Текст книги "Inside Out"

Автор книги: Maria V. Snyder

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Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author

MARIA V. SNYDER

“Inside Out surprised and touched me on so many levels—it’s a wonderful, thoughtful book full of vivid characters and a place—Inside—that is by turns alien and heartbreakingly familiar.”

–Rachel Caine, New York Times bestselling author

“This is a book you’ll stay up late to finish.”

–Book Sense on Poison Study, October 2006 pick

“The rare sequel to live up to the promise of its predecessor, Magic Study is a wonderful combination of romance and fantasy.”

–Audible.com, Editor’s Pick: Best of 2006 for Romance

“Fans of high-spirited adventure, intrigue and romance will celebrate…. Snyder delivers another excellent adventure.”

–Publishers Weekly on Fire Study

“The second book in Snyder’s Glass series is a delight.”

–RT Book Reviews on Sea Glass

“With new magic and new people introduced in Storm Glass, Ms. Snyder has a fertile new landscape to mine for us. I cannot wait.”

–Fallen Angel Reviews, recommended read

Also by New York Times bestselling author Maria V. Snyder

Study series

POISON STUDY

MAGIC STUDY

FIRE STUDY

Glass series

STORM GLASS

SEA GLASS

Look for Maria V. Snyder’s next Glass novel

SPY GLASS

available

SEPTEMBER 2010

MARIA V. SNYDER INSIDE OUT

To my niece, Amy Snyder, for your willingness to read my first manuscript. Your enthusiasm for my stories sparked the idea that I could write for a younger generation.

In loving memory of my grandmother, Mary Salvatori, and my best friend Hazel.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Acknowledgments

1

A VIBRATION RIPPLED THROUGH MY BODY. I AWOKE in semi-darkness, unsure of my location. Reaching out with my hands, I felt smooth sides arching up and in. My fingers touched overhead. Pipe.

A distant roar caused unease, but with sleep fogging my mind, I couldn’t quite grasp its significance. The pipe’s vibrations increased as the thunder grew louder. Water. Coming toward me. Fast.

I scrambled in the narrow space. My bare feet slipped on the sleek surface of the pipe as I advanced toward a faint square of bluelight emanating from the open hatch. It seemed an impossible distance to reach.

Cogon’s voice in full lecture mode echoed in my mind as the water rushed closer. “Someday, Trella. You’ll screw up and there will be bits of you raining out of the showers.”

I reached the hatch and dove headfirst through the opening, convinced the water rushed at my heels. Landing on the hard 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.

“Like sleeping in the pipes? Pretending you’re all alone, instead of crammed in here with everyone else?”

I 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 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.”

“Might have?” He was backpedaling already.

“I didn’t get a chance to look at them.”

“How convenient. I’m not authorized to go above level two. There are locked air filters to keep undesirables out, and if the Pop Cops catch me, I could have an unpleasant encounter with Chomper and end up as fertilizer for hydroponics.” I shivered. Inside didn’t have room for many holding cells. Undesirables were simply recycled at the whim of the Pop Cops.

“Hasn’t stopped you before,” Cog said.

I punched him in the arm. “Shut up.”

He smiled.

“Perhaps she’s scared,” Broken Man said.

“Not scared. Just not stupid enough to walk into a trap,” I said.

“I meant that you might be scared because I’m telling the truth, and then you’d have to believe me.”

“I don’t have to believe anything. Especially not your lies.” I turned to Cog. “Watch this one.”

When I began to walk away, Broken Man called, “Going to clean air duct number seventeen?”

I stopped.

“I was in charge of the cleaning schedules before my ‘accident.’”

I turned back. “Nice try, but cleaning assignments are posted all over the lower levels. See, Cog, he’s grasping at air. A true prophet wouldn’t have to trick someone into believing him.”

“I’m sure no prophet has had to deal with Trella Garrard Sanchia before,” Broken Man said.

My blood froze in my veins. Scrubs didn’t worry about bloodlines; most knew nothing about their biological parents. Most didn’t care. Scrubs birthed more scrubs. We mixed blood like paint. Too many colors combined, and we ended up with brown-eyed, brown-haired babies who were raised in Care groups until they were old enough to work. Me included. With my brown hair and eyes, I blended right in with the scrubs.

Only the uppers worried about bloodlines and maintaining family groups. And Population Control. They kept track of every person in Inside.

Garrard and Sanchia were two of the family names used in the upper levels.

Broken Man watched me. “That’s right, Trella,” he said. “Your father was from the Garrard line and your mother is a Sanchia. You were born with your father’s blue eyes until they changed them.” He paused a moment to let the information sink in. “You don’t quite fit. Not a purebred by upper standards, but quite the thoroughbred down here.”

2

“HOW DO YOU KNOW?” I ASKED.

“I told you I used to live in the upper levels. But if you want more information about your parents, you’ll have to get my disks first.” Broken Man leaned back in his chair with a pleased smirk.

I stepped toward him, planning to agree. A cold jab of logic halted my steps. I couldn’t believe I’d almost fallen for it. Why would I care about parents who left me to be raised by scrubs?

“You spout some bull about bloodlines and think I’ll get all teary eyed and desperate to find information about my parents. No deal.” I grabbed Cog’s arm and turned him to face me. “Stay away from this man. He’s dangerous.” Then I hurried to my cleaning assignment, before Cog could argue with me.

I tried not to think about Broken Man as I scrubbed the air duct, but following the circular cleaning brush with its humming vacuum was mindless work. The cleaning device looked like a hairy troll spinning and singing to himself. All I had to do was turn him on, make sure he didn’t break down and then turn him off at the end of the conduit.

Being slender and a little over one and a half meters tall made me the perfect candidate for this duty, but I also knew how to repair the troll if it broke. Thanks to Cog. He had taught me, and I was one of the few scrubs who carried a special tool belt. The black band was constructed of the same slippery material as my uniform. Each of its eight pockets contained a tool. The band held them and my flashlight snug against my waist. Regular tool belts wouldn’t work in the tight air shafts. The hanging tools would bang on the metal and impede my motion.

Nothing out of the ordinary happened during my shift. I had plenty of time for the information Broken Man had told me to eat its way through the layers of my mind like acid sizzling through metal.

Devious, the way he had phrased his words. Your father was from the Garrard line. Past tense, meaning he was dead. Your mother is a Sanchia, implying she was still alive. Devious, except he had forgotten I had been raised as a scrub. Family lines meant nothing to me. Biological parents were the concern of the Pop Cops. I might have a fondness for my Care Mother (CM), but that was as far as it went. Broken Man was just trying to con me into his schemes. Give the Pop Cops a reason to recycle me.

The cleaning troll grunted as his motor strained. He had come to a bend. I gave him a little push, and the troll continued on his way. The angle of the air duct started to sharpen. I braced myself in the pipe, using my bare feet to climb behind the troll. The air shaft was one of the main trunk lines, servicing multiple levels of Inside. It cut between the levels and I could follow the troll up to level four if I could unlock the air filter between levels two and three.

Broken Man’s voice tapped into my mind. Information about Gateway might be on some disks hidden on level three. Might be. Most likely not. At least I would have proof the prophet was a fake to show Cog.

During my ten-hour shift of babysitting the troll, I kept changing my mind about whether or not to check Broken Man’s story. When the troll finished the last air duct on my schedule, I pulled him out and stored him in a cleaning closet.

Officially, I was off duty until hour forty. All scrubs had the same schedule. Ten hours off, ten hours on, with a break every five hours. There were no such things as vacations or holidays. Since one week equaled one hundred hours, we worked five shifts per week. Everything in Inside could be divided by the number ten. It made life simple so even the scrubs could understand. Work groups comprised ten scrubs. One CM for every ten children. Ten weeks equaled a deciweek, and a hundred weeks was called a centiweek. And so on. Although, a few old-timers called a centiweek a long year, but I had no idea what that meant.

The work shifts were also staggered so only half the scrubs worked at one time. It saved room in the barracks. I shared my bunk with another scrub I never saw. Not that I ever slept there anyway.

My shift ended on level two in Sector D, and I needed to make a decision. Below me were the rows and rows of bunks that filled Sectors D, E and F on both lower levels. From this location, it was just a matter of heading due east for two sectors, then up one level to search for Broken Man’s disks.

The uppers filled their two levels of housing sectors with roomy apartments and vast suites for the important officials.

Only certain loyal scrubs had authorization to clean and maintain the upper levels, and to deliver food and laundry. Not me. I had no desire to ingratiate myself to earn the Pop Cops’ trust. They rarely policed the ductwork with their sensors, believing in their filters and the passivity of the scrubs. I grinned. Except for a few of us, they were right.

Although I remembered the stories about when the Pop Cops had tried to place video cameras in the lower levels. Each and every one had disappeared. No witnesses came forward, and no evidence had been found. Eventually the cameras became another lost part of our world. Something we once had. Our computers have a whole list of things which met this criterion, but I didn’t care. No sense bemoaning what was gone. A waste of time. Better to worry about what weapons the Pop Cops could use now.

It would be a challenge to search for the disks while avoiding the scrubs and Pop Cops. Like Cog had said, the threat of getting into trouble hasn’t stopped me before, and I have explored all the upper level ducts more for the challenge than just to break the rules. In the end my curiosity was too great to walk away. I found an appropriate air conduit and slipped inside the tight space.

The rush of air blew past me in the active duct. Closing my eyes, I concentrated on the warm current as it caressed my face. I pulled my hair from its single long braid, and let it flow behind me, imagining for a moment that I flew.

The air shaft ended in a scrubber—a tight wire mesh impossible to bypass without unlocking and removing the cleaning filters nestled inside. This was the barrier to keep the scrubs down in their levels. I could have dismantled it and reattached the lock and filters when I returned, but the effort would eat up a lot of time.

Instead, I backtracked until I found a near-invisible hatch and opened it. Climbing from the duct, I stood on top of level two above Sector F. Pipes and wires hung down, crisscrossed and bisected the open space. I called it the Gap.

Between the levels of Inside, spaces ranged from one meter to one and a half meters high. A two-meter gap existed between the walls of the levels and the true Walls of Inside. The levels were bolted to these Walls with steel I-beams, and foam insulation had been sprayed onto them.

As far as I could tell, no one knew about the Gap. Only four near-invisible hatches offered access to it—one on each level. I had spent hundreds of hours in the shafts before I discovered them. I didn’t care what the reason was for such a space around the levels, it suited me just fine.

Bluelight shone and I negotiated the obstacle course of ducts to reach the east Wall. One of the six metal dividers framing our world, it was the barrier between Inside and whatever existed beyond.

A ladder was bolted to the Wall. It stretched from the very bottom of Inside to just above level four. Using it would make climbing to the air ducts above the third level easier. Except for two problems. A two-meter space gaped between where I stood on the edge of level two and the ladder. To use the ladder, I would need to traverse the thin I-beam connecting level two to the Wall. If I slipped, I would plummet about ten meters. The drop might not kill me right away, but if I broke my legs no one would know where to find me.

Breaks in the ladder were the second problem with the route. Someone long ago had cut off portions of the ladder as if they hoped to limit access to the upper levels. I had strung chains between the breaks, but climbing them required a great deal of upper-body strength.

No sense wasting time. A tingle of apprehension brushed my skin. I moved onto the I-beam. The beam was a little wider than my foot. Balancing on it, I placed one foot in front of the other with care. Once I mounted the ladder, I climbed until I reached the chain. Taking a deep breath, I wrapped my legs around the slender metal links and pulled myself up hand over hand to the next complete section of the ladder.

By the time I reached the next rung, sweat soaked my uniform and coated my palms. As I stretched for the bar, my fingers slipped.

I started to fall. Three wild heartbeats later, I managed to stop my descent by gripping the chain. When my body stopped swinging in midair, I grinned at the near miss. My pulse tapped a fast rhythm, matching my huffs for breath. I waited a moment before returning to the top of the chain. My second attempt to transfer to the ladder worked.

Navigating through the ductwork, I found the near-invisible hatch for level three and climbed inside the air shaft, searching for the sleeping quarters in Sector F.

Broken Man had said a duct above his rooms. Logic suggested he wouldn’t use a water pipe, too messy, or an electrical conduit, no space. He had been an air controller so it stood to reason I would find the disks, if they existed, in the air shaft. If.

I crawled through the shaft above the rooms, counting. Small rectangles of daylight warned me when a room was occupied, and I took extra care to be quiet. Stealing glances into the quarters as I slipped by, I spotted uppers working on their computers.

I usually avoided the populated sections. One sneeze and I would be permanently assigned to the solid-waste-handling crew. The crap cleaners. Nothing like the threat of unclogging those pipes to keep scrubs in line.

When I reached number three-four-two-one, I peered into the darkness below. The lack of light noteworthy. Inside had two light levels. Daylight for when people were awake and working and bluelight for sleeping. Bluelight was also used for temporarily unoccupied areas where, as soon as a person entered, the daylights would turn on. In the barracks, the bluelights stayed on all the time.

Darkness in Broken Man’s room meant it had been unoccupied for a long time. I shined my flashlight through the vent. The living area appeared normal. Sweeping my light on the walls of the shaft, I searched for the disks. At first, nothing caught my eye, but a strange bulge cast a slight shadow. I rubbed my fingertips over the bump and felt a slender edge.

Booby-trapped, I thought at first. Then I considered what I would do if I wanted to hide something from the Pop Cops. Either find a niche they didn’t scan, tuck it behind a lead-lined piece of machinery or camouflage it.

Using my fingernails, I peeled back a thin metal sheet. Underneath was a cloth bag.

I’d been so sure Broken Man had lied, I was almost disappointed. Almost. Let’s face it; if Gateway existed, I wouldn’t be upset.

I shook my head. These were dangerous thoughts. They led to hope and hope led to pain. I squelched them and focused on the contents of the bag. Four disks with rainbow rays streaked around their silver surfaces. Enthralled, I dropped the bag. It slipped through the vent and floated to the floor.

I shrugged. No big deal. Until a red light pulsed in the dark room below. Then daylight flooded the chamber as gas hissed.