Inside Out

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.