The Sky Inside

by Clare B. Dunkle

Chip was looking at him. No, not looking, he thought, puzzled, as he scratched his itchy arms. Chip was staring at him, even analyzing him. A stab of pain stopped his scratching. He glanced down and shrieked.

  His arms were thickly covered with large, clear blisters. His scratching had broken some open, and underneath was not skin, but the gooey flesh inside him. Martin gingerly felt his face and found on it the same horrible condition. There was no question now about what was happening to him. His contaminated skin was coming off.

  “Oh no! Oh no!” he moaned, holding his head in his hands. “I can’t live without skin. I’ll rot away! What am I gonna do?”

  He was too distraught to formulate a new plan, so he kept to the plan he had. He followed the packet lines, holding the blanket over his injured body as he had the day before. Ironically, he felt better today. The pain wasn’t as intense. But every time he looked down at his arms, he could see that he was doomed.

  Around midday, he faced a new problem. At the top of a high hill, the packet lines split. One set of tracks went off to the left, and the other continued straight ahead. This possibility had never occurred to him.

  The hill seemed worrisome for other reasons. Several huge, dish-shaped structures stood high on stilts at its apex, and cylinders the height of a person stood near the packet line junction. Martin didn’t know what they were, but Chip seemed afraid of them. The shepherd nipped the belt loop at the back of his jeans and held on.

  “Okay, okay, I get it,” Martin told him. “I’m not going over there. Let’s head around the side of the hill to see where these lines go.”

  Crouching behind bushes, they crawled around the right side of the hill and studied the packet line that went straight. It headed off into more country like the land they had already explored. Crossing that line cautiously, they studied the line that went to the left. Off in the distance, they could see a steel dome shining with almost blinding brilliance in the noonday sun.

  Martin sat down right where he was, and his dog, sensing trouble, crouched down close enough, bottles and all, to lay his big head in Martin’s lap. “It’s like this, Chip,” Martin said. “I don’t think Cassie’s in there. I mean, how could she be when the Exponents got voted out of the suburbs? But I’m not going to be able to find her now. I’m dying. I mean, really dying! And it’s”—he gulped—“it’s kind of scary; you know, like your reset chip is for you. So I want to go there. They can just give me the shot, so I don’t have to wait around till my fingernails fall off.”

  Chip’s brown eyes gazed adoringly up at him, and the long bushy tail whipped from side to side. Martin stroked Chip’s thick fur in silence for a little while, grateful to have a friend.

  They arrived at the suburb yard in the middle of the afternoon. Martin didn’t feel too bad, but his blisters were starting to break and leak who-knew-what onto his clothes. He took off his backpack and untied Chip’s juice-bottle harness.

  “This is good-bye,” he said huskily, and he knelt down to hug his dog. “I don’t want you going in with me. They’re gonna put me in the hospice room, they won’t let a dog in there, and then they’ll load me up in the funeral packet and send me away. If you go in, they’ll try to reset you to program you for some other kid, and then they’ll find all your special chips. That’ll be it for you. We’ll both be gone.”

  Chip whined in protest, rolling on the ground and kicking his feet in the air. Martin felt terrible.

  “Look at you, you belong out here,” he said. “You match the place. I want to think of you out here where they can’t get you. I want to know you’re where I wish I was, running around loose.”

  But Chip remained inconsolable. He howled with grief. Martin couldn’t help crying along with him. “It’s for the best,” he said, giving the dog a last hug and laying his face against the rough fur. “Stay outside and don’t follow me. That’s an order. But look, when you see the packet coming to get my body, then you’ll know it’s all over. Then you can do what you want. Now, come open this gate for me.”

  The sheet-metal gate rolled out of the way, and Martin walked into the compound alone, trying to ignore the high-pitched yelps of the forlorn dog outside. A doll-headed monster of a security bot welcomed him with smiling concern and escorted him into the building.

  “Washing facility,” announced the bot as they came through the room just outside the loading bay. “But that’s for packets. You’re not a packet. You shouldn’t be washed here. I don’t know if you should be washed at all. Maybe it isn’t safe.”

