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Inside Out
Maria V. Snyder
Keep your head down. Don’t get noticed. Or Else. I’m Trella. I’m a scrub. A nobody. One of thousands who work the lower levels, keeping Inside clean for the Uppers. I just do my job and try to avoid the Population Control Police, who dream of recycling scrubs into fertiliser. So what if I occasionally use the pipes to sneak around the Upper levels?It’s not like it’s dangerous… Well, turns out it is. Because I know every corridor, pipe and shortcut I’ve become the go-to girl to lead a revolution.I know if we find a gateway to Outside it’ll be suicide plain and simple. But guess who likes a challenge? I should have just said no…Featured in Peter’s Gazette Librarian’s pick of ‘What’s Next’ FOR FANS OF THE HUNGER GAMES




Praise for New York Times bestselling author
MARIA V.

SNYDER
“Inside Out surprised and touched me on so many levels. It’s a wonderful, thoughtful book full of vivid characters and a place—Inside—that is by turn alien and heart- breakingly familiar. Maria V. Snyder is one of my favourite authors, and she’s done it again!”
—New York Times bestselling author Rachel Caine
“This is one of those rare books that will keep readers
dreaming long after they’ve read it.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review, on Poison Study
“This rare sequel to live up to the promise of its
predecessor, Magic Study is a wonderful combination of romance and fantasy.”
—Audible.com Editor’s Pick
“Snyder delivers another excellent adventure, deftly
balancing international and local hostilities against
Yelena’s personal struggles.”
—Publishers Weekly on Fire Study
“With new magic and new people introduced in
Storm Glass, Ms Snyder has a fertile new landscape to mine for us. I cannot wait.”
—Fallen Angel Reviews, a Recommended Read
“A compelling new fantasy series.”
—SFX magazine on Sea Glass
inside
OUT


MARIA V. SNYDER





www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

MIRA is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited, used under licence.

Published in Great Britain 2009.
MIRA Books, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road,
Richmond, Surrey, TW9 1SR

© Maria V. Snyder 2010

ISBN: 978-1-408-92914-8
Version: 2018-01-23

To my niece, Amy Snyder, for your willingness to read my first
manuscript. Your enthusiasm for my stories sparked the idea
that I could write for a younger generation.
In loving memory of my grandmother, Mary Salvatori, and my best friend Hazel

Acknowledgements
My thank yous always start with my husband, Rodney. His support is critical to my writing and essential when I'm flying all over the place to attend book events. My children, Luke and Jenna, also get a thank you for inspiring me and for not making me feel too guilty when I'm running around for my other job.
The entire story for this book came to me in a dream, including characters, plot twists and ending. That hadn't happened to me before and hasn't since. However, dream novels still need to be written, and I’d like to thank a group of Seton Hill University critiquers who looked at the first chapter and said, "You may have something here."
Thanks to Dr. Michael Arnzen, Venessa Giunta, Johanna Gribble, Sara Lyon, Kathryn Martin, Heidi Ruby Miller, Darren Moore, Sabrina Naples, Rachael Pruitt and Shara Saunsaucie.
A special thank you to the original Tricky (the good one), Mike Mehalek, who came up with the cool title!
A big thank you to those who read the first draft and helped with revisions–my editor Mary Theresa Hussey, my agent Robert Mecoy, my critique partner Kimberly Howe, and Elizabeth Mazer. Also to all those at MIRA who helped the book along the way (too many to count, let alone list), thank you all so much! The cover is dead on perfect–a heartfelt thanks to the art department and all the talented artists and designers who helped with the cover.
No acknowledgements are ever complete without thanking my mounting army of Book Commandos. They are spreading the word about my books in bookstores, in book groups, in libraries, in line at the grocery stores, throughout their families and online. You guys rock! A special thank you for those who went that extra mile: Amberkatze, Lorri Amsden, Deborah Beamer, Linda Childs, Allison Leigh Davis, Michelle Deschene-Warren, David Hankerson, Michelle Haring, Kristy Kalin, Lexie, Holly Nelson, Lora Negrito, Rosemary Potter, Lee Ann Ray, Christina Russo, Rachel Smith, Michelle Staffa, Jenny Sweedler and Diana Teeter. Trella will want to recruit you all to the Force of Sheep.

