Darts of fear raced through my shoulder and stabbed my heart. My thoughts scrambled as I stared at her violet eyes and angular features. I used all my energy to nod, keeping my face calm.
“Come with me,” she ordered.
She still had a firm grip on my arm; I had no choice but to accompany her along 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.
“It didn’t seem important.”
A condescending smile twisted her lips. “I’ll decide what’s important. Tell me what you and—” she consulted her data screen “—Cogon talked about with Broken Man.”
Damn. She knew about Cog. Did they have him? I worried. It was common knowledge Cog had a weakness for the prophet-of-the-week so I went from there. “Cogon wanted me to meet this Broken Man. He said this new prophet had proof Gateway existed.”
I shrugged. “Cog’s my friend. I met the prophet in the laundry. He started spouting some crazy crap about using meditation to transport yourself through Gateway to Outside. Yet he didn’t have a shred of proof.”
“Yes. You scrubs seem to have a fascination with Gateway despite the facts.” The LC shook her head. “Go on.”
“I told Cog to stay away from him, that he could get in trouble. Then I reported to my work shift.” I shrugged again, hoping to appear nonchalant.
She studied my face. I feigned innocence.
“Have you talked to Broken Man or seen him since hour nineteen?”
“No.”
“If you hear anything or see anything, you’re to report it to me immediately. Understand?”
“Yes, Lieutenant Commander…?”
“Karla Trava. Report to your workstation.”
“Yes, sir.” I walked away. I felt her gaze drilling holes into my back. The desire to run, to jump into one of the ducts and hide pushed at my muscles. Instead, I kept a steady rhythm and only looked back as I turned the corner. Lieutenant Commander Karla met my glance with a thoughtful and lethal squint.
5
ONCE I WAS OUT OF LIEUTENANT COMMANDER KARLA’S
toxic sight, I sighed with relief. It was short-lived. I had gotten off easy. Too easy. I had the feeling I was now in LC Karla’s crosshairs. A dangerous position to say the least.
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