  “I take showers all the time,” Martin muttered. His heart was in his toes.

  “I wouldn’t recommend it. You don’t look waterproof,” the bot said in a friendly way. “I inspect the packets when they come in, and I know about fragile loads. You must be fragile. You’re encased in bubble wrap.”

  “I’m not—Oh, never mind.”

  The security bot activated an override, and the steel gates opened to let them in. Martin looked at the sickly fluorescent lighting, the dull gray concrete, the ceiling and walls hemming him in. I’m home, he thought gloomily. Why did they make these places so alike?

  But there was one difference that struck him painfully: his father wasn’t sitting on the high stool behind the console. A short man came forward, somewhat older than Dad, with nondescript hazel eyes, light hair mixed with gray, and anxiety stamped upon his round face. When he drew close enough to see Martin clearly, his face blanched with dread and pity.

  “Holy smokes, young man!” he cried. “What in blazes happened to you?”

  “I’m dying,” Martin blurted out, and the man didn’t contradict him.

  “You stand right there, right where you are,” he said, crossing back to the console. “I’m calling Social to bring you medical aid right now. You have to go into the quarantine room immediately. Tell me your name, and I’ll send word to your parents. I’m not up on you youngsters like I could be. I’m afraid I don’t recognize you—not right at the moment, anyway.”

  “I’m not from here,” Martin said. “I’m from HM1. I’m Martin, the son of the packet chief there—you must know him: Walter Glass.”

  “You don’t say!” The short man came out from behind the console to study him again. “I guess I can’t blame you, running away from a father like that.”

  “You know about him then,” said Martin, miserable at the thought of his father’s cowardice.

  “I’ve worked with Walt for years,” said the man. “My name is Fred Buckalew. Welcome to BNBRX. I’m sorry; I’m not allowed to shake your hand for fear of contagion. We’ll get you to the quarantine room, and Alice will be along soon to help your . . . um . . . condition. Go on ahead and I’ll direct you. Don’t touch anything. Turn around and head down that hallway there to your left.”

  Martin walked along in a daze. “So you’re Fred of BNBRX,” he confirmed. For some reason, this didn’t seem to fit.

  “I’m sorry I said that about your dad,” he heard the packet chief say behind him. “I shouldn’t have talked badly about a colleague. Walter Glass is a little different, but that’s his business. In the fourteen years we’ve worked together, he’s never once let me down.” They came to a door that slid out of the way at Martin’s approach. “And a right turn here.”

  Martin walked down the narrow hallway, the confined space making him more depressed than ever. “I guess you didn’t care for Dad’s efforts to make friends, huh?” he muttered.

  “Your dad tried to make friends?” Fred asked doubtfully. “Okay, stand right there and I’ll buzz you in.”

  The quarantine room didn’t offer much privacy. The entire wall facing the hallway was made up of glass panels held by metal framing. Inside, the color scheme was white and sterile. There was a vinyl-covered bed and a couple of molded plastic chairs. Metal cabinets lined the walls, leaving room for one narrow door in the back corner. A large television, set into the wall and protected by a clear plastic panel, displayed peaceful images from what Martin and his friend
s called the “geezer channel.”

  Standing about twenty feet away, Fred pressed a switch, and one glass panel slid aside. Martin stepped through, and the panel shut and sealed behind him. Once inside, he felt funny, thinking of the rats in Motley’s refrigerator. Fred came to the other side of the glass now, closer than he had dared to come before.

  “Alice will be here any minute,” he said, his voice tinny as it came through the speaker system. “Can I get you anything in the meantime?”

  Martin realized he was ravenous. “I’ve been eating snack bars for three days. Can I get some real food?”

  “Sure,” Fred said. “There’s a cooker inside the cabinet over there, and a little fridge next to that. Let me know if the fridge isn’t stocked, but I think it is; we’ve been paying extra attention to it lately.” He excused himself to return to the loading bay.

  Five minutes later, the cooker had dished out a tasty bowl of chicken broth followed by a serving of vanilla pudding. Martin sat down on the vinyl-covered bed and wolfed down the meal. Then he pulled the cooker handle and tried for other foods, but he had no luck. The cooker was set to stop at this combination. That was fine as far as it went, but it left him feeling unsatisfied.