1
A VIBRATION RIPPLED THROUGH MY BODY.
I awoke in semi-darkness, unsure of my location. Reaching out with my hands, I felt smooth sides arching up and in. My fingers touched overhead. Pipe.
A distant roar caused unease, but with sleep fogging my mind, I couldn’t quite grasp its significance. The pipe’s vibrations increased as the thunder grew louder. Water. Coming toward me. Fast.
I scrambled in the narrow space. My bare feet slipped on the sleek surface of the pipe as I advanced toward a faint square of bluelight emanating from the open hatch. It seemed an impossible distance to reach.
Cogon’s voice in full lecture mode echoed in my mind as the water rushed closer. “Someday, Trella. You’ll screw up and there will be bits of you raining out of the showers.”
I reached the hatch and dove headfirst through the opening, convinced the water rushed at my heels. Landing on the hard floor, I shot to my feet and slammed the door shut. When I finished sealing the hatch, the whole pipe shuddered, then the vibrations calmed as the water returned to its normal flow. The metal cooled under my fingers, and I leaned my sweaty forehead against it, catching my breath.
That was close. Soft bluelight glowed all around the water-filtering machinery. Hour eighteen: I knew by the rush of water. The upper workers adhered to a strict schedule.
I checked my tool belt to make sure nothing was broken and my flashlight still worked. Then I climbed from the ductwork and made my way to level two by taking a shortcut through an air conduit. Traveling through the pipes and air shafts, I avoided seeing my fellow scrubs. But my peace and quiet ended too soon as I opened the vent, swung down and landed in the middle of a crowded corridor, scattering scrubs.
Someone knocked into me. “Watch it!”
“Come to mingle with the lowly scrubs, your highness?” A mocking bow.
Used to curses and hostile glares, I shrugged. The mass of people in the tight corridor jostled and pushed me along. Life in the lower two levels teamed with scrubs at all hours of the week. They moved from work to their barracks and back to work. We were called scrubs because rust and dust were the twin evils of Inside and must be kept at bay; however, scrubs also maintained the network of mechanical systems which kept both uppers and lowers alive.
The scrubs shoved. They frowned. They complained. I hated every one of them. Except Cog. No one hated Cog. He listened. Empathized with tales of misery. Made people smile. A rare occurrence—as rare as a person like Cogon.
I headed toward the cafeteria in Sector G2. It stayed open around the clock. As far as I could tell, Inside’s length and width equaled a square with four levels. All constructed with sheet metal. Overall measurements, by my calculations—for reasons unknown Inside’s exact dimensions and specifications were classified—were two thousand meters wide by two thousand meters long by twenty-five meters high. Each level was divided into nine areas.
If I drew a square with two lines across and two lines down inside it, I would end up with nine smaller squares. The first row’s three squares would be labeled A, B and C, the next row D, E and F, and the last row G, H and I. With this configuration, there were four Quadrants A, C, G and I, which were Inside’s corners, and five Sectors B, D, E, F and H. That was the basic map of each level. Boring, unoriginal, and predictable to say the least.
The cafeteria and dining room for the lower two levels encompassed all of Sector G2. The number two meant it was on the second level. Even a four-hundred-week-old scrub couldn’t get lost. Hydroponics resided directly below in Sector G1—the lowest level—making it easy for the food growers to send vegetables to the kitchen scrubs.
The hot, musty smell of people packed together greeted me at the cafeteria’s door as the noise of them slammed into me. I paused, deciding if eating was worth being in the same room with so many scrubs. My stomach growled, overruling my reluctance.
The line to get food remained perpetually long. I took a tray and waited, ignoring the stares. Most scrubs changed from their work clothes to wear the drab green off-duty jumpers before eating, but I was scheduled to scour an air duct at hour twenty. So I remained in my formfitting uniform. The slippery dark blue fabric covered every inch of skin except for my hands, feet and head. The material helped me slide through the tight heating ducts when I cleaned them. And I didn’t care if I was the only person not wearing moccasins. My mocs were back at my bunk in Sector F1. With so many scrubs around to clean, the floor didn’t even have a chance to become dirty.
Pushing my tray along the metal shelf, I pointed to what I wanted from three different choices. The big containers held either green-, yellow- or brown-colored slop, and they all smelled like moldy vegetables. The food was easy to prepare, easy to cook and best of all easy to reuse. I didn’t even bother reading the names of the dishes. If the kitchen staff called it a casserole, a quiche, a stew or a soup, it all tasted the same. A pulpy, leafy spinach flavor dominated the other ingredients lurking in the recipe.
To be fair to the cooks, hydroponics didn’t offer much in the way of variety. Mass production of the hardier vegetables had replaced diversity, and there was only so much a person can do with mutton. I didn’t want to be fair, though. I just wanted something different to eat.
After being served, I found an empty seat, and let the discord of multiple conversations roll over me.
“Where’ve you been?” a voice asked over the din. I looked up at Cog’s broad face as he pressed into a seat next to mine.
“Working,” I said.
“You were supposed to be done at hour ten.”
I shrugged. “Got to make sure the pipes are squeaky clean for the uppers.”
“Yeah. Like it would take you that long,” Cog said. “You were sleeping in the pipes again.”
“Don’t start.”
“You’re going to get hurt—”
“Who’d care? One less scrub to feed.”
“Grumpy, aren’t we? What’s the matter, Trella? Get wet?” Cog smirked, but couldn’t hold the expression for more than a second. He was soon smiling, unaffected by my mood.
“Shouldn’t you be changing a fan belt or something?” I asked, trying to be nasty, but Cog ignored me, knowing it was all an act—although with any other scrub, I wouldn’t be acting.
He nodded to scrubs passing our table, calling out hellos and sharing his smile.
“How’s the shower head in washroom E2?” Cog asked one man.
“Much better,” the man replied.
I had no interest in mundane details so I tuned out their conversation. Instead, I contemplated my only friend. Too big to fit into the pipes, Cog worked with the maintenance crew and did odd jobs. Most of it busy work, just like scrubbing. Too many idle hands had been deemed dangerous by the upper workers.
Scrubs also labored in the recycling plant, the infirmary, the care facility, hydroponics, the kitchen, the livestock yard, solid-waste facility or in the waste-water treatment plant. Most scrubs were assigned their jobs. A Care Mother noted the skills and aptitudes of each of her charges and recommended positions. My smaller size automatically matched me as a cleaning scrub. It suited me just fine.
“When’s your next shift?” Cog asked.
“One hour.”
“Good. Someone wants to meet you.” Cog’s eyes held an avid glow.
“Not another prophet. Come on, Cog, you know better.”
“But this time—”
“Probably just like the last time, and the time before and the five times before that. All talk. No action, pushing false hope. You know they have to be employed by the upper officials to keep the scrubs from rioting.”
“Trell, you’re jaded. Besides, he asked for you by name. Said you were the only one who could help him.” Cog seemed to think this divine calling should impress me.
“I have better things to do with my time.” I picked up my tray, intent on leaving.
“Like sleeping in the pipes? Pretending you’re all alone, instead of crammed in here with everyone else?”
I scowled at him. My fiercest frown, which usually resulted in some breathing room.
Cog stepped closer. “Come on. Hear the guy out.”
Again, his face glowed with the conviction of a true believer. Poor Cog, I thought. How can he set himself up for another crushing disappointment? How can I turn him down? Especially when he was the only one who remained my friend despite my abuse. And who’d watched out for me, growing up in the care facility together.
“Okay. I’ll listen, but no promises,” I said. Perhaps I could expose this prophet as a fraud to keep Cog from becoming too involved.
Dumping our trays in the wash bins, we left the cafeteria. Cog led the way through the main corridors of the second level toward the stairs in Quad A2.
The narrow hallways of Inside had been constructed with studded metal walls painted white. Only Pop Cops’ posters, spewing the latest propaganda, scrub schedules and the list of proper conduct could decorate common area walls on levels one and two. At least the massive bundles of greenery in every section of Inside helped break up the monotony. Although, if the plants weren’t needed to clean the air, I was sure the Pop Cops would remove those, too.
