scowled at him. My fiercest frown, which usually resulted in some breathing room.
Cog stepped closer. “Come on. Hear the guy out.”
Again, his face glowed with the conviction of a true believer. Poor Cog, I thought. How can he set himself up for another crushing disappointment? How can I turn him down? Especially when he was the only one who remained my friend despite my abuse. And who’d watched out for me, growing up in the care facility together.
“Okay. I’ll listen, but no promises,” I said. Perhaps I could expose this prophet as a fraud to keep Cog from becoming too involved.
Dumping our trays in the wash bins, we left the cafeteria. Cog led the way through the main corridors of the second level toward the stairs in Quad A2.
The narrow hallways of Inside had been constructed with studded metal walls painted white. Only Pop Cops’ posters, spewing the latest propaganda, scrub schedules and the list of proper conduct could decorate common area walls on levels one and two. At least the massive bundles of greenery in every section of Inside helped break up the monotony. Although, if the plants weren’t needed to clean the air, I was sure the Pop Cops would remove those, too.
I would never have had the patience to fight my way along the main paths, but Cog’s thick body left a wake behind him. I followed along in this space, walking without effort and without touching anyone. A moment of peace.
We descended the wide metal steps. Cold stabbed the soles of my feet and I wished I had worn my mocs. Bare feet were useful in the air ducts, but not in the main throughways.
Cog led me to Sector B1. This prophet showed some intelligence. Sector B1 was filled with laundry machines. Rows upon rows of washers and dryers lined up like soldiers waiting for orders. The laundry was the most populated area, it had the largest number of workers, and every scrub in the lower levels came here for fresh uniforms.
Surrounded by a throng, the prophet had set himself up on an elevated dais near the break room so everyone could see him.
“…conditions are deplorable. The uppers have rooms to themselves and yet you sleep in barracks. But your suffering will not go unrewarded. You’ll find peace and all the room you want Outside.” The prophet’s voice was strong. His words could be heard over the hiss and rattle of the machines.
I leaned over to Cog. “The wheelchair’s a different touch. He’ll gain the sympathy vote. What’s his name?”
“Broken Man,” Cog said with reverence.
I barked out a laugh. The prophet stopped speaking and focused his gray eyes on me. I stared back.
“You find something amusing?” Broken Man asked.
“Yes.”
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 had 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 reapply your hair dye, 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’re recycled. Oh, you might stick around for a hundred weeks or so, but then you’ll be gone with the next shift and another ‘prophet’ will 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 over 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. Only you will 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 ductwork. Just the opposite. They had teased me for my desire to spend time alone.
“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 used 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. I have to spout the propaganda. If I tell the scrubs Gateway exists and the Pop Cops are lying to them, the Pop Cops will recycle me.”
I felt as though he’d shot a stunner at my chest. 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 that 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, his inner soul would travel to Outside while his 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