  Alice turned out to be a plump, grandmotherly woman with faded blue eyes and short dry flyaway hair that didn’t look as if it should be that shade of brassy blond. She smiled reassuringly at him through the glass, and her face had what Cassie called “happy wrinkles,” the kind that come from a lifetime of smiling. He watched her unload items from a cloth bag she had brought and set them into a cabinet next to the glass wall.

  “Hello, Martin,” she said through the intercom. “I’ll unlock this cabinet in just a minute so that you can pull these things out from your side. I want you to take these pajamas and this medicated soap and go shower with cool water. Use the soap for your face and hair, too. Don’t scrub your hair like normal because you have blisters on your scalp. Just work the soap in and then gently rinse it. And be very careful when you dry off with the towel. Pat, don’t rub. If you rub, you’ll take off skin, and that’s going to hurt.”

  “Pat, don’t rub,” Martin muttered. “Got it.”

  “Now, did you get any bites while you were out there? Do you have itchy or infected areas anywhere? Yes? Maybe? Then dab them with this medicine before you put on the pajamas, but don’t put it on your burns, even if they itch. And if you find any insects sticking to you after you take off your clothes, don’t worry. Just hold this jar over each one and press the button on the side. After a few seconds, the insect should drop off into the jar. Check yourself all over—that’s what the full-length mirror in there is for. Then, when you’re finished, drop the jar down the special trash tube. And drop your clothes down the clothes chute. The chutes are labeled. Don’t get them mixed up.”

  Martin collected the items from the cabinet. He had expected a dying boy returning to his people to be treated with a little more dignity. He certainly hadn’t expected a lecture on soap and towels. He sorted the items she had put into the cabinet. Then he opened the door to the bathroom and found himself staring into the full-length mirror.

  The face that stared back was so appalling that he couldn’t make a sound at first. He could only look at himself in wide-eyed panic. Far up into his hair, his skin was gruesomely discolored, dark red and dark brown, scabbed and crusted, with blisters piled upon blisters.

  He shrieked and ran back into the quarantine room. “I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die,” he moaned, hugging himself and collapsing onto the floor. “Please, just please give me the shot now.”

  “Honey, what’s wrong?” asked Alice’s tinny voice.

  “Look at me!” sobbed Martin. He glanced over his shoulder to peek at his grisly reflection again. Tears were running down his distorted face now, zigzagging around the blisters and scabs.

  “Your skin? Honey, you’ll be all right. That’s just a sunlamp burn.” Alice was smiling kindly at him through the glass. “I’ve had sunlamp burns myself. When I was a girl, there was this craze for the things. They were supposed to make us pale people have nice golden skin, but five extra minutes under one, and we wound up looking like you.”

  “But how can you live through this? What happens next?” demanded Martin. “How do you get new skin?”

  “Oh, the burned skin peels off, and the new skin is a little bit darker. Each time under the sunlamp, we could take it a little longer. Some people got to where they really had golden skin, but most of us just kept burning and peeling. They recalled those lamps as unsafe.”

  “Then—then I’m not gonna die? Well, then—crap!—what am I doing here, anyway?”

  “Go shower,” Alice said firmly. “Remember: pat, don’t rub. And brush your teeth with the toothpaste in the cabinet over the sink.”

  Martin was so furious with himself that he couldn’t even enjoy the reprieve he had been given, much less the chance to feel clean. Cassie was out there somewhere, and he had no idea what danger she might be facing. Meanwhile, the minute he had a few little blisters, he was ready to cash it in. Why hadn’t he noticed that he was already feeling better? Why hadn’t he waited to get well on his own?

  He emerged from the bathroom to find that Alice had put a pillow and sheets into the cabinet. “Time to rest,” she said. “You’ll have to make your own bed, sweetie. I wish I could do it for you. Look at you! You look much better already. You’ll be your old self in no time.”

  “But see, here’s the deal,” he said, sitting down on the vinyl bed. “I’m not staying here tonight.”

  “Of course you are,” she said. “You can’t go back to your house tonight, you have to give the medicine time to work. You’re very lucky that you weren’t outside for more than a few minutes. Otherwise, who knows what would have happened to you?”

  “A few minutes?” he repeated in surprise. “No, you’ve got it all wrong.”

  Fred hurried up at that moment and switched off the intercom. Then he talked urgently to Alice. As he did so, her face lost its happy wrinkles. Frowns don’t look right on her, Martin thought.

  When the intercom switched off, the sound on the geezer channel came back on. Your family may not want to mention your bad breath, the television advised Martin soberly.

  Fred hit the switch again. “Martin, a packet is coming tomorrow morning to take you home to your family,” he said. In spite of this good news, his voice sounded edgy. In fact, he hardly looked like the same sympathetic man who had met Martin in the loading bay. “In the meantime, you’re to stay in here and recuperate. You’ll want to be looking your best for your mom and dad, won’t you?” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  “But that’s just it. I don’t want to go back,” Martin said. “No need to order up a packet. Just let me back out the way I came in.” Alice and Fred made no move, so Martin pushed on the sliding panel. It didn’t budge. This place is all about locked doors, he reminded himself, glancing down. But no friendly dog stood next to him. He had left Chip outside.

  For several seconds, he stood there, refusing to believe what had happened. He was locked in. Helpless. Trapped! All he needed was Chip, but Chip wasn’t coming. He had specifically told him not to.

  Alice and Fred were having an argument now, and Alice was shaking her head. “It’s the only safe way!” the packet chief was saying. “This is dangerous, I tell you. There’s no knowing what nonsense he might blurt out.”

  “He’s too young,” Alice declared. “Too light. That gas is formulated for adults. I don’t know what it might do to him.”

  “Hey, guys?” Martin said in a small voice, and they looked at him, startled. Fred muttered something about the intercom switch.

  “What is it, dear?” Alice asked. The kind look was back in her eyes.

  “I forgot something outside,” he told her. “A toy. My Alldog. And—and I can’t sleep without my dog,” he said, wretched over having to tell such an embarrassing lie. “I’m really uncomfortable and scared without m
y family. Couldn’t you please send a freight bot outside to get me my toy?”

  “Oh, you poor thing,” Alice said. “I’m so sorry for you! Of course we’ll fetch your toy for you, won’t we, Fred? We’ll do it right away.”

  The packet chief was watching Martin through narrowed eyes. “Absolutely not,” he said.

  “But, Fred!” she protested. “Surely a harmless little toy—”

  “—isn’t harmless,” Fred cut in. “It’s modified, isn’t it?” he added knowingly to Martin. “And that’s how you got out.”

  “Well, n-no,” Martin stammered, but he felt his face betray him.

  “You see what we’re dealing with,” Fred told Alice. “He’s a loaded gun. There’s no telling what he’ll say or do. He could cost us our jobs, endanger the whole suburb. Now will you put in the code to turn on the gas?”

  “It’s wrong to gas a child,” Alice said.

  Martin remembered what Dad had said about Bug: Social took him down to quarantine and gassed him for me, so there’ll be no trouble tomorrow. That was what Fred wanted when Martin’s packet came.

  “Alice,” he pleaded, coming up to her at the window, “please don’t let him turn on the gas. I want to know what’s happening, and I won’t cause trouble. You know I’m not a bad kid. I’ve done everything you told me to.”

  “You see, he even knows about the gas,” Fred said. “He’s been through this before.”

  Alice ignored the packet chief. “You poor dear,” she said warmly to Martin. “I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding. You get some rest now and don’t worry about a thing. I’ll be back to check on you in the morning.”

  “No, you won’t,” Fred told her. “I’m supposed to station freight bots to blockade this hallway. It’s off-limits until his packet arrives.”

  “Oh my goodness!” said Alice, looking shocked.

  “I don’t get it,” Martin said angrily. “I’m not some kind of criminal. I should be a hero, that’s what, and get interviewed on television. I’m the only person in this whole place who’s ever gone outside. Don’t you even want to know what it’s like?”