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 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 have your hair dyed, 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’rerecycled. Oh, you might stick around for a hundred weeks or so, but then you’ll be gone with the next shift and anotherprophetwill 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 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. Onlyyouwill 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 duct work. Just the opposite. They had teased me almost all the time for my desire to spend time alone and not with the other scrubs.
“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 use 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. Ihaveto spout the propaganda. If I tell the scrubs Gateway exists, and the Pop Cops are lying to them, the Pop Cops will recycle me.”
My chest burned as if he shot a stunner at me. 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 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, their inner soul would travel to Outside while their 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.”
