The Sky Inside

by Clare B. Dunkle

  The beagle dropped from the door and trotted confidently into the darkness, its eyes shining like flashlights. Martin still stood in the hallway. Maybe other pets could talk bot and light up their eyes, although he was starting to doubt it. What he knew without question was that no toy could unlock a door. His Alldog was malfunctioning. And this place—this big empty echoing blackness: he had never even heard about it before. It felt eerie, and it might be dangerous. He knew what he ought to do.

  But as he hesitated, the beagle gave a shrill bark. We’re losing them! the bark said. A rush of adrenaline jolted Martin, and he abandoned the safety of the hall. He heard the door lock behind him as he walked away.

  The beagle’s lighted eyes played over a network of conduits and ducts hugging the ceiling about fifteen feet above Martin’s head. They walked past regularly spaced concrete pillars, enameled tanks, and square utility shafts. Then came an open area, interrupted here and there by more round, rough pillars. Then more tanks and shafts.

  As they proceeded slowly, keeping pace with the movement of the weird things above them that only his toy could now see, Martin tried to place this huge, dim void in the context of the suburb he knew. Its rhythm was vaguely familiar. They must be in an access space beneath the houses. As the bot’s lights danced faintly across the cement ceiling, waffled by thick support beams, he could distinguish a repeating pattern of pipes, tanks, utility shafts, and electrical lines matching each house. These curved away into the darkness as the houses curved along their streets.

  They walked for a long time. How long, Martin didn’t know. He couldn’t read his watch in the dark. Mom had wanted to buy him a new watch with a glowing face, but Martin had preferred the old one. For the first time, he regretted his loyalty.

  It was strange how noisy the place was and how silent at the same time. No sound could die away against the hard surfaces; it bounced around like a superball. The pipes overhead thumped and screeched, fluids boiled in the tanks, and off in the distance somewhere, the power plant’s turbines hummed. Even the beagle’s toenails made a decisive tap-tap on the pavement, high-pitched and steady, like a clock. It would seem that any more noise could hardly be noticed, but whenever Martin spoke, his voice was so loud that he felt the urge to talk in a whisper.

  “Do you know how to get us out of here?” he asked.

  The beagle, an indistinct shape in the darkness, didn’t appear to answer. Martin could only hope that its tail was wagging reassuringly.

  “And don’t you think it’s funny,” he said later, “how much our steps echo? Mine sound like they’re coming from everywhere. It’s like there are a bunch of us down here.”

  An angry snarl interrupted him. The beagle was swelling in size. Its barks deepened from shrill to throaty, until a monster bayed savagely beside him, gnashing an impressive set of fangs.

  Martin turned and ran into the darkness. Within seconds, he smacked into a pillar. The next thing he knew, he was sitting on the ground, and glowing lights were dazzling his eyes. A big wet tongue licked his stinging cheek.

  “You’re my dog, right?” he whispered, closing his eyes against the glare. He reached up and found himself petting shaggy fur. “You wouldn’t . . . hurt me or anything, right?” He felt a long dog muzzle and two tall, pricked, velvety ears that folded beneath his touch. A big barrel chest vibrated as it whimpered.

  “You’re a good dog,” he said shakily, fending off the moist tongue. “You’re a good dog—a big dog! Man, you scared me!” He opened his eyes and squinted in the light. “Hey, shine those things somewhere else.”

  Bracing himself against the pillar, Martin slowly climbed to his feet. “Why did you change to another dog?” he wondered. “Don’t do that again, it creeps me out. What were you barking for, anyway? O-o-oh, crap! There’s something down here, isn’t there?”

  They ran all the way back, swerving around pillars and tanks. Martin kept his gaze fixed on his dog’s bright eyebeams lighting up the concrete before him, afraid that the echoing clatter of his footsteps was the sound of a dozen monsters. A wall emerged from the darkness at last, and the dog directed them along it. In a few more seconds, Martin found himself standing in the hallway with the disreputable red rug, and the door closed and locked behind him with a gratifying click.

  A handsome black-and-tan German shepherd stood beside him. “Wow! No wonder you sounded so mean,” Martin said. “You’re a tough-looking dog.” The shepherd laid back its ears and wagged its bushy tail.

  “Did you find any rats?” Dad asked when they walked into the loading bay. He looked up at Martin and whistled. “What happened to you? Did that rat take you out in twelve rounds?”

  Martin examined his injured face in a shiny metal panel. A large, shallow abrasion puffed up the cheek. He thought it looked impressive.

  “Nah, we didn’t find any. I tripped over the dog.” It barked in protest, and he gave it an apologetic pat.

  “A German shepherd, eh?” Dad said. “Now, that’s a good-looking brute.” The dog nosed his hand, tail waving politely. “I’m glad you’re back. I was thinking we’d go home for lunch a little early. Just let me get the 10:22 out the door.”

  Martin watched the freight bots closing up the packet car. He was still keyed up from his run. So many days were the same old thing, but today had been loaded with incident. An entire spooky world existed right here inside the regular one, and he wished very much that he could talk about it.

  “Dad . . . ,” he began. Don’t ask questions, his mind advised. You went through a locked door that said AUTHORIZED, and he’ll want to know how you did it.

  Dad was typing out the contents list. “What, son?” he asked.

  “Did you ever see a bot do something it wasn’t supposed to?”

  “Sure,” Dad answered without looking up. “They break all the time.”

  “No, I mean something they’re not supposed to be able to do. Like . . . like—oh, I don’t know—like open a door by cracking the password.”

  Dad stopped typing and looked at him hard. “Have you seen this happen?”

  “Oh! No, not really,” Martin hedged. “It’s just that—you know, even if I had . . . Anyway, David said he knew a bot that could.”

  “But you haven’t seen it?” his father pursued earnestly. “You need to tell me. Yes or no.”

  Martin felt a cold nose against his hand. “No,” he said, careful not to look at his dog. “I mean, you know—how could I?”

  “Did David say he’d seen it?” Dad pressed.

  “I dunno. Maybe,” Martin said as casually as he could. “I mean, we’re talking about David here. Why?”

  Dad looked very serious. “Some bots are modified,” he said. Alarm bells rang as the big gates swung open, and he typed a message on the console as the packet car slowly moved away. “We don’t talk about it, but I think you should know so you can tell me if it comes up again. Modified bots can be very dangerous. Criminals buