Outside In Part 13

"In the infirmary, growing new skin."

"Oh. Sorry. I forgot." He ran a calloused hand over the stubble on his face. Dirt and ash stained his coveralls. "The Committee and ISF have commandeered hydroponics and the kitchen. If the scrubs want to eat, they have to work two hours for each meal."

I noted Hank's use of the word commandeered. Even though the Committee was desperate for aid, they had mishandled the situation. In theory Hank should be on their side. He bore all the stress of having to make repairs with a limited crew. They should have asked him how to recruit workers.

"Any work or just repair work?"

"Any. Laundry, recycling, kitchen duty, waste handlinga All the jobs that need to be done. Repair work actually counts doublea"one hour for one meala"because of the critical time-sensitive nature of them."

"Did they set the same requirements for the uppers?"

"What do you think?"

d.a.m.n. "But to be fair, the uppers are still doing their jobs. It's justa""

"None of the scrubs has a clue what their jobs are. I know, and the scrubs on the Committee understand, but the rest of them believe all the uppers do is sit in front of a monitor and type every so often. No one is taking the time to explain it to the scrubs." He swept a hand out, indicating the flurry of activity around the air filter bays. "At least there has been one positive thing to all this. I've a few uppers who don't mind getting their hands dirty and they're putting in long hours right beside the scrubs."

The situation felt sickly familiar. "Who's keeping track of a person's hours?"

"The ISF or as we'd like to call them, the Mop Cops."

"Do I want to know what that means?"

"Things are a mess right now, and they're trying to mop it all under the bed and pretend it's not there."

Hank had a point, but I didn't believe the Committee and Anne-Jade had been blind to the mess, just overwhelmed.

I asked for my a.s.signment and Hank sent me to the fore man. He eyed my skin-tight climbing suit and tool belt, handed me a stack of air filters, and listed the air ducts to install them in.

Glad to be productive, I set the filters inside the shafts. The magnets along their edges made the installation easy. The best part, I could plant the mics as I worked. The worst, my new skin protested the activity. And my muscles hadn't returned to full strength. I lasted four hours, which equaled two meals. I found the ISF officer and made sure to report my time.

Over the next twenty-five hours, I installed filters and mics in four-hour s.h.i.+fts. During the last four hours of the week, I planted one of Logan's mics near the air vent above Sector D1 where Jacy tended to hold meetings with his people. An unhappy murmur drifted through the shaft over the barracks.

I slid east over the bunk beds in the barracks in Sectors D and E. With the buzz of voices below, I doubted anyone even heard me. As I crossed into Sector F1, s.n.a.t.c.hes of loud conversation reached me.

"adid you see the piles of laundry?"

"athe air still smells bad. It makes me nauseous."

"aidiotsawe need a better Committee."

"aI saw Meline and Bo behind the dryers. They're finally together."

"astill haven't seen Kadar. I bet they tortured him and fed him to Chomper."

"auppers have it sweet. We outnumber themacan bribe a few Mop Cops, get weaponsa"

I froze, then backed up to the last vent, listening to the man.

"aI heard that Tech No is out of the picture and the computers are going crazy. Perfect time to attack. We'll force the uppers to be scrubs and live in their posh apartments. Then feed the Committee to Chomper."

The man's voice grew louder and I strained to see who spoke.

"What about that little scrub who started this whole mess?" a woman asked.

"I heard the Committee's upset with her. Maybe we coulda" He lowered his voice.

I pressed my ear to the vent as he mentioned something about recruiting. My tool belt clanged on the metal, but I doubted it was loud enough to be heard amid the general noises below.

Without warning the cover popped free. In the seconds that followed, I caught a brief glimpse of a man then hands grabbed my shoulders and yanked. I fell onto the top bunk a meter below.

It was a soft landing, and I rolled over to my back. The man who had pulled me from the air shaft straddled my hips. He seized my wrists, pinning them to the mattress with his weight. I struggled to no availa"he outweighed me by forty kilograms. Finally, I stopped, but my heart kept up its fast tempo.

"h.e.l.lo little bug," he said. His smile seemed more amused than sinister. "Do you know spying on others isn't playing nice?"

"Get off me."

"Not until you explain what you were doing up there."

"I was installing air filters so we can all breathe clean air. Let me go."

His round face was close to mine. He had light brown eyes with tiny flecks of yellow, a mustache, and short brown hair. Another man's head and shoulders appeared beside the bunk. He gripped the safety rail, probably standing on the bed below us. "Hey, Sloan, Wera said you wanteda"" The scrub noticed me.

"Help me," I said.

"Uhawhat's going on?" His voice almost squeaked.

"I caught me a blue-eyed bug," Sloan said. "She claims she was installing air filters and is even wearing an air scrub uniform. Can you check the duct for me?"

"Uhasure." He climbed up to the vent and poked his head in. "It's too dark to see."

I huffed in frustration. "There's a flashlight in my tool belt."

Sloan s.h.i.+fted back so his friend could reach it. Now his weight rested on my upper thighs and wrists.

"There's a filteradon't know if it's new or not." His voice echoed slightly.

"What color is it?" I asked.

"White."

I met Sloan's gaze. "It's new, otherwise it'd be gray."

"Then why did you stop over my vent when I started talking about bribing the Mop Cops?"

"I had to fix my tool belt, it slipped. You heard it bang."

He studied me and I kept my innocent expression.

"Hey! Look what I found." The friend held the microphone I had planted above the vent. d.a.m.n! I had hoped he wouldn't look directly up. He rolled it around his palm. "I think it's a mic."

"Care to change your story?" Sloan asked.

"I didn't plant that. Someone else must have."

But Sloan didn't believe me and recognition flashed in his eyes. "You're that scrub. And as I recall, your little group of uppers used those mics to listen to the Pop Cops."

"So? It's probably left over from before. Let me go or I'll scream for help."

"Go ahead and yell, no one in here will care. Cain, check her belt for more of those devices."

A cold and clammy fear spread through my muscles as Cain fumbled through my tools. He found the bag with the remaining few mics.

Sloan's grip tightened as anger shone on his face. "Traitor." He let go of my left wrist and slapped me across the cheek.

Pain exploded as my head whipped to the side. Tears welled. Sloan s.h.i.+fted off my legs. And before I could react, he shoved me with his feet. I slammed into the rail opposite Cain. With another push from him, I went up and over, falling off the bunk.

The landing knocked the breath from me. I curled into a ball and gasped for air. My shoulder hurt. Sloan's loud voice carried over the general din, informing everyone in the barracks about me.

No time to recover. Legs surrounded me on both sides and I suffered two hard kicks to my back. When one clipped my head, I feared for my life. I rolled under the bunk. Too narrow to provide any protection, I kept rolling, hoping to outdistance the scrubs chasing me. Bunk, walkway, bunk, walkway, bunk, walkway.

Yells followed me. The floor vibrated with the rush of so many feet. As I drew closer to my goala"the far east wall, I noticed a line of scrubs waiting along that last walkway. d.a.m.n. I couldn't stop and I couldn't change my trajectory. Or could I?

Taking the biggest risk of my life, I paused under a bunk. The scrubs chasing me climbed over and through the bunk without checking underneath. I knew there would be stragglers, but I couldn't wait too long. Changing direction, I rolled the opposite way toward the west wall. Yells erupted.

But after I reached an empty walkway, I jumped to my feet and ran toward the south wall. It didn't take long for them to catch on, but I had a bit of a head start. I poured every bit of energy into my short legs. Feet pounded behind me. I yanked a screwdriver from my belt.

No heating vent was in sight so when I reached the wall, I dove under a bunk and rolled again until I found one. I popped the cover off and scrambled inside. A hand grabbed my ankle, tugging me back. I stabbed the screwdriver into the hand. It released me as its owner swore loudly.

The heating vent would not provide a safe haven yet. I slid, squirmed, pushed and pulled. Voices shouted and echoed. Once I felt certain I'd escaped, I stopped. I had reached the connector shaft that led into waste handling in Sector H1.

Sweat-drenched and huffing for breath, I lay there. As my heart slowed and my muscles quit trembling, my other injuries demanded attention. My shoulder, wrists and hip ached. Sharp pain stabbed my back anytime I breathed in too deep. Overall I felt like I'd been shoved through a pipe too small for me. However, every stab of pain reminded me of my luck in getting out of there alive.

