“Hasn’t stopped you before,” Cog said.
I punched him in the arm. “Shut up.”
He smiled.
“Perhaps she’s scared,” Broken Man said.
“Not scared. Just not stupid enough to walk into a trap,” I said.
“I meant that you might be scared because I’m telling the truth, and then you’d have to believe me.”
“I don’t have to believe anything. Especially not your lies.” I turned to Cog. “Watch this one.”
When I began to walk away, Broken Man called, “Going to clean air duct number seventeen?”
I stopped.
“I was in charge of the cleaning schedules before my ‘accident.’”
I turned back. “Nice try, but cleaning assignments are posted all over the lower levels. See, Cog, he’s grasping at air. A true prophet wouldn’t have to trick someone into believing him.”
“I’m sure no prophet has had to deal with Trella Garrard Sanchia before,” Broken Man said.
My blood froze in my veins. Scrubs didn’t worry about bloodlines; most knew nothing about their biological parents. Most didn’t care. Scrubs birthed more scrubs. We mixed blood like paint. Too many colors combined, and we ended up with brown-eyed, brown-haired babies who were raised in Care groups until they were old enough to work. Me included. With my brown hair and eyes, I blended right in with the scrubs.
Only the uppers worried about bloodlines and maintaining family groups. And Population Control. They kept track of every person in Inside.
Garrard and Sanchia were two of the family names used in the upper levels.
Broken Man watched me. “That’s right, Trella,” he said. “Your father was from the Garrard line and your mother is a Sanchia. You were born with your father’s blue eyes until they changed them.” He paused a moment to let the information sink in. “You don’t quite fit. Not a purebred by upper standards, but quite the thoroughbred down here.”
2
“HOW DO YOU KNOW?” I ASKED.
“I told you I used to live in the upper levels. But if you want more information about your parents, you’ll have to get my disks first.” Broken Man leaned back in his chair with a pleased smirk.
I stepped toward him, planning to agree. A cold jab of logic halted my steps. I couldn’t believe I’d almost fallen for it. Why would I care about parents who left me to be raised by scrubs?
“You spout some bull about bloodlines and think I’ll get all teary eyed and desperate to find information about my parents. No deal.” I grabbed Cog’s arm and turned him to face me. “Stay away from this man. He’s dangerous.” Then I hurried to my cleaning assignment, before Cog could argue with me.
I tried not to think about Broken Man as I scrubbed the air duct, but following the circular cleaning brush with its humming vacuum was mindless work. The cleaning device looked like a hairy troll spinning and singing to himself. All I had to do was turn him on, make sure he didn’t break down and then turn him off at the end of the conduit.
Being slender and a little over one and a half meters tall made me the perfect candidate for this duty, but I also knew how to repair the troll if it broke. Thanks to Cog. He had taught me, and I was one of the few scrubs who carried a special tool belt. The black band was constructed of the same slippery material as my uniform. Each of its eight pockets contained a tool. The band held them and my flashlight snug against my waist. Regular tool belts wouldn’t work in the tight air shafts. The hanging tools would bang on the metal and impede my motion.
Nothing out of the ordinary happened during my shift. I had plenty of time for the information Broken Man had told me to eat its way through the layers of my mind like acid sizzling through metal.
Devious, the way he had phrased his words. Your father was from the Garrard line. Past tense, meaning he was dead. Your mother is a Sanchia, implying she was still alive. Devious, except he had forgotten I had been raised as a scrub. Family lines meant nothing to me. Biological parents were the concern of the Pop Cops. I might have a fondness for my Care Mother (CM), but that was as far as it went. Broken Man was just trying to con me into his schemes. Give the Pop Cops a reason to recycle me.
The cleaning troll grunted as his motor strained. He had come to a bend. I gave him a little push, and the troll continued on his way. The angle of the air duct started to sharpen. I braced myself in the pipe, using my bare feet to climb behind the troll. The air shaft was one of the main trunk lines, servicing multiple levels of Inside. It cut between the levels and I could follow the troll up to level four if I could unlock the air filter between levels two and three.