I would never have had the patience to fight my way along the main paths, but Cog’s thick body left a wake behind him. I followed along in this space, walking without effort and without touching anyone. A moment of peace.
We descended the wide metal steps. Cold stabbed the soles of my feet and I wished I had worn my mocs. Bare feet were useful in the air ducts, but not in the main throughways.
Cog led me to Sector B1. This prophet showed some intelligence. Sector B1 was filled with laundry machines. Rows upon rows of washers and dryers lined up like soldiers waiting for orders. The laundry was the most populated area, it had the largest number of workers, and every scrub in the lower levels came here for fresh uniforms.
Surrounded by a throng, the prophet had set himself up on an elevated dais near the break room so everyone could see him.
“…conditions are deplorable. The uppers have rooms to themselves and yet you sleep in barracks. But your suffering will not go unrewarded. You’ll find peace and all the room you want Outside.” The prophet’s voice was strong. His words could be heard over the hiss and rattle of the machines.
I leaned over to Cog. “The wheelchair’s a different touch. He’ll gain the sympathy vote. What’s his name?”
“Broken Man,” Cog said with reverence.
I barked out a laugh. The prophet stopped speaking and focused his gray eyes on me. I stared back.
“You find something amusing?” Broken Man asked.
“Yes.”
Cog stepped in front of me. “This is Trella.”
The man in the wheelchair snapped his mouth shut in surprise. Obviously, I wasn’t what he had expected.
“Children, I must speak with this one in private,” he said.
I had to stifle another snort of disbelief. As if there was such a thing as privacy in the lower levels.
The crowd dispersed, and I was face-to-face with the latest prophet. Long blond hair, thin narrow face and no calluses on his hands. There were no blonds in the lower levels. Hair dye was a luxury reserved for the uppers only.
“Trella,” he said in a deep, resonant voice.
“Look,” I said. “You’re more than welcome to seduce these sheep,” I waved my hand at the working scrubs. “But don’t sing your song of a better place to Cog. When you go back upstairs to reapply your hair dye, I don’t want him left hurting.”
“Trell,” Cog said, shooting me a warning look.
“You don’t believe me?” Broken Man asked.
“No. You’re just an agent for the Pop Cops. Spewing the same bull about how our hard work will be rewarded after we’re recycled. Oh, you might stick around for a hundred weeks or so, but then you’ll be gone with the next shift and another ‘prophet’ will take your place.” I cocked my head to the side, considering. “Maybe the next guy will have a missing limb. Especially if your wheelchair angle works.”
Broken Man laughed, causing the nearby scrubs to glance over at us. “Cog said you would be difficult, but I think he spoke too kindly.” He studied my face.
Impatient, I asked, “What do you want?”
“I need your expertise,” Broken Man said.
“What expertise?”
“You know every duct, corridor, pipe, shortcut, hole and ladder of Inside. Only you will be able to retrieve something I need.”
“How did you know?”
“I’ve heard rumors about the Queen of the Pipes. Cogon confirmed them.”
I glared at my friend. The scrubs in my Care group had given me the title and not because they admired my tendency to explore the ductwork. Just the opposite. They had teased me for my desire to spend time alone.
“Will you help me?” Broken Man asked.
“What is it?” I asked.
“You were right,” he said. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I used to live in the upper levels.”
I stepped back in alarm.
“No,” he rushed to assure me, “I’m not part of the Population Control Police. What do you call them? Pop Cops? I worked as an air controller, keeping track of the air systems, making sure the filters were clean and the oxygen levels breathable.” Broken Man opened his mouth wide and pointed to a large gap in his bottom back teeth. “See the space for my port?”
“Anyone can have missing teeth,” I said. “I know a lady in Sector D1 who’ll get rid of anything you want. Including body parts.”
Broken Man rubbed a hand over his face. His long thin fingers traced a graceful line down his throat. “Look. I have to spout the propaganda. If I tell the scrubs Gateway exists and the Pop Cops are lying to them, the Pop Cops will recycle me.”
I felt as though he’d shot a stunner at my chest. He mentioned Gateway in a matter-of-fact tone. Gateway was a myth in the lower levels. The Pop Cops insisted no physical doorway existed to Outside. But stories and rumors circulated despite their claims, and everyone liked to speculate on its location.
The Pop Cops’ prophets preached that Outside could only be attained after a person’s life ends. And only if the person worked hard and obeyed Inside’s laws. If a scrub was worthy, his inner soul would travel to Outside while his physical body would be fed to Chomper.
Most of the scrubs believed this Pop Cop dribble. I didn’t. Souls were a myth and our bodies stayed trapped Inside.
“Come again?” I asked Broken Man.
“Gateway exists and I can prove it. Before coming down here, I hid some disks in a duct above my sleeping quarters, number three-four-two-one in Sector F3. I need them and only you can retrieve them without being seen. The disks might have information on the location of Gateway.”
“Might have?” He was backpedaling already.
“I didn’t get a chance to look at them.”
“How convenient. I’m not authorized to go above level two. There are locked air filters to keep undesirables out, and if the Pop Cops catch me, I could have an unpleasant encounter with Chomper and end up as fertilizer for hydroponics.” I shivered. Inside didn’t have room for many holding cells. Undesirables were simply recycled at the whim of the Pop Cops.
“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. Climbing 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 un-occupied 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 the 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.
“Cog!” I ran and grabbed a towel from one of the laundry bins lining the hall. A few scrubs folded sheets nearby, appearing to ignore us, but I knew better.
“Here.” I wiped Cog’s eye and cheek, pressing the cloth to the cut. “Who did this to you?” Cog was a big man. No scrubs would dare fight him.
“Pop Cops,” he said.
The significance of Cog’s word taken finally sank in. My world shrank, tightening around my body until I felt like I was being crushed. Interrogation of Broken Man would lead the Pop Cops to me.
“When?” I demanded.
“Just now.” Cog gestured down the hallway. “I tried to talk to them. Stop them. But…” He touched his forehead.
Figures. The Pop Cops knew a good beating was an effective way to warn a scrub. Give them trouble another time and a scrub is arrested and never seen again in the lower levels.
“How many?”
“Three to subdue me,” he said with a smile, “but only one took him away. He can’t do much from a wheelchair.”
“You could have been fed to Chomper,” I admonished him, but I was distracted.
“Could have, Trell. Doesn’t mean I would have. Besides, I would have felt terrible if I didn’t try to help.” He sighed. “I’m talking to a wall. You don’t care about anyone in this place.”
An old argument. My response would be how I cared about him, and he would claim I had a funny way of showing it. But not this time. “You’re right. So why do you bother with me? Why do you drag me to listen to every prophet?”
“It’s called hope. It’s called seeing the best in people despite the miserable conditions.” He grabbed the towel from me. His shoulders sagged as he covered his face with the bloody cloth. “Maybe you’re right and it’s all a lie.” He gestured to Broken Man’s dais.
The prophet hadn’t lied about the disks, but soon the Pop Cops would know about them, too. A plan raced along the circuits of my mind. “Which way did the Pop Cop take Broken Man?”
“Why?” Confusion pushed his thick eyebrows together.
“Just answer.”
“Toward Quad A1. Probably going to take him up the lift to level four.”
I had to hurry. “Cog, you better get to the infirmary. I need to go.”
“Go where?” He glanced at the clock. “Your shift doesn’t start for another two hours.”
“Not your concern,” I said, looking up at the ductwork. I quickened my pace, planning the best route to Quadrant A’s lift.
But Cogon trailed after me. “Why do you care which way he went?”
I ignored him.
“He must be right,” Cog called. His voice bright and strong again. Back to normal. “Broken Man’s right about Gateway. Why else would the Pop Cops take him?”
I just shook my head.
The corridor to Quad A1 teemed with scrubs and Pop Cops, hopefully delaying progress of the Pop Cop pushing the wheelchair. When I spotted an air vent, I climbed up the metal wall. Metal rivets on the walls were the perfect size for my toes and fingers. Once inside the air duct, I scurried through the horizontal tube, using my hands and feet while sliding on my belly.
The hum of the lift set every nerve in my body afire. If they were in the elevator, I was too late. Occasionally, I slowed to peer through the air vents, trying to spot Broken Man.
I grunted with frustration. A Pop Cop wheeled Broken Man into the open lift.