I didn't blame Sloan and the others for being angry. But I wondered if he had said those things about attacking the Committee because he heard me in the duct or if he had meant them. If I hadn't gotten away, would they have killed me? I rubbed my cheek. It still burned from the slap. Sloan had called me a traitor and by the fury in his gaze, I guessed that yes, they would have easily vented their anger on me.

Eventually, I continued into waste handling and exited the shaft at the first opening. I had no energy left to travel through the ducts. Leaning on the wall, I scanned the plant for scrubs from Sector F1. No one appeared to be searching for me. The regular plant workers milled about the equipment.

Emek spotted me, smiled and approached. "Haven't seen you down here in a long time. Did you come to check up on me?"

"Yes. I'm making sure you're fully recovered from the surgery."

He inspected my appearance. "How nice." Yet his tone implied he didn't believe me. "Rough trip?"

"Yep. Installing air filters is hard work, I better get back." I pushed off, but just then Rat raced into the plant like he'd been chased by an angry mob. Or it just could be my imagination.

"Emek! The scrubs ina" Rat slid to a halt when he spotted me talking to Emek. Two bright red splotches stained his cheeks and his short brown hair stuck up as if he had ran his fingers through it.

"Don't keep us in suspense," Emek said.

"The scrubs in Sector F1 are rioting. They're fighting with the ISF officers, claiming the Mop Cops are spying on them."

Emek pierced me with his scowl. "Did you know about this?"

I suddenly wished to hide under the covers of my bed. "The riot? No."

Rat's gaze jumped from Emek to me and back. "I heard Trella's name."

Emek groaned. "Do the ISF officers need help?"

"Yes."

"Go get the rest of the crew, Rat. They're cleaning out the secondary sludge tanks." He hooked a thumb, pointing toward another room. Rat dashed off.

"Do you need an escort back to level three?" he asked.

"No thanks. I'm fine."

He raised one eyebrow. "Are you sure? You looka""

"I'm sure."

Rat returned with a dozen people on his heels. They sprinted out the door. Emek's gaze followed them.

"Go help the ISF officers," I said.

"No one's in the plant right now so you can use the small washroom in my office before you go."

"Thanks." I shooed him away.

Tucked into the northeast corner of the plant, Emek's neat office seemed very organized. When I considered the raw sewage that flowed into the plant, it made sense for him to have his own washroom. It always amazed me how the machinery and bacteria transformed c.r.a.p into fertilizer and cleaned our water. Plus the process produced a special gas that was pumped into the power plant to be used as fuel.

I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. Dirt smudged my face. Clumps of dust clung to my hair. My bottom lip was swollen and b.l.o.o.d.y. And a bright red handprint covered my left cheek. I cleaned up as best as I could, braiding my hair. In my haste to escape I hadn't noticed how dirty the barrack's floors were.

Dirt and rust harmed our world. They weren't as bad as sabotage, but they could do plenty of damage.

I left Emek's office. The hum and whoosh of the machinery sounded louder without the workers. I debated between the risk of walking the hallways or the effort needed to climb into the air shaft. Scanning the ceiling for an accessible vent, I spotted one over the digester, which had a ladder up its side. Perfect.

Halfway up the ladder a clang sliced through the mechanical drone. I hoped it meant the riot had been quelled. Leaning to the side, I peered around the digester. One man, wearing an off-duty green jumper crouched next to the gas collector. No one else had returned.

I waited a few seconds to see if the others would arrive. The man kept glancing over his shoulder. Then he pushed something under the collector, straightened and hurried off.

Odd. Did he come back from the riot just to fix the machine? About to shrug it off, I paused, remembering all of Emek's men wore dark blue coveralls.

Sliding down the ladder, I rushed over to where the man had been. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, but I wouldn't know. I unhooked my tool belt before wiggling under the collector. Yet another unique view of my world. At least the s.p.a.ce was cleaner than under the barracks. The irony wasn't lost on me.

I peered up. Hoses, wires, pipes and a strange device wedged between the pipes. The device had a short fat pipe about twenty centimeters in diameter and sealed on both ends. On top of the pipe were two gla.s.s containers of liquid. Between the containers was a metal box with a digital display. Each time the four numbers flashed they were one less.

Understanding hit me as hard as Sloan. I'd found a bomb.