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 moved, he said, “My name’s Riley Narelle–-” He paused as if embarrassed by his family names. Clearing his throat, he continued, “Ashon. Any time 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 use. Scrubs and uppers didn’t mix. Ever. The Pop Cops had specific guidelines for keeping everybody where they decided we 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 box 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 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 of scrubs.
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 an assigned location so we could receive news and be 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 accept 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 thickened and smelled like week-old, dirty laundry.
The LC listened to the scrubs and inputted notes in her hand held computer 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 hard features. I used all my energy to nod, keeping my expression neutral.
“Come with me,” she ordered.
She still had a firm grip on my arm; I had no choice but to accompany her down 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.