3
I HAD MERE SECONDS TO RESCUE BROKEN MAN.
Good thing level one’s near-invisible hatch was next to the lift. I scrambled out of the air pipe and hunched my way over to the shaft. The elevator’s shaft was solid except for half-meter openings at each level’s Gap. If the lift passed level one’s, I would be too late.
Reaching the opening, I glanced inside. The lift remained on level one, but the doors hissed closed. I squeezed through and landed on the lift’s roof. I held still, listening as something scraped against the doors before they shut.
“Stop,” a voice ordered.
The lift began its ascent. I clutched a cable to keep from falling. Huddled on top, I regained my balance. Risking notice, I pried up the roof hatch just enough to see inside.
A meter below me, Broken Man slumped in his wheel-chair, while a Pop Cop stood with his stunner pointed at Cog. The big oaf must have squeezed into the elevator to rescue his prophet, and now he was caught.
I altered my plan. Tracing wires, I found the electric feed into the elevator and fitted the white electrical wire between my rubber-handled pliers. I opened the emergency control panel on the roof, yelled, “Fire drill” and punched the stop button while cutting the wire. The lift jerked to a halt.
The occupants of the elevator were now in total darkness. I hoped Cog knew what to do. My call had warned him. As I lifted the hatch, a soft thud, a loud grunt and the unmistakable sizzle slap of the stun gun reached me.
“What’s going on?” Broken Man asked with a nervous tremor in his voice.
I sucked in my breath, biting my lip.
“We need to get out of here,” Cog replied.
Relief washed over me as my clenched muscles relaxed. I pulled the hatch wide open. It squeaked.
“Trella?” Cog asked.
“Hold on. I’ll get a light.” I fumbled for the flashlight on my belt as Broken Man repeated my name in shock.
I leaned through the open hatch, dangling upside down from my waist and held out my light. The Pop Cop lay on his side. His wide-eyed, lifeless gaze stared at nothing.
Cogon gaped at the Pop Cop’s weapon in his own hand in horror. “This is a stun gun,” he cried. “Why would it kill him?”
“What’s the setting?” I asked.
Cog just looked at me. His eyebrows pinched together, and confusion shone in his eyes.
“The intensity.” I tried again. “It’s on the side.”
Cog turned the weapon over. “Ten.”
“That’s why. It’s on the maximum setting. A ten blast could easily kill an average-sized man.” I still didn’t see understanding in Cog’s creased face. “You’re twice the Pop Cop’s size. I would have set the damn thing to ten, too, if I had to incapacitate you. Look, we don’t have time for this. We need to get Broken Man to a hiding place.”
“Impossible,” Broken Man said. “Inside has no hiding place.” His face looked pale in the light.
I smiled at Broken Man’s regurgitation of Pop Cop propaganda, then pulled myself back onto the roof. Using my rubber-handled pliers again, I fixed the broken wire, restored the lights and accessed the lift’s controls.
“Push the button for level two,” I called.
When we reached level two, I opened the back doors. A maintenance room was located adjacent to the elevator shaft.
“Cog, wheel him out and take the Pop Cop, too.”
Cogon finally realized how dangerous it was to delay. Galvanized into action, he cleared everyone from the elevator.
“Leave them here, and get back on the lift,” I said through the roof’s hatch.
“He can’t stay here. It’ll be the first place they’ll look,” Cog said.
“I know, but he can’t travel through the corridors. We’ll have to camouflage him.”
“How?” “Laundry bin.”
Understanding smoothed Cog’s face. He delivered the laundry to the upper levels, so it wouldn’t look out of place if he was seen pushing a bin.
With Cog as the sole occupant, I sent the lift back to level one, and again opened the back doors. This time the doors led to the laundry. Bins full of clean laundry filled the area by the lift. Cog grabbed one, waved to the working scrubs and pushed it into the elevator. I brought him back to level two.
“Stand in the doorway,” I said. Returning the controls to the panel inside the lift, I swung down. “Help me put the hatch back on.” I sat on Cog’s broad shoulders and replaced the cover.
We joined Broken Man in the maintenance room as the lift resumed its regular service. The bin was full of towels. We removed them and Cog lifted Broken Man into the bin.
Before we covered him, he asked, “My wheelchair?”
“It’s too big. We’ll have to leave it behind,” I said.
“Now what?” Cog asked as he finished arranging the towels.
“Take him down to Quad C1, but don’t use this lift.”
“To the Power plant?” Cog asked.
“Yes. I’ll meet you there.”
“What about the Pop Cop?”
“Leave him. Someone will find him.”
“And the stun gun?” he asked.
“Put it back in his belt. It’s too dangerous to keep.” The Pop Cops would be mad enough once they discover a fallen colleague, but it would be worse if they believed one of the scrubs was armed.
Kneeling beside the prone form, Cog shoved the weapon into the Pop Cop’s holder, but he paused. He closed the man’s eyes and smoothed his limbs to a more comfortable position—not that the Pop Cop would care. Cog rested a large hand on the man’s shoulder, bowed his head and whispered. Only the words sorry and journey were audible to me.
I suppressed the urge to hurry him, knowing Cog needed this time. When he finished, he stood and wheeled the bin from the room. I waited for a few minutes before climbing into the air shaft. I traveled to level one to assess the situation.
Walking through the corridors, I scanned faces. Level one appeared normal. So far, the Pop Cops hadn’t raised an alarm. I headed to Quad C1.
I pressed past some scrubs until I found a heating vent near the floor. After sliding inside, I replaced the vent cover and rested in the warm metal tube, catching my breath. The enormity of what I had just done slammed into me. My body shook as doubt and fear fought for control. With effort, I pushed the ugly thoughts away; I had no time for recriminations. Right now I navigated by instinct alone.
Propelled by the need to keep moving, I followed the heated air to its source. The Power plant in Quad C1 was Inside’s beating heart. It pumped out electricity and heat to keep us all alive. Encompassing all of Quadrant C on the first, second, third and fourth levels, the plant’s main controls were located on level four. Noise, excessive heat, dirt and fuel tanks filled level one, and hardly anyone worked in this area.
The air burned my lungs as I drew closer to the plant, forcing me to leave the vent. Sweat soaked my uniform, but a sudden chill gripped my spine when I couldn’t find Cogon and Broken Man anywhere near the plant.
My name sounded in the thick air and I spun in time to see Cogon waving me over. He had hidden behind one of the fuel tanks. Broken Man was propped up in the laundry bin.
“Now what?” Cog shouted over the chugging engines.
“There’s an abandoned controller’s room by the fuel-intake valve.” I pointed. “The door’s locked, but I can open it from the inside.”
Finding the air return duct crossing over the controller’s quarters, I had Cogon lift me up to it. I crawled through the duct until I found a vent into the controller’s room. I had discovered this small living space on one of my excursions. Thinking it was a perfect hideaway, I had proceeded to make it my own. It hadn’t taken me long to figure out why it had been empty. The intolerable noise from the plant, the oppressive heat and the fine coating of black grit covering everything had eventually driven me away despite the rarity of such a space.
As Cog wheeled Broken Man in, I cleaned the room as best as I could with the towels. Cog lifted the prophet into a chair. Dust puffed out from the cushions.
We stared at each other for a moment as the engines roared.
“We’re in trouble,” Cog yelled. “This isn’t going to work. They’ll find us.”
“They’ll think I killed the Pop Cop. I’ll be recycled,” Broken Man said.
“You were going to be recycled anyway,” I said.
Broken Man jerked his head in shock.
“What did you think they would do after they interrogated you?” I asked.
“But what happened to you?” the prophet asked.
“Yeah, why are you here, Trella?”
Broken Man’s nose crinkled in confusion. He was either a good actor or genuinely flustered. Drowning in trouble and still unable to trust the blond-haired man, I hesitated. Cogon stepped toward me, a mixture of fear and anger twisting his face. An expression I had never seen on Cog. There was only one scrub I cared for in this whole metal world, and he wallowed in this predicament with me.
Damn. I pulled out the disks, spreading them in my hands like a fan. Cog’s mouth dropped open as though someone had slapped him.
Broken Man raked his fingers through his hair as under standing dawned. “But the Pop Cops didn’t know about the disks,” he said.
“Why not?” I asked.
“I used an untraceable port and covered my tracks for the file transfer. However, I wasn’t as clever with my other forays into the computer system and was caught. When they questioned me before my accident and exile, they hadn’t a clue about the hidden files.”
He glanced around the room. “Unless they suspected.”
“So the Pop Cops rigged your former quarters just in case,” I said.
“Why not just pick me up and ask?” Broken Man shuddered. The Pop Cops had a gruesome reputation.
“They knew where to find you. They knew you didn’t have the disks on you. Plus if they waited, they could see who you recruited to break the rules in order to help you.”
“That’s why you rescued him,” Cog said. “You started this whole mess by getting the disks.”
I bit down on my retort. In my mind, Cogon had started it when he introduced me to his prophet, but in fairness I had made the decision to retrieve the disks. “All right,” I said to Broken Man. “Cog and I’ll have to lay low for a while. Let’s hope no one spotted Cog entering the lift. You’ll have to hide here.”
“The scanners?” he asked.
“The power and heat coming off those engines plays havoc with their scanners. This room hasn’t been used for hundreds of weeks. Keep the door locked at all times.”
Cog rubbed a hand over his face. “I could put a blind in front of the door.”
“A blind?” I asked.
“It’s a thin sheet of metal. The maintenance crew uses them to cover holes and dents in the walls. If you match the rivets up right, no one can tell what’s behind the blind. I’ll do it during my next shift,” he said.
“Good. Make sure no one sees you. And when you’re done, keep far away from this room. I’ll take care of Broken Man.”
Cog nodded, pulled out a set of earplugs from his belt and handed them to Broken Man. “I’ll also bring some insulating foam to cut down the noise.”
The quarters had a bathroom, but I had to make sure the water was turned on. Our shifts started in a few minutes. “Can you take care of yourself for the next shift?” I asked the prophet.
“I’ll be fine for now,” he replied though his eyes looked a little wild. He held his hand out. “I’ll keep the disks.”
“No. If they find you, they find the disks. I’ll hide them,” I said. I stuffed the disks back into my belt. Broken Man pulled his hand away. His expression guarded.
Cog left through the door, and I locked it behind him. “I’ll be back after my shift with a few supplies.”
The prophet blinked at me, but said nothing as he pushed the green foam plugs into his ears.
I climbed into the vents and found the valves to turn on the water. Then I hurried to level two to report for work.
Ten hours seemed like an eternity as my thoughts dwelled on the need to hide the disks.
After my shift, I climbed to level four. This time I didn’t slip and I didn’t encounter any RATSS. Ultrasonic scanners and RATSS they might have, but I knew plenty of hiding places all over Inside where the electromagnetic currents scrambled ultrasonic waves. Spots that reflected a solid wall on their scanner displays. I stayed in those hidden areas as I traveled.
In the Gap on top of level four, I had hidden a small box where I kept my valuables. It was difficult to find and dangerous to reach. Perfect for hiding Broken Man’s disks.
My niche appeared untouched. Until now, I had stored only two items in this cabinet. I placed the disks next to the thread-picture of my Care Mother. Colored threads had been sewn onto a white handkerchief, and, from a distance, her face and kind eyes could be seen.
She understood my need to disappear in the pipes. Her support when Cog grew out of our group had made living bearable. I wondered what my CM would think about the trouble we were in now. Considering the problems my care mates and I had managed to cause during our stay, I imagined she would sigh with exasperation.
Imagining her frown, I smiled because, no matter how hard she had scowled, she couldn’t stifle the gleam in her eyes. The gleam that said she was proud of our inventiveness. The gleam that encouraged us during lessons to think for ourselves even while she taught us the standard Pop Cop propaganda.
It must have been difficult for her, getting a new child when one of the older kids reached the age of maturity and left. Our ages had ranged from newborn to fourteen centiweeks old.
I folded the handkerchief and smoothed a few wrinkles before returning it to the cabinet. The other item in my niche was a comb decorated with pink pearls along its spine. The smooth spears pushed into my fingers as I pulled the comb through my long brown hair. With all the excitement, I had forgotten to rebraid it and it had knotted.
Thoughts of the comb wove through my mind as the comb’s teeth worked at the knots in my hair. According to my CM, it had been a gift from my birth mother. My CM had kept it safe for me until I reached 1400 weeks, the age of maturity. The age when you were no longer considered a child. It was when you became a scrub and the reality of what the rest of your life would be like became suddenly and brutally apparent. The old-timers called it sweet sixteen, but there wasn’t anything sweet about it.
I finished combing my hair and examined the gift, wondering which adult scrub cared enough to part with such a precious item, yet didn’t care enough to contact me. Even though it was forbidden, a few mothers kept in touch with their offspring.
Damn. Every moment counted. I shoved my comb back into the cabinet. These stolen glances were a nasty habit that I needed to break. I slammed the door shut and bolted.
Never taking the same route to and from the cabinet, I snaked my way west before entering an air conduit on level four which would lead to a laundry chute I could use. The air conduit passed above an abandoned storeroom. I always shone my light down through the vent to marvel at the wasted space. A perfectly good chamber big enough to house four scrubs comfortably was being used for broken furniture.
Ghost furniture. Each time I checked, the pieces lost more of their color and texture under a coating of dust—one of the evils of Inside.
This time, when I paused a bluelight glowed, and the room appeared to be different. The couch cushions had been cleaned, revealing a brown and green geometric pattern. The mess of broken chairs had been piled in a corner. The junk on the desk in the opposite corner had been removed and an upper sat before it, working under a small lamp.
Startled, I pulled away and hit my head on the top of the shaft. The noise vibrated and the upper turned to look. With careful and slow movements, I started to cross the vent.
“Who’s there?” he called.
I paused, resting my knees and most of my weight on the vent. Big mistake. The vent cover groaned and popped free. Scrabbling with my hands for purchase, I felt my legs drop, pulling my body down. The last thing I saw before hitting the floor was a black-haired man with a shocked expression.