Broken Man’s voice tapped into my mind. Information about Gateway might be on some disks hidden on level three. Might be. Most likely not. At least I would have proof the prophet was a fake to show Cog.
During my ten-hour shift of babysitting the troll, I kept changing my mind about whether or not to check Broken Man’s story. When the troll finished the last air duct on my schedule, I pulled him out and stored him in a cleaning closet.
Officially, I was off duty until hour forty. All scrubs had the same schedule. Ten hours off, ten hours on, with a break every five hours. There were no such things as vacations or holidays. Since one week equaled one hundred hours, we worked five shifts per week. Everything in Inside could be divided by the number ten. It made life simple so even the scrubs could understand. Work groups comprised ten scrubs. One CM for every ten children. Ten weeks equaled a deciweek, and a hundred weeks was called a centiweek. And so on. Although, a few old-timers called a centiweek a long year, but I had no idea what that meant.
The work shifts were also staggered so only half the scrubs worked at one time. It saved room in the barracks. I shared my bunk with another scrub I never saw. Not that I ever slept there anyway.
My shift ended on level two in Sector D, and I needed to make a decision. Below me were the rows and rows of bunks that filled Sectors D, E and F on both lower levels. From this location, it was just a matter of heading due east for two sectors, then up one level to search for Broken Man’s disks.
The uppers filled their two levels of housing sectors with roomy apartments and vast suites for the important officials.
Only certain loyal scrubs had authorization to clean and maintain the upper levels, and to deliver food and laundry. Not me. I had no desire to ingratiate myself to earn the Pop Cops’ trust. They rarely policed the ductwork with their sensors, believing in their filters and the passivity of the scrubs. I grinned. Except for a few of us, they were right.
Although I remembered the stories about when the Pop Cops had tried to place video cameras in the lower levels. Each and every one had disappeared. No witnesses came forward, and no evidence had been found. Eventually the cameras became another lost part of our world. Something we once had. Our computers have a whole list of things which met this criterion, but I didn’t care. No sense bemoaning what was gone. A waste of time. Better to worry about what weapons the Pop Cops could use now.
It would be a challenge to search for the disks while avoiding the scrubs and Pop Cops. Like Cog had said, the threat of getting into trouble hasn’t stopped me before, and I have explored all the upper level ducts more for the challenge than just to break the rules. In the end my curiosity was too great to walk away. I found an appropriate air conduit and slipped inside the tight space.
The rush of air blew past me in the active duct. Closing my eyes, I concentrated on the warm current as it caressed my face. I pulled my hair from its single long braid, and let it flow behind me, imagining for a moment that I flew.
The air shaft ended in a scrubber—a tight wire mesh impossible to bypass without unlocking and removing the cleaning filters nestled inside. This was the barrier to keep the scrubs down in their levels. I could have dismantled it and reattached the lock and filters when I returned, but the effort would eat up a lot of time.
Instead, I backtracked until I found a near-invisible hatch and opened it. Clim
bing from the duct, I stood on top of level two above Sector F. Pipes and wires hung down, crisscrossed and bisected the open space. I called it the Gap.
Between the levels of Inside, spaces ranged from one meter to one and a half meters high. A two-meter gap existed between the walls of the levels and the true Walls of Inside. The levels were bolted to these Walls with steel I-beams, and foam insulation had been sprayed onto them.
As far as I could tell, no one knew about the Gap. Only four near-invisible hatches offered access to it—one on each level. I had spent hundreds of hours in the shafts before I discovered them. I didn’t care what the reason was for such a space around the levels, it suited me just fine.
Bluelight shone and I negotiated the obstacle course of ducts to reach the east Wall. One of the six metal dividers framing our world, it was the barrier between Inside and whatever existed beyond.
