floor, I shot to my feet and slammed the door shut. When I finished sealing the hatch, the whole pipe shuddered, then the vibrations calmed as the water returned to its normal flow. The metal cooled under my fingers, and I leaned my sweaty forehead against it, catching my breath.
That was close. Soft bluelight glowed all around the water-filtering machinery. Hour eighteen: I knew by the rush of water. The upper workers adhered to a strict schedule.
I checked my tool belt to make sure nothing was broken and my flashlight still worked. Then I climbed from the ductwork and made my way to level two by taking a shortcut through an air conduit. Traveling through the pipes and air shafts, I avoided seeing my fellow scrubs. But my peace and quiet ended too soon as I opened the vent, swung down and landed in the middle of a crowded corridor, scattering scrubs.
Someone knocked into me. “Watch it!”
“Come to mingle with the lowly scrubs, your highness?” A mocking bow.
Used to curses and hostile glares, I shrugged. The mass of people in the tight corridor jostled and pushed me along. Life in the lower two levels teamed with scrubs at all hours of the week. They moved from work to their barracks and back to work. We were called scrubs because rust and dust were the twin evils of Inside and must be kept at bay; however, scrubs also maintained the network of mechanical systems which kept both uppers and lowers alive.
The scrubs shoved. They frowned. They complained. I hated every one of them. Except Cog. No one hated Cog. He listened. Empathized with tales of misery. Made people smile. A rare occurrence—as rare as a person like Cogon.
I headed toward the cafeteria in Sector G2. It stayed open around the clock. As far as I could tell, Inside’s length and width equaled a square with four levels. All constructed with sheet metal. Overall measurements, by my calculations—for reasons unknown Inside’s exact dimensions and specifications were classified—were two thousand meters wide by two thousand meters long by twenty-five meters high. Each level was divided into nine areas.
If I drew a square with two lines across and two lines down inside it, I would end up with nine smaller squares. The first row’s three squares would be labeled A, B and C, the next row D, E and F, and the last row G, H and I. With this configuration, there were four Quadrants A, C, G and I, which were Inside’s corners, and five Sectors B, D, E, F and H. That was the basic map of each level. Boring, unoriginal, and predictable to say the least.
The cafeteria and dining room for the lower two levels encompassed all of Sector G2. The number two meant it was on the second level. Even a four-hundred-week-old scrub couldn’t get lost. Hydroponics resided directly below in Sector G1—the lowest level—making it easy for the food growers to send vegetables to the kitchen scrubs.
The hot, musty smell of people packed together greeted me at the cafeteria’s door as the noise of them slammed into me. I paused, deciding if eating was worth being in the same room with so many scrubs. My stomach growled, overruling my reluctance.
The line to get food remained perpetually long. I took a tray and waited, ignoring the stares. Most scrubs changed from their work clothes to wear the drab green off-duty jumpers before eating, but I was scheduled to scour an air duct at hour twenty. So I remained in my formfitting uniform. The slippery dark blue fabric covered every inch of skin except for my hands, feet and head. The material helped me slide through the tight heating ducts when I cleaned them. And I didn’t care if I was the only person not wearing moccasins. My mocs were back at my bunk in Sector F1. With so many scrubs around to clean, the floor didn’t even have a chance to become dirty.
Pushing my tray along the metal shelf, I pointed to what I wanted from three different choices. The big containers held either green-, yellow- or brown-colored slop, and they all smelled like moldy vegetables. The food was easy to prepare, easy to cook and best of all easy to reuse. I didn’t even bother reading the names of the dishes. If the kitchen staff called it a casserole, a quiche, a stew or a soup, it all tasted the same. A pulpy, leafy spinach flavor dominated the other ingredients lurking in the recipe.
To be fair to the cooks, hydroponics didn’t offer much in the way of variety. Mass production of the hardier vegetables had replaced diversity, and there was only so much a person can do with mutton. I didn’t want to be fair, though. I just wanted something different to eat.
After being served, I found an empty seat, and let the discord of multiple conversations roll over me.
“Where’ve you been?” a voice asked over the din. I looked up at Cog’s broad face as he pressed into a seat next to mine.
“Working,” I said.
“You were supposed to be done at hour ten.”
I shrugged. “Got to make sure the pipes are squeaky clean for the uppers.”
“Yeah. Like it would take you that long,” Cog said. “You were sleeping in the pipes again.”
“Don’t start.”
“You’re going to get hurt—”
“Who’d care? One less scrub to feed.”
“Grumpy, aren’t we? What’s the matter, Trella? Get wet?” Cog smirked, but couldn’t hold the expression for more than a second. He was soon smiling, unaffected by my mood.
“Shouldn’t you be changing a fan belt or something?” I asked, trying to be nasty, but Cog ignored me, knowing it was all an act—although with any other scrub, I wouldn’t be acting.
He nodded to scrubs passing our table, calling out hellos and sharing his smile.
“How’s the shower head in washroom E2?” Cog asked one man.
“Much better,” the man replied.
I had no interest in mundane details so I tuned out their conversation. Instead, I contemplated my only friend. Too big to fit into the pipes, Cog worked with the maintenance crew and did odd jobs. Most of it busy work, just like scrubbing. Too many idle hands had been deemed dangerous by the upper workers.
Scrubs also labored in the recycling plant, the infirmary, the care facility, hydroponics, the kitchen, the livestock yard, solid-waste facility or in the waste-water treatment plant. Most scrubs were assigned their jobs. A Care Mother noted the skills and aptitudes of each of her charges and recommended positions. My smaller size automatically matched me as a cleaning scrub. It suited me just fine.
“When’s your next shift?” Cog asked.
“One hour.”
“Good. Someone wants to meet you.” Cog’s eyes held an avid glow.
“Not another prophet. Come on, Cog, you know better.”
“But this time—”
“Probably just like the last time, and the time before and the five times before that. All talk. No action, pushing false hope. You know they have to be employed by the upper officials to keep the scrubs from rioting.”
“Trell, you’re jaded. Besides, he asked for you by name. Said you were the only one who could help him.” Cog seemed to think this divine calling should impress me.
“I have better things to do with my time.” I picked up my tray, intent on leaving.
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