4
AS I CRASHED TO THE FLOOR, I PULLED MY BODY INTO
a protective ball. I kept a fetal position as waves of pain pulsed up and down my legs. I braced for the cry of outrage from the occupant of the room and the call for the Pop Cops.
Instead, a concerned face came into my view.
“Are you all right?” he asked. His blue eyes held a touch of awe as he stared at me with parted lips. No immediate threat.
I grunted and stretched, feeling for injuries. It wasn’t the first time I had fallen, and it wouldn’t be the last. My leg muscles would be sore for twenty hours or more, but otherwise no broken bones. Rising with care, I leaned on the couch as a dizzy spell washed through me.
The young man stepped back as if afraid. I suppressed a laugh; I had probably given him a real scare. Smoothing my hair, I glanced around the room. Food bowls, glasses, markers and a wipe board littered the area, suggesting the room was in use.
The tenant wore a black-and-silver jumper, indicating a level-four resident who was in training for whatever job the Controllers had assigned him. Having never met an upper besides the Pop Cops, I had learned about them and their families from the computer’s learning software in the care facility.
“Are you a…scrub?” he asked.
Oh, yes, a young one probably around fifteen hundred weeks old. Well, close to my age, but the uppers coddled their children, babying them until they were seventeen hundred weeks old.
I pointed to my work suit. “Guess.”
“Oh. Yes. Well. Sorry,” he said. His pale skin flushed pink.
My head cleared. He seemed in no hurry to call for help, probably didn’t even know he should be reporting me. I wasn’t taking any more chances; I climbed onto the couch, trying to reach the air duct. It was another meter beyond my grasp. The vent was in the middle of the ceiling, and I couldn’t use the rivets to scale the side wall.
My first attempt to jump was unsuccessful. I thumped to the floor with an alarming bang.
“Stop it,” he said.
His firm tone gave me pause. “Why?” I asked.
“With all the noise you’re making, someone will hear you and come to investigate.”
“Why do you care?” I shot back at him. “I’m the one who isn’t supposed to be here. It’s not like you’ll get in trouble.”
He frowned. “I don’t want anyone to know about this room,” he said. “It’s where I come for privacy.”
I couldn’t help it—I laughed. “What? You have to share a room with a brother?” I guessed. “Poor boy,” I mocked. “Try sharing a barrack with three thousand others.”
Fury flashed in his eyes. But I had to give him credit for controlling his temper.
“When I’m here,” he said evenly, “no one can find me. No one can give me assignments. No one can harp at me about shirking my duty. No one makes me pledge loyalty to the Controllers.” He stepped toward me. “And I’m not about to give it up because some scrub doesn’t have the sense to be quiet.”
“Well, then, it’s to our mutual benefit that I disappear and we both forget about this little incident. Agreed?”
“Yes. No. Yes, but I want to know what you’re doing up here.”
I thought fast. “Cleaning the shaft like a good little scrub.” Climbing back onto the couch, I said, “I’m finished, so I’ll be returning to the lower levels where I belong. Can you give me a leg up?”
He laced his fingers together, but before I could step into his cupped hand, he pulled back.
“What? If I’m caught here, I’m in trouble.”
“What’s it like in the lower levels?”
“Why?”
“I’m curious.”
“Go log on to the computer, look under scrubs,” I said.
“I already tried. All I found was one paragraph of information. I want to know more.”
“You shouldn’t. Curiosity is a fatal trait in here.”
He set his legs slightly apart and tucked his hands under his crossed arms.
I sighed at his stubbornness. “Imagine every space in this room filled with people. Moving from one end to the other is like swimming in a thick human tank. Constantly being jostled and pushed. Smells of scrubs invading your senses, overwhelming you to the point of nausea. Always waiting in line for food, water and for the washroom. Mind-numbing routine with change a rare event. Being battered by the noises of people eating, moving, snoring, mating and talking over the constant roar of the machinery. In the lower levels, there is no quiet place. No peace.”
I drew a deep breath. My speech had come in one burst. The young man had unknowingly unleashed a deluge, which had propelled him onto the couch. Looking around the chamber, I said, “To a scrub, this room is paradise.”
We stared at each other for a few heartbeats.
“No one should live like that,” the man said in a quiet voice.
“Over eighteen thousand and counting do.” I tried to be flippant, but my words felt heavy. A woman caught in the illegal act of terminating her pregnancy was bred until her fertility ceased. Our population bulged. Children were our future, said the Pop Cops. But why? Especially since the future looked like life crammed into every available space. None of the scrubs had a clue.
I pointed toward the duct. “I should go before I’m missed.” A lie. I doubt I would ever be missed. Noted absent, charged delinquent, reprimanded but never missed.
He stood on the couch and created a step with his hands. After I had wiggled inside the air shaft, I called down my thanks.
Before I could move he said, “My name’s Riley Narelle…” He paused as if embarrassed by his family names. Clearing his throat, he continued, “Ashon. Anytime you need a moment of peace, you’re welcome to use my hideaway.”
If he noticed the shock on my face, he didn’t show it. I gave him a curt nod and hurried away, shaken by his offer. An offer that would be too dangerous for me to accept. Scrubs and uppers don’t mix. Ever. The Pop Cops had specific guidelines for keeping everybody where the Pop Cops decided they belonged. Besides, we hated each other. The uppers lived in spacious quarters with their families. Their work schedules were shorter and they had more freedoms. They made the decisions and we followed.
The time I had spent at my niche and with Riley had used up most of my off hours and I needed rest. Moving through the pipes as fast as I dared, I made it to the lower level, found a comfortable shaft and fell asleep.
Empty corridors should have been my first warning. I had woken after a couple of hours to a strange hush and dropped down to level one to investigate. Pop Cops herded scrubs into the dining room. Surprised, I tried to retreat but was spotted and pulled into the flow.
Shoulders pressed against shoulders. I gagged on the overripe smell of tightly packed humans. When no more scrubs could be wedged into the room, the doors were shut and guarded by the Pop Cops. There were three “meeting” locations in the lower levels, and I guessed the Pop Cops also had our two common areas in Quads A1 and A2 filled with scrubs and sealed off just like the dining room.
I started to sweat, and not just from the excessive body heat. Standing on top of a table in the middle of the dining room was the female lieutenant commander who had ambushed Broken Man’s quarters. I glanced at the clock. Hour sixty. My troubles started only twenty-five hours ago. It felt more like a week.
“Citizens of Inside, I realize this is unusual,” said the LC. Her voice boomed from the speakers. “Our hundredth hour assembly isn’t due for another forty hours, but we are missing a citizen.”
Murmurs rippled across the scrubs. Everybody reported in at the end of each week. We all had assigned locations so we could hear the news and get updated on the rules and regulations. The Pop Cops called it an end-of-week celebration, but I knew it was just a device to keep track of the scrubs, checking for pregnancies and making sure we behaved.
“All citizens will remain in their secure locations until we find our missing person,” the LC continued.
It made sense; their RATSS got confused when so many people milled about.
“We are looking for a man who calls himself the Broken Man. He uses a wheelchair, so we’re most concerned he might have been injured. If any citizen has information regarding his current location or information that would lead us to him, you may be promoted to any posting of your choice.”
My guts turned to metal. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t feel. Lovers would snitch on each other with an offer like that. Cog and I were sunk. I shouldn’t have gone for those damn disks. We might as well turn ourselves in. Who knows, maybe they wouldn’t recycle us. Yeah, and maybe I’d be invited upstairs and given a family, a room and an interesting job. If I was going to delude myself, might as well dream big.
Oh, well. No sense wasting energy on what I shouldn’t have done. I had made my choice. I’d see it through and resign myself to whatever fate had in store for me.
Numbly, I watched as different scrubs pushed their way to talk to the LC. After two hours of waiting and sweating, the air in the room felt like a sauna and smelled like week-old dirty laundry.
The LC listened to the scrubs and inputted notes in her hand-puter until her communicator beeped. She pressed the device to her ear. Little tongues of red streaked up her cheeks as she listened. She gripped the knot of hair behind her head in a tight fist. Gesturing with curt motions, she issued orders to the other Pop Cops. They snapped to attention and marched from the room.
Turning on her microphone, she said, “Citizens, we have yet to locate the Broken Man, but we cannot keep you here any longer. Report back to your work areas or barracks. Anyone else with information is to see me at once.”
The Pop Cops opened only one door to let the scrubs out. I sighed. It would be another hour for me to reach fresh air.
When I finally arrived at the door, I was directed to one of the many Pop Cops in the hallway. They registered each of us in their black census recorders that kept track of the population. The LC stood nearby. She seemed tense as she talked rapidly into her communicator.
“Name, barrack and birth week?” the male ensign asked me.
“Trella. One-one-seven. 145,487,” I replied automatically. Identification was required every hundred hours. I calculated my exact age. I was 1,514 weeks old or fifteen point one four centiweeks or if I used the old-time measurement, I was seventeen point three years old.
He entered my data and waved me off. I was just about to slip past him when the LC grabbed my arm.
“Trella?”
Darts of fear raced through my shoulder and stabbed my heart. My thoughts scrambled as I stared at her violet eyes and angular features. I used all my energy to nod, keeping my face calm.
“Come with me,” she ordered.
She still had a firm grip on my arm; I had no choice but to accompany her along the corridor. Once we were far enough away from the noise of the Pop Cops, she stopped and released me. I glanced around, considering escape. The array of weapons hanging from her belt kept my feet planted.
“My sources tell me you spoke with the Broken Man around hour nineteen this week. Is this correct?” she asked.
Not trusting my voice, I nodded again. Those little laundry weasels. Scrubs complained about the Pop Cops and how they hated them and weren’t to be trusted, yet the first chance a scrub had to ingratiate themselves, they jumped. Granted, the offer was stellar, but I knew I’d never squeal on my fellow scrubs.
“Then why didn’t you come tell me?” she demanded.
“It didn’t seem important.”
A condescending smile twisted her lips. “I’ll decide what’s important. Tell me what you and—” she consulted her data screen “—Cogon talked about with Broken Man.”
Damn. She knew about Cog. Did they have him? I worried. It was common knowledge Cog had a weakness for the prophet-of-the-week so I went from there. “Cogon wanted me to meet this Broken Man. He said this new prophet had proof Gateway existed.”
I shrugged. “Cog’s my friend. I met the prophet in the laundry. He started spouting some crazy crap about using meditation to transport yourself through Gateway to Outside. Yet he didn’t have a shred of proof.”
“Yes. You scrubs seem to have a fascination with Gateway despite the facts.” The LC shook her head. “Go on.”
“I told Cog to stay away from him, that he could get in trouble. Then I reported to my work shift.” I shrugged again, hoping to appear nonchalant.
She studied my face. I feigned innocence.
“Have you talked to Broken Man or seen him since hour nineteen?”
“No.”
“If you hear anything or see anything, you’re to report it to me immediately. Understand?”
“Yes, Lieutenant Commander…?”
“Karla Trava. Report to your workstation.”
“Yes, sir.” I walked away. I felt her gaze drilling holes into my back. The desire to run, to jump into one of the ducts and hide pushed at my muscles. Instead, I kept a steady rhythm and only looked back as I turned the corner. Lieutenant Commander Karla met my glance with a thoughtful and lethal squint.