A ladder was bolted to the Wall. It stretched from the very bottom of Inside to just above level four. Using it would make climbing to the air ducts above the third level easier. Except for two problems. A two-meter space gaped between where I stood on the edge of level two and the ladder. To use the ladder, I would need to traverse the thin I-beam connecting level two to the Wall. If I slipped, I would plummet about ten meters. The drop might not kill me right away, but if I broke my legs no one would know where to find me.
Breaks in the ladder were the second problem with the route. Someone long ago had cut off portions of the ladder as if they hoped to limit access to the upper levels. I had strung chains between the breaks, but climbing them required a great deal of upper-body strength.
No sense wasting time. A tingle of apprehension brushed my skin. I moved onto the I-beam. The beam was a little wider than my foot. Balancing on it, I placed one foot in front of the other with care. Once I mounted the ladder, I climbed until I reached the chain. Taking a deep breath, I wrapped my legs around the slender metal links and pulled myself up hand over hand to the next complete section of the ladder.
By the time I reached the next rung, sweat soaked my uniform and coated my palms. As I stretched for the bar, my fingers slipped.
I started to fall. Three wild heartbeats later, I managed to stop my descent by gripping the chain. When my body stopped swinging in midair, I grinned at the near miss. My pulse tapped a fast rhythm, matching my huffs for breath. I waited a moment before returning to the top of the chain. My second attempt to transfer to the ladder worked.
Navigating through the ductwork, I found the near-invisible hatch for level three and climbed inside the air shaft, searching for the sleeping quarters in Sector F.
Broken Man had said a duct above his rooms. Logic suggested he wouldn’t use a water pipe, too messy, or an electrical conduit, no space. He had been an air controller so it stood to reason I would find the disks, if they existed, in the air shaft. If.
I crawled through the shaft above the rooms, counting. Small rectangles of daylight warned me when a room was occupied, and I took extra care to be quiet. Stealing glances into the quarters as I slipped by, I spotted uppers working on their computers.
I usually avoided the populated sections. One sneeze and I would be permanently assigned to the solid-waste-handling crew. The crap cleaners. Nothing like the threat of unclogging those pipes to keep scrubs in line.
When I reached number three-four-two-one, I peered into the darkness below. The lack of light noteworthy. Inside had two light levels. Daylight for when people were awake and working and bluelight for sleeping. Bluelight was also used for temporarily unoccupied areas where, as soon as a person entered, the daylights would turn on. In the barracks, the bluelights stayed on all the time.
Darkness in Broken Man’s room meant it had been unoccupied for a long time. I shined my flashlight through the vent. The living area appeared normal. Sweeping my light on the walls of the shaft, I searched for the disks. At first, nothing caught my eye, but a strange bulge cast a slight shadow. I rubbed my fingertips over the bump and felt a slender edge.
Booby-trapped, I thought at first. Then I considered what I would do if I wanted to hide something from the Pop Cops. Either find a niche they didn’t scan, tuck it behind a lead-lined piece of machinery or camouflage it.
Using my fingernails, I peeled back a thin metal sheet. Underneath was a cloth bag.
I’d been so sure Broken Man had lied, I was almost disappointed. Almost. Let’s face it; if Gateway existed, I wouldn’t be upset.
I shook my head. These were dangerous thoughts. They led to hope and hope led to pain. I squelched them and focused on the contents of the bag. Four disks with rainbow rays streaked around their silver surfaces. Enthralled, I dropped the bag. It slipped through the vent and floated to the floor.
I shrugged. No big deal. Until a red light pulsed in the dark room below. Then daylight flooded the chamber as gas hissed.
Booby-trapped was right. But not the camouflage—Broken Man’s rooms. Smoke filled the air shaft. I held my breath as my eyes stung and watered, blurring my vision. Pushing back, I blindly scooted away. The door banged open and a man ordered, “Halt.”
Instinctively, I halted.
“Clear the gas,” a female voice ordered.
A pump hummed and the gray fog around me disappeared.
Voices echoed in the chamber. Boots drummed on the floor.
