Inside

by Maria V. Snyder

  Broken Man raked his fingers through his hair as understanding 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.

  Chapter 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.

  Th
e 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.