because your Vaults live. But living is different from thriving. Our ancestors died crawling on sand to suck water from corroded casks. You have a luxury they could barely dream of: regulated hydration, atmospheric cover, scientific management. The world outside can be dust—but here, you are League." The room was filled with muted pride. Faris remained silent. Rahim went on. "Remember: any adjustment in pressure readings or distribution schedules must be cleared with senior officers. Tampering without authorization will result in expulsion or reassignment to the Outflow Quarries." Faris' jaw clamped. He held up his hand. "Sir, this morning's reading indicated an unexpected loss—more than .3% unaccounted for." The room fell silent. Eyes on Faris. Rahim's expression changed not at all. "Sensor error," Rahim replied. "I double-checked with the backup. Same result. "Then they glitched together," Rahim coolly returned. "Don't make this a pattern, Al-Khatib. Some boys grow up needing trouble because they miss their fathers." Faris grew hot. "Sir, with respect—" "That will be all." The briefing concluded two minutes later. Faris stood outside the hall, warmth coursing through his ears. Behind him, the others chuckled and slapped each other on the back. Sensor error. Glitched together. Convenient. He turned and left without speaking. --- CDDL By noon, the citizens of the Vault were gathered in the Central Square for the weekly Wellspring Prayer. Giant blue and white banners poured like rivercloth down the dome beams. They all wore their ritual whites, embroidered with gray stripes for sand and absence. Faris was standing beside his mother, Dr. Noura Al-Khatib. She was praying this round—a calm, angular-faced woman, her voice a blend of mercy and warning. ".we who have been hardened by dryness and duty, who tread the edge of thirst and balance, thank you for the gift," she said, lifting the copper basin high. "May no drop be wasted. May no vessel run over." They each took one measured sip, from League-issued canteens. Eyes were closed everywhere. Faris opened his, glancing out at the crowd. Officials of the League in the front row. Youth guards behind. Laborers past them. Even a few Dome 7 traders made an appearance. His mother set down the basin. "And now we bless the ration keepers—our guardians of flow." Faris's eyes caught dozens of glances shifting in his direction. He made a stiff bow. --- Later, on rounds of maintenance, he passed by the algae wash basin at the bottom of the Vault. This section hadn't been touched since his father's time. Water trickled along here, thicker—laden with green nutrient paste. He noticed it immediately. A new hatch. Shut. Industrial grade. Marked in silver paint: Property of League – Do Not Tamper. It wasn't there last year. Faris stood in front of it for hours, at least, his perspiration dripping down his back. There were tunnels here, his father told him—oldschool access pipes that once led beneath the city. Most of them were capped after the wars. Some… weren't. He pressed his ear against the hatch. Nothing. Then—a very soft click. Like something metallic had just clicked closed from the other side. He backed away. --- That night, he dreamed of drywells. He dreamed that he crawled across the shattered floor of the Vault, split lips bleeding, lights above him flickering. Pipes groaned around him, spewing sand where water should have come. The desert had come in. He reached for a valve—but it turned to ash in his hand. And his father's hand came into view, reaching out to him from beneath the surface. Don't believe the flow," his father had breathed. "They're feeding it something else." Faris sat up with a start. The wrench was in his palm, cold as stone. --- Morning found the dome's pressure still off. Faris didn't go straight to the Ration Core. He descended into the algae basin, flashlight gripped in his fist, and moved stealthily between the ranks of filtering tanks. The hatch creaked. Not much. Just a little bit. Faris stopped. Shallow breaths. He crept closer, ducking low. There was a person there. A hooded, masked figure, tall, was playing with the pipe valves in the back of the hatch. Smooth, smooth movements. Not a technician. Faris pressed himself into the darkness. The figure popped open a small canister from the flow line—its surface running with cold dew. Water. Purified. The figure attached the container to a harness and withdrew back into the shadows. Faris was immobilized. He reached for his wrench—but the figure turned, seeming to hear him. A blink. A gleam of silver eyes beneath the mask. Then they moved through the hatch and shut it with absolute quiet. Faris stayed hunched for minutes. The Vault was hemorrhaging, not accidentally… but stolen. And somewhere, someone was transmuting water into quiet. —