5
ONCE I WAS OUT OF LIEUTENANT COMMANDER KARLA’S
toxic sight, I sighed with relief. It was short-lived. I had gotten off easy. Too easy. I had the feeling I was now in LC Karla’s crosshairs. A dangerous position to say the least.
The Pop Cops tended to be cocky in their dealings with the scrubs. Yes, they arrested and recycled without any backlash, but they seldom jumped to conclusions. They watched. They waited. They knew they could find a scrub without much effort, and they enjoyed seeing who else the bad scrub could draw into trouble.
That’s why I had always thought the prophets were Pop Cop spies. The prophets preached about Outside and the final reward for enduring the horrible living conditions just to see who believed and who remained a skeptic. The skeptics seem to vanish as if the Pop Cops sanded them out of the masses like rust spots, removing the defective genes from the general population.
I had been wrong about Broken Man being a spy. The Pop Cops wouldn’t be searching so hard for him if he were one of theirs. And now the Pop Cops had learned a person could disappear in the lower levels, which meant their flippant attitudes would change.
Instinctively, I knew LC Karla wouldn’t give up her search for Broken Man. So I was screwed and destined to become fertilizer for hydroponics. What could I even hope to gain from this situation? I doubted finding Gateway would make everything rosy.
Longing for Outside to be a real place welled up from the tight corner of my heart where I had squashed it. The type of longing that could overwhelm me and reduce me to a mental case, chanting “a million weeks, a million weeks,” as I dashed through the plain hallways of Inside. Hallways so empty of character that if the sector and floor level hadn’t been painted on every wall, people would be lost for weeks and no one would miss them. Scrubs as empty of character as the walls. Because we all knew that hope and longing and desire were deadly to our peace of mind.
My involvement with this search for Gateway was to prove it didn’t exist. To show my heart it was wrong to long for change, forcing it to accept my life and focus my energies on finding the small joys Inside might have to offer. Joys that Cogon had already found. And yet, he had always been drawn to the prophets, seeking their stories about the rewards given for good deeds.
Unwanted thoughts swirled in my mind. The time spent at the assembly in the dining room followed by the interrogation by LC Karla had run well into my hour sixty to seventy shift. Five hours remained.
Forget it. I looped back to the dining room, hoping Karla and her goons were gone. A few Pop Cops lingered nearby—normal for this area.
As I stood in line for food, I could feel the tension pouring off the other scrubs. Taking a bowl of the leafy green slop, I found an empty chair. The meal failed to improve the mood of the room. When I stood, a scrub pushed me aside and sat in my seat. Typical.
Only the vision of Broken Man starving made me return to the food line. After a half-hour wait, I filled another bowl with the spinach casserole. By the time I reached the tables, most of the scrubs I had sat with were gone. I threaded my way through the dining room, pretending to search for a seat. Once I reached the back, I checked to see if any Pop Cops had noticed me, then slipped out the door. Taking food from the dining room was not uncommon, but since the Pop Cops searched for Broken Man, I knew carrying a bowl of food would draw immediate suspicion.
Sliding into the nearest heating vent, I pushed the casserole ahead of me as I crawled through the duct. The warm air flowing across my skin turned hotter as I drew closer to his room, but I stayed in the vent. The risk of being spotted outside his door was too great.
“Trella! Where the hell have you been?” Broken Man demanded as soon as I poked my head through the heating vent.
I didn’t answer him. Dripping with sweat, I rolled from the shaft and onto the ground.
Broken Man lay sprawled on the floor. Black streaks of grit striped his clothes.
“What happened?” I asked.
“You were gone so long, I had to use the bathroom.”
A man-sized, clean track on the floor from the chair to the bathroom. His present position made it clear getting into a chair was harder than sliding out.
I stood and helped him back into his seat. My assurance to Cogon that I would take care of Broken Man’s needs seemed foolhardy once I fully realized his physical limitations.
I handed him the food. As Broken Man shoveled the casserole, I realized the ear-aching noise of the Power plant was muted. Foam had been sprayed onto the walls, and, when I opened the door, a sheet of metal covered the entrance.
When he finished his meal, I took his bowl. The rank aroma of stale sweat filled my nose, and I coughed to cover my expression. From the way he wrinkled his face, I could tell I didn’t smell any better. Funny how people can stand their own stink, but not others. I explained to him what had happened since Cog had been here.
“The Lieutenant Commander was quite upset about your disappearance,” I said. “Do you know her?”
“Lieutenant Commander?” Broken Man tapped his spoon against his lower lip. “Which one?”
I blanched for a moment, envisioning an army of LCs patrolling the lower levels like clones. “Said her name was Trava.”
He huffed. “Trava is a family name. Almost all the Pop Cops are Travas.”
“Oh. Karla Trava. Why doesn’t she have another family name?”
“Travas don’t take on any other names. Not even the children who are born to a Trava and another family member. In fact, if you mate with a Trava you are then registered as a Trava.” He considered. “Unfortunately, I know Karla. You never did ask for more information about your biological parents.”
“I’ve been a little busy,” I said, my words laced with sarcasm. “Besides, you fed me a line of bull just to get me to help you.”
“Believe what you will, but watch out for this LC. She’s intelligent, cunning and intuitive. Her family is not only in charge of the Pop Cops, but work closely with the Controllers, as well. She’s well connected to all the powerful people.”
“Why worry about the Controllers? Aren’t they just in charge of the uppers?”
“They tell the Travas what to do. And the Travas make all the decisions for Inside. Every admiral is a Trava, and every time an upper links with the computer, a Trava knows. Every mechanical system running Inside has a Trava at the switch.”
“That’s the way it’s always been. Why do you make it sound as if it’s wrong?”
“It hasn’t always been this way. You scrubs know nothing of what goes on in the upper levels. Exactly what the Trava family wants.”
I really didn’t care what the uppers did or didn’t do. My throat burned from the heat and dust, and my short nap hadn’t been enough to fully revive me. “I need more sleep before my next shift.”
“I need more food,” Broken Man said. “I did some exploring. There’s a kitchen here, but no electricity.”
“I’ll turn on the juice, but it may take me a while to get you other supplies. I’ll see what I can do.”
Broken Man nodded even as he frowned at me. “I should get a few hours of sleep, too.”
I helped him into bed and felt a twinge of guilt as the black dust puffed from the mattress, causing him to choke. It would probably be another twenty hours before I could bring him food and help him shower.
The bedroom and bathroom were two small squares adjacent to each other. Both led out to the living area, another square which bordered the equally tiny kitchen. Inside was divided into rectangles and squares. The designers had to have been obsessive-compulsives, and I cursed them for their lack of imagination. Again.
Grabbing a couple of drinking glasses from the kitchen, I filled one with water. I set the glasses on the night table beside the bed. When Broken Man peered in confusion at the empty glass, I told him it was for urinating into so he wouldn’t have to drag himself to the bathroom. His face muscles drooped in sad understanding as I waved goodbye.
Reconnecting the electricity to the small apartment proved arduous. If I hadn’t been tired, it would have taken me half the time to find the connectors.
Finally, I found a quiet place to sleep in one of the heating shafts. As I drifted off, an odd thought touched my mind. Why was Inside always heated?
I awoke at hour seventy-nine. Clocks had been installed in every room and corridor of Inside so scrubs couldn’t use the excuse of not knowing the time. I had an hour until my next shift so I headed toward one of Sector F1’s washrooms. Peeling off my sweat-stiffened uniform, I stood under the shower’s warm water. Once I dried off and put on a clean uniform, I checked my tool belt, making sure all my tools were in the right spots and that my flashlight still worked. I never felt properly dressed until the familiar weight of my belt settled on my hips.
I fought my way through the corridors to my scheduled air shaft. On the way, I encountered Cog. He scraped paint chips from one of the corridor walls. Patches of rust sprinkled the metal. Another of Inside’s evils, rust was not tolerated and repainting remained a constant chore.
Glad to see him, I touched his arm. His honey-brown eyes slid in my direction. Tight lines of worry streaked across his sweaty face. Cog pulled the scraper from the wall.
“What’s going on?” he whispered. “Is everything okay with—you know?”
I nodded. “He’s fine.”
Cog pointed with his nose toward the two Pop Cops who hovered at the end of the hall. “They’re watching me.”
“What happened?” I asked.
Cogon winced. “The Pop Cops escorted me to their office for questioning about my little skirmish before they arrested Broken Man.”
I studied his face in concern but didn’t see any bruises. Understanding my look, Cog touched his ribs and winced again. This time in pain.
“They said I was their best suspect. They threatened to recycle me just for defending my prophet. Told me I might as well confess to killing their colleague, and tell them where Broken Man was hiding.” Cog clamped his teeth together as defiance flashed in his eyes. “I’d confess to murder, but I won’t give him up.”
“Why? You could negotiate and tell them where he is in exchange for not being fed to Chomper.”
He stared at me as if I had spoken gibberish. “He’s important, Trell. He can find Gateway.”
“He might have a location. Big difference, and one not worth being recycled for.”
“He knows. I can feel it.”
I huffed in annoyance. “Come on, Cog. You’re an intelligent man. How can you believe in Gateway without proof ?”
“The disks—”
“Could be part of the ruse.”
He smiled. “Then why did you risk punishment to get them?”
“To prove Broken Man wrong.”
“Then go ahead, prove us wrong.” His confidence turned smug and he watched my expression with a knowing grin. “You can’t resist a challenge. It got you into all kinds of trouble in the care facility.”
“We’re not in the care facility anymore.” I tapped his bruised ribs, emphasizing my point. “The stakes are higher.”
“So is the reward.”
I shook my head. We had lapsed into the same old argument with no ending and we had talked too long. The Pop Cops headed our way. Their continued interest in Cogon meant he remained their primary suspect.
“Why did they let you go?” I asked.
“Two scrubs came forward while I was being questioned and claimed they saw Broken Man wrestle the Pop Cop for his weapon before the elevator doors closed.”
My breath locked in surprise. After a moment I asked, “Did you get their names?”
“Not yet. But I will.”
“Keep playing innocent,” I whispered to him as the Pop Cops came within earshot. Then in a louder voice I said, “And my cleaning device has been making weird noises.”
“I’ll let maintenance know,” Cog replied.
“Thanks.” I walked away.
Another twist. I sighed. Why would two people lie? Especially when the right information could make their lives a lot easier.
The questions would have to wait while I dealt with my supervisor. She paced the hallway in front of my cleaning troll’s storage area. A red cuff clenched in her long-fingered hands. She frowned at it.
“Trella,” she said with a snarl. “Going to show up for work this shift?”
I braced myself. What rotten luck. The supervisors checked to make sure each scrub assigned to them was at the proper work location about once a week. My bad luck to have her looking for me during my last shift. At least I hoped it was bad luck and not the directive of a certain lieutenant commander.
“Where were you?” she asked.
“Special assembly.” I glanced at the cuff. If she snapped it around my wrist, I would have to report to the Pop Cops for discipline. They would probably assign me to work in waste handling during my off hours. When I completed the punishment, the cuff would be removed. Until then, everyone would know I was in trouble.
She hissed in exasperation. “The assembly lasted two hours. You were missing for eight.” She pulled the cuff open.
“It took me almost two hours to get out of the dining room, and then I had to wait to speak with Lieutenant Commander Karla.”
The LC’s name elicited the desired effect. Her hand paused in midair and she shot me a white-faced look. Usually only ensigns and lieutenants policed the lower levels. LCs were as rare as a change in routine, and all the scrubs knew to keep their distance.
“Oh, well, in that case.” She lowered her arm, probably assuming time spent with a Pop Cop lieutenant commander was worse than working in waste handling.
I never thought I would use fear of the Pop Cops to my advantage, but I knew my supervisor wouldn’t check my story with the LC. Watching me pull out my cleaning troll and heft it into the air shaft, she stayed until I had climbed into the shaft to begin my shift.
While I followed my troll through the air ducts for the next ten hours, I planned the best way to gather supplies for Broken Man. My choices were limited. The only time I could take enough food from the kitchen to stock Broken Man’s refrigerator was when everyone was at the hundred-hour assembly. Problem was, my presence was required, too.
When the buzzer sounded for the assembly, I dutifully reported to the dining room and stood in line.
“Name, barrack and birth week?” the Pop Cop asked without even looking up.
I repeated my stats.
“Health changes?”
“No.”
“Blood test.” He pointed toward another Pop Cop.
Waiting in this line, I held my arms close to my stomach as a Pop Cop drew blood from a scrub’s wrist using a device we had nicknamed the vampire box after reading one of those mythical stories in the computer. The stories we had been allowed to access chronicled myths and legends of strange creatures like vampires and ghosts. They also mentioned things and animals we have never seen. When questioned, my Care Mother explained those items were no longer available.
I shuffled forward in line, dreading my turn. After you insert your arm in the vamp box, two prongs jabbed into the skin and sucked a couple drops of blood out through a tube and into a chamber where it was analyzed in an instant.
The Pop Cops checked for illegal substances, pregnancy and other health markers the scrubs didn’t really care about. Blood tests were done at random hundred-hour assemblies, but they were never more than six weeks apart. The Pop Cops had them scheduled in advance and, for a price, you could find out when the next test would be. A scrub named Jacy had a whole network of informers, and he always knew when the Pop Cops planned tests and inspections.
The next scrub to be checked was a woman. The ensign running the analyzer grabbed her arm. Before the woman could react, he clamped a bright yellow bracelet on her wrist. She was pregnant. Shock, fear and surprise warred on her face as she tried to cope with this new information.
“Eight week checkups required,” the ensign droned. “Schedule with the infirmary.”
The woman was waved on. She staggered toward the dining room with her other hand gripping the irremovable bracelet. Now the entire population of scrubs would know she was with child. She’d work her shifts until she gave birth, spend a week in the infirmary, hand her baby over to the care facility and then return to work. It felt more like a breeding program than a miracle of life. One of the many reasons I would never have a child.
I took my turn with the vamp box and wove my way through the dining room toward the kitchen, finding a seat as close to the kitchen doors as possible. LC Karla stood on one of the tables. A fire burned in her eyes as she barked orders to the Pop Cops around her. I wondered why she chose this location instead of the other two meeting areas. Perhaps she enjoyed standing on the table. Yeah, right, just like I enjoyed these assemblies.
Another buzz sounded, signaling all scrubs were in their designated locations.
Karla addressed the crowd. “Citizens, welcome to the end of the week celebration. Now begins week number 147,002.”
An old scrub sitting next to me chanted. “A million weeks! A million weeks! A million weeks!”
Another scrub leaned over to him and said, “Hush, old man, you’ll be lucky to see another two weeks. No one cares about the millionth week. We won’t be here.”
His companion laughed. “Just think,” said the second man, “in another seven thousand weeks or so, everyone in this room will be gone and there will be a whole new generation forced to listen to the same crap.”
They chuckled together as the old scrub squinted at them. In the minds of the scrubs, the millionth week had been blown to mythical proportions. Some prophesied that on week one million, our fuel and air would run out, ending all our lives. Others claimed we all go Outside. But when you considered the average life span of a citizen was sixty to seventy centiweeks, and there would be roughly a hundred and twenty-two generations of scrubs before the millionth week, it was hard to get too concerned.
With a gnarled finger, the old scrub tapped the man who had hushed him. “Laugh all you want, but the millionth week isn’t the end. It’s the beginning.”
“…Broken Man.” Karla Trava’s voice cut through the buzz of voices around me. My attention snapped back to her.
“Information is still needed. You will be rewarded for any tips that lead us to him.” She stopped for a heartbeat. “But don’t lie to me.” Her tone turned deadly. She gestured. Two Pop Cops pulled a scrub forward. Karla yanked the poor guy up to the tabletop by his collar. He swayed on weak legs and his face was a mask of fear. His hands trembled. Silence blanketed the dining room.
Karla patted her weapon belt, looking as if she debated. With a blur of motion, her kill-zapper jumped into her hand. She pressed the nozzle to the scrub’s chest.
“This,” she said, “is what I do to liars.” A crackle built to a crescendo as the man jerked and twitched.
When the lieutenant commander pulled the weapon away, the man dropped to the floor with an echoing thud.

