“Warn my friends.”
It was a good plan. Warn Logan and Anne-Jade then find Riley. However, the numbness wore off. Happy to have the use of my legs, I switched from the heating system to the air shafts. But the sizzling pain shooting from my hip created a big problem.
After climbing to level two, I knew I wouldn’t be able to find Logan. Lightheaded and weak, I laid in the shaft, wishing for one of those pocket communicators the Pop Cops carried. A sudden memory flashed and I checked my tool belt.
Yes! I still carried the two listening devices Jacy had given me. Palming one, I toggled the on switch. I was supposed to plant it in air duct seventy-two, but hadn’t gotten the opportunity. I chuckled wildly, thinking I could only break one rule at a time.
I wasn’t sure if Jacy or his buddies would be monitoring the devices or even listening, but it was worth the effort.
Moving the device close to my mouth, I whispered, “Jacy, remember when you said to let you know if I needed anything? Well, I need your help.” I paused, collecting my thoughts. To tell Jacy Logan’s name could result in more danger for Logan. All Domotor knew about Logan was his physical description. My head spun and I realized I might not be conscious for too long. Better to tell Jacy than pass out.
I asked Jacy to warn Logan. “I also need you toborrowall the metal cutters, chisels, and crowbars in the lower levels and hide them. The Pop Cops are going to want to cut a hole and the longer it takes them to complete this task, the better. Anything you can do to make the Pop Cops’ life difficult would be appreciated.” I flipped off the device and returned it to my tool belt.
After the wave of dizziness passed, I decided to try and climb to the fourth level and warn Riley. Even if he wasn’t in our room, I would leave him a note. And then what?
I planned my next task. I could hide from the Pop Cops, but eventually they’ll know about Gateway from Domotor. I had to get there first and open it. And then? No clue.
My progress slowed and I gasped for breath. Focusing all my energy into moving, my world shrank to pushing forward one foot at a time, to pulling with one arm then the other. Black and white dots swirled in my vision and I bit my lip to keep conscious.
A single goal propelled me forward, and the last thing I remembered was the relieved sensation of falling.
Sharpness jabbed my arm. I tried to jerk away, but my arm was stuck. My whole body ached and a hammer kept striking the back of my head. I retreated to the darkness, leaving all those annoyances behind.
The pricking and pulling around my hip demanded attention. I opened my eyes, but shut them against the harsh daylight. Two people stood over me.
“She’s waking. Quick, more thiopental!”
Another painful prick to my arm, and fire raced through my veins. I welcomed the return of darkness.
Foggy thoughts floated sluggishly. Pain radiated from my hip, but only spiked when I moved, which proved difficult to do. My right arm was trapped. Squinting, I braced for the bright daylight, but sighed in relief. Soft bluelight glowed in the room.
The familiar shapes of our storeroom surrounded me. Reclined on the couch, I still couldn’t comprehend why my right arm wouldn’t move. I wore a soft robe. A liquid filled bag hung above my head with a tube snaking down. I followed the tube and found the reason for my frozen arm. It was tied to a white board. The tube ended in a metal piece protruding from my skin.
Memories of being chased by Pop Cops sprang to life. They must have caught me and were using a drug to torture me. I struggled to sit up. Every muscle in my body hurt as if I’d been chewed by Chomper and spat out.
“Easy there,” a woman said. She knelt next to the couch and laid a cool hand on my shoulder. “You shouldn’t move.”
I tried to knock her hand off with my free arm, but the effort was weak and she caught my wrist. The cuff still in place around it.
“If you move, you might pull your stitches out and I’ll have to sew you up again.” She used the stern tone of a Care Mother.
Stopping, I peered at her clothes. An upper, but not a Pop Cop. Her words finally pushed through the fog and I realized she worked in the infirmary. Yet I was in our storeroom. Could the Pop Cops be waiting outside? “What…? Who…?” My throat burned.
“If you promise to lie still, I’ll get you a drink and tell you what happened. Promise?”
I debated. Knowledge versus promising an upper. “Yes.” But if she turned out to be a Pop Cop in disguise, then I could break my promise.
She moved away and returned with a cup of water. I grasped the heavy glass in my left hand, and she supported my head while I drank. The cold water soothed my throat, but turned my stomach.
“Sip it slowly,” she said. “You just had surgery.”
“Surgery? It was just a cut.” I strained to sit up.
“Remember your promise.”
I wilted. Who was I kidding anyway? I could barely lift a glass of water.
A fleeting smile crossed her lips. Her brown hair had been braided into a single long rope. The end reached her waist and she flicked it aside when she sat on the edge of the couch. In the bluelight, it was hard to see her eye color, but I guessed by the fine lines on her face she was around four thousand weeks old. Her thin fingers checked the metal thing stuck in my arm. She moved with a competent grace as if she did this all the time.