“Guard the door.”
“Fan out and search.”
“Watch for ambush.”
I wiped the tears from my eyes, eased back to the vent and peeked in. A woman stepped into my view. An intricate knot pulled her blond hair back from her face. She wore the uniform of the Population Control Police, purple with silver stripes down the outsides of the sleeves and pants. Her black weapon belt bulged to such an extreme that she looked like she wore a tire. A lieutenant commander’s insignia glinted on her collar.
A lieutenant snapped to attention beside her. “No one here, sir.”
“Impossible. Look again,” she ordered.
He rushed off.
She scanned the room, then spotted the bag on the floor. She tipped her head back and looked directly into the vent. Every cell in my body turned to ice.
“All sectors clear, sir,” another Pop Cop said.
“Get me some RATSS,” she yelled. “Post guards on all air vents in Sector F3. Now!”
Her order shocked me into action. I hustled along the duct with as much speed as I could muster one-handed. The Pop Cops’ Remote Access Temperature Sensitive Scanner (RATSS) would search me out through the ducts using heat-seeking technology. I had to leave Sector F3. Now. I had to find a hot spot to hide in.
As I slid through the air shaft, snatches of conversations reached me from the corridors where an alarming number of Pop Cops rushed to take up positions under the vents. I just stayed ahead of them.
“Someone sprung the trap.”
“Escaping through the vents.”
“Use the gas.”
“Stunners only. No kill-zappers.”
“Alert all sectors on level three.”
My heart hammered, driving me forward on the edge of panic. With the Pop Cops in every room, I couldn’t get to the near-invisible hatch. Instead, I raced toward Sector B3 where I knew of a well-placed laundry chute I could use. Impossible to climb up, laundry chutes only worked one way.
Just before I reached the chute, something bit my foot. Yelping, I twisted around. A RATSS had clamped on my toe. Damn!
Its little antennae vibrated, probably reporting my position. Imagining the information racing through the complex network of wires crisscrossing every level, I yanked my wrench from my tool belt and smashed the RATSS. After reducing it to scrap, I jerked it off my foot.
When I reached the laundry chute, I slid down two levels without having any dirty garments tossed on my head. A small bonus. I landed in a half-full bin.
The dryers hummed productively, creating one of the warmest sections of Inside. If a RATSS had followed me here, it would lose me in th
e heat from them and from the mass of scrubs who labored here.
I found a small crawl space behind a row of dryers and collapsed into it to catch my breath.
Questions swirled in my mind. Where to go now? I couldn’t give the disks to Broken Man. He might have orchestrated this whole thing. Obviously the Pop Cops had set a trap for whoever came to collect the disks. But why not rig the vent? Maybe they hadn’t known where the disks were located. That would mean Broken Man wasn’t involved. So why hadn’t they interrogated him before sending him down here? I hadn’t wanted any trouble. Now I swam in it.
I could hide the disks on level three for the Pop Cops to find. If Broken Man wasn’t a plant, then they’d known someone had come for them, but not who. Then I could walk away. Stay uninvolved. It was the safest course of action. The smartest move. The Pop Cops would have what they wanted.
Broken Man had said the disks might reveal the location of Gateway. Why risk my neck for a possibility? For something even I didn’t believe in.
I just couldn’t give the Pop Cops what they wanted. It rankled too much. Shoving the disks into a pocket of my belt, I hurried to find Broken Man.
Pop Cops had infested the lower level. Groups of three and four scanned the scrubs, occasionally stopping and questioning one. My skin burned where it touched the pocket concealing the disks. Trying to remain calm and invisible, I searched for Broken Man.
The dais he had used as a pulpit was empty. Cogon sat on the edge of the platform with his head in his hands.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Broken Man’s gone,” he said to the floor.
“Disappeared?” Figures, I thought. He was a plant and I had fallen for it like a gullible three-hundred-week-old.
“No. Taken.” Cog looked up. Blood ran down his face from a gash on his forehead.