6
THE SOUND OF THE SCRUB HITTING THE FLOOR BURNED
into my mind like the kill-zapper had burned into the man’s chest. I shook in my chair, feeling hot and short of breath. It didn’t take much imagination to envision myself an arm’s length away from LC Karla with a kill-zapper at my breast.
She stepped off the table and let the usual ensign read the weekly announcements. The ensign stumbled over his words, probably thrown by the unnatural silence in the room.
Little by little, whispered conversation spread, and the ensign’s voice evened out. My plans to collect food during the assembly took on a higher level of danger. Karla Trava had raised the stakes.
Even so, I couldn’t let Broken Man starve. Time was running out. I faked a coughing fit. My seatmates glanced at me in annoyance. I sputtered and choked for a while then stood and headed for the kitchen doors, hoping anyone who was interested would assume I sought a drink.
As soon as the doors closed, I bolted to the refrigerators. Grabbing cheese, sheep’s milk and containers of vegetable casseroles, I piled them on one of the stainless-steel counters. I shut the refrigerator and sprinted to the freezer, tossing a few hunks of frozen mutton onto my pile. With panic fueling my actions, I leapt up on the counter next to the food. Right above my head was a vent to an air duct. I opened it and loaded the shaft with the provisions. Careful not to block the airflow, I shoved and stuffed until my breath came in puffs.
When finished, I replaced the vent cover, hopped down and filled a glass with water. I slipped back into the dining room, covering my gasps for air with the drink as I reclaimed my seat. None of the scrubs gave me a glance, and I hoped no one suspected.
When the signal sounded to end the assembly, I filed out with the rest of the scrubs. The line of people bulged sideways. Even though the scrub’s body had been removed, everyone avoided the spot where he had fallen.
As I passed Karla, she pressed her lips together and cocked her head to one side. I dropped my gaze and tried to look as inconspicuous as possible, which only resulted in her calling out to me.
“Trella, come here,” she ordered.
I stepped out of line. My heart jumped in my chest. “Yes, Lieutenant Commander?”
“Feeling better?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your cough. I hope you’re not getting a virus.”
Her concern was frightening. “No, sir,” I said, my mind roiling. “I just must have swallowed something wrong.”
“Oh, yes, I understand,” she said with an even flat tone. “I find myself having to swallow wrong things all the time. They leave a bitter taste. Makes me choke. Churns my stomach.”
I had no answer. My mind buzzed with warning signals.
She studied me for an eternal minute, then said, “Hour zero. Time to report to your station for your next shift. Air duct twenty-two, I believe.”
“Yes, sir,” I managed to squeak out. I joined the flow of scrubs to the hallway, not daring to look back at the LC. She had been reading my file. She knew all about me, and she wanted me to know. Damn.
An interesting fact about air duct number twenty-two was it crossed right above the kitchen, and eventually, if you followed it far enough, it passed right on top of Broken Man’s hideout.
Once I reached my cleaning station, I hefted the troll into the air shaft. Then I raided a maintenance closet for extra supplies. Crawling behind the troll, I built a crude skid. I kept glancing behind me, checking to see if LC Karla had sent a couple of RATSS to spy on me.
When the troll reached my stash of food, I shut it down while I rigged the skid up to it. I peered through the vent. The kitchen bustled with activity. Scrubs filled containers and chopped vegetables. Two ensigns strolled through the chaos. They were probably keeping track of the knives, counting in their heads to make sure a scrub didn’t steal one and attack the Pop Cops.
No sign of Karla. My relief surprised me. Subconsciously I must have been expecting her to ambush me; to reach through the vent and cry “Gotcha!” before she kill-zapped me.
With that awful image in mind, I loaded the food onto the pallet as fast as I could, then restarted the cleaning troll. The troll’s engine strained with the extra weight. I had to smile when I flipped open one of the control panels on the side of the troll and turned a tiny thumbscrew. Cogon had shown me how to increase the machine’s throttle, so it could move faster. An increase of speed meant I would finish my work sooner, and would have more time off—provided no one caught me.
The troll lurched forward as the engine roared. Its speed stayed the same, but it had no trouble pulling the skid.
Paranoia made me keep checking for RATSS, but the troll and I reached Broken Man’s rooms without incident. I popped the vent off and swung down, dropping to the floor.
“Hello, Trella,” he said.
I spun. He sat in a corner of the living room. I smelled him from here. He was ripe.
“I don’t have a lot of time,” I said. Pulling a chair under the open vent, I used it to reach the food.
“Here, let me help.” Broken Man sprawled on the floor and used his arms to drag himself across the room. He wriggled into a sitting position and held his hand to me.
I handed the supplies to him, and he made a pile next to his legs. When the skid was empty, I hopped off the chair and carted the food into the kitchen.
“Hungry?” I asked from the kitchen.
“Very.”
I brought him a spoon, and he dug into one of the yellow vegetable casseroles. When everything was put away, I stepped onto the chair again.
“I’ll be back after my shift with fresh clothes,” I called. He waved his spoon in goodbye. I climbed into the duct, turned the troll on and completed the air shaft.
When I finished my assigned ducts, I headed to the washroom. Fresh laundered uniforms and clothes were always stacked in large canvas bins on wheels. Empty bins were then used for dirty garments.
I collected a bunch of clothes, linens and soap and bundled everything together with a towel. At my next stop I added some cleaning supplies, hoping to reduce the black dust coating every surface of Broken Man’s rooms.
He had returned to the corner when I plopped down with my bundle. I showed him what I had brought. He smiled in relief, but I cringed over the black grit between his teeth.
“Shower?” I asked.
“Please.”
I hesitated for an awkward moment. How to go about this? Fortunately, he had thought ahead. Poor man, he had hours alone with nothing to do, and I didn’t think to bring him anything to occupy him.
“Get a chair from the kitchen and put it in the shower,” he said. He set a businesslike tone as he gave me instructions.
As I placed the seat under the nozzle, he pulled himself into the bathroom and began to undress. His short commands only faltered when I tugged off his pants and underwear and hoisted him into the chair. I turned on the water and gave him the soap and the washcloth, leaving him to wash himself in private.
As I cleaned the dust, I wondered how he had gotten the long jagged scar stretched across his lower back. Shorter scars marked his arms and torso. His withered legs had flopped when I had moved him. I stopped wiping for a second to try to envision his life before the accident. One insight I did have while helping him into the shower. He was a natural blond, and I should probably apologize for the harsh comment I had made when I first met him about going back to the upper levels to have his hair dyed.
When I checked on Broken Man, he had turned the water off and sat dripping. I handed him a towel and assisted in drying and dressing. I debated how to move him. Despite my smaller size, all the time I’d spent climbing through the ducts and pipes had strengthened my muscles. Not wanting him to drag his clean clothes over the floor, I wrapped his arms around my neck, pulled his weight onto my back and in a hunched-over shuffle managed to get him into the chair in the living room.
“Thanks,” he said as he combed his fingers through wet hair.
“Food?” I asked.
He nodded. I brought him a bowl.
As he ate, he pointed to one of the walls where a rippled pattern was the only notable feature.
“See that? I bet it’s a computer terminal. I couldn’t reach it from the floor. Can you lift it?”
I studied the pattern. It consisted of horizontal sheets of metal about two-centimeters wide connected like a curtain. A dent at the bottom allowed my fingers to slide under.
“That’s it,” he said.
I pulled it up, then stepped back in alarm as the metal curtain disappeared under the wall with a rolling sound. Behind the sheet were a flat computer screen and a console of buttons and plugs.
“Yes!” Broken Man said. For the first time since we had rescued him, his face glowed with excitement. “Help me get closer.”
I pushed his chair next to the wall. He reached out to touch a button.
“Wait,” I said in alarm. “If you turn it on won’t the Controllers know about it?”
“No. It’s only when you hook up to the internal system. The basic public system for the scrubs doesn’t require a port. Besides, I just want to see if it works.”
He pressed a series of switches. His hands moved with a practiced grace. The computer screen brightened, and the symbol for Inside appeared. Typically unimaginative, the symbol looked like a cube with a capital I on the front panel. As the children in the care facility would say, “Boring.” Little did they know the activities and schooling in the CF would be the most interesting part of their lives. I shook my head of the gloomy thoughts as Broken Man changed the image on the screen.
After a while he said, “It’s still connected to the main system. We could access my disks from here.”
“Which would lead the Controllers right to us?” I asked, again afraid this seemed too easy. Too convenient. It made sense the upper worker who used to live here had a computer hookup, but that it still worked was suspect.
“Yes it would. Except I have a program to reroute the tracking software, so the Controllers would be led to another computer station on level four.”
“You know it works?”
“Well…” Broken Man rubbed his back, considering. “Obviously my original program had a few flaws, but I had found another more effective program hidden in the system. I copied it onto my disks. Unfortunately I was caught before I could use it.” The memory of pain spread across his face. His blue eyes squinted into the past.
“Who created the other program?” I asked.
“The security on it was too good to crack. But I believe it was probably a member of the Garrard family.”
“Garrard?”
“They are unhappy with the status quo. All the major families were upset with the Trava takeover, but in time they grew complacent and believed there was nothing they could do to restore the original balance of power.”
“Hold on. The Trava takeover?” I asked. “The Travas have always been in charge.”
“No, they haven’t. The Travas want the scrubs to believe that, and they’re hoping eventually, with enough generations born, the uppers will forget they ever had a say in the running of Inside. But I’ve uncovered the truth. All nine families at one point had an equal vote. Each family elected one of their members to be a part of Committee. This Committee made decisions and supervised the various mechanical systems of Inside.” Broken Man frowned. “Each family had a specialty—air systems, waste water, electrical— which turned into a major disadvantage.”
“Why?”
“The Travas’ specialty was security and only they had access to the stunners and kill-zappers.”
“Oh.”
Broken Man met my gaze. The wrinkles on his face deepened as if he alone shouldered all the responsibly in letting the Travas dominate. I guessed he was around forty-five centiweeks old.
“There was a group of uppers who tried to regain control of a few systems, but they failed,” he said.
“Would the group be willing to help us if you actually find Gateway?” I asked.
“No.” Broken Man fiddled with the computer. “The consequences of getting caught are too great for the uppers.”
It had been a hypothetical question. I planned to prove there was no Gateway. Prove to Cog that the people of Inside had been sealed off from Outside.
Besides the Pop Cops’ insistence of a purely spiritual final resting place for the good people, the rumors surrounding Outside ranged from wild guesses to tales of horror. I knew something had to be beyond our walls. And whether this place was Outside or something else, speculation ran rampant.
A few scrubs claimed it was a vast wasteland, others a magical kingdom where fairies flew through the air, a number declared water surrounded us and a couple maintenance scrubs thought our own garbage was piled around us. We reused and recycled everything, but a small portion of pure waste disappeared through a flushing system the Controllers maintained. Cog had tried to use that fact in his argument about Gateway.
All the rumors didn’t sway me. I didn’t care. Why worry or speculate about an inaccessible place? We were trapped in Inside until we ceased to exist and Chomper turned our bodies into fertilizer. End of story.
I concentrated on Broken Man’s statement about getting no help from the upper families. It fit—uppers wouldn’t risk themselves and their cushy life for a bunch of scrubs. Although, I couldn’t help thinking about Riley in his hideout on level four.
His family names seemed important to him—a source of pride. How did he feel about the Travas controlling our world? Maybe Riley and a few uppers would like to see life altered? I grimaced. Sappy bull. I was getting soft, letting hope grow a centimeter. Snip. Snip. I mentally cut it back.
“If the computer works, all I need to do is retrieve your disks and you can access them? Right?” I asked.
Broken Man bit his lip and said nothing.
“What’s wrong? I thought you have a gap in your mouth for the port.”
“I have the gap.” He paused. “Problem is…I don’t have my teeth.”
“What?”
“They’re not real teeth. We just call them that. They’re needed to access the internal computer network. They’re designed so the Pop Cops can keep track of who is in the network and restrict access to the computer system by pulling an upper’s port.”
I sank to the floor. Rubbing my face in my hands, I said, “Now you tell me.”

7
NOTHING MORE I COULD DO.THE END.THE POP COPS
had Broken Man’s port. Without his port, he couldn’t access his disks and the information. No information meant no proof or disproof of Gateway’s existence.
“Lieutenant Commander Karla has my port,” Broken Man said.
I stared at him. Was he serious? “You want me to ask her for it back?”
“Think, Trella. She doesn’t know about the disks. Pulling my teeth is standard procedure. She would have sent it to computer ops to check what I’ve been accessing in the system, and they would have returned it with their report.” Sudden understanding lit his gray eyes. “The report! I should have known. A few of the files I’d viewed probably made Karla suspicious and she set a trap in my room. If only I heard about you before she rigged my quarters.”
His comment reminded me of how I had gotten involved. Cog knew I couldn’t resist a challenge. “If Cog hadn’t told you about me, we wouldn’t be here now.”
He shook his head. “Your reputation as Queen of the Pipes intrigued me first.”
“Yeah, but Cog was the only person who knows what I’m really capable of. And he’s too quick to trust, he falls for any line and is too eager to get involved.”
“The opposite of you?”
“Of course. I’m not the one getting my hopes dashed every time a new prophet arrives.”
“Yet here you are.”
In trouble with no solution in sight. “A moment of weakness and an excellent lesson on what not to do in the future. Provided I even have a future.”
“From what I’ve seen in the lower levels, do you really want to live the rest of your life in these conditions?” he asked.
The standard scrub reply was to shrug and say there was nothing I could do about it or to regurgitate the Pop Cop line about a better afterlife. But I had the opportunity to actually prove or disprove the theory about Gateway and Outside. If I wanted to risk my life. Was being alive enough for me? Could I really walk away without trying?
Broken Man could see the answer in my eyes. “Karla’s office is on level four, Sector—”
“A. I know. It’s the only area I avoid.” Last thing I needed was for the Pop Cops to catch me in an air duct above their offices and holding cells. I enjoyed a challenge, but I wasn’t crazy. And I limited my time spent in the Gap above four to trips to my box.
Contemplating the theft of his port from the lieutenant commander, I crossed over from rational to insane. “Do you know what type of security measures are installed in her office?”
“The door’s always locked, but I’m guessing you’re not going to use it.” He smiled. “Probably the usual motion sensors.”
LC Karla knew someone had used the pipes to get the disks. Would she rig the air ducts above her office with sensors? Broken Man had said she was smart, so I assumed she had. But did she know about the Gap above the ductwork? I needed to do a reconnaissance mission to her office. It would require a great deal of planning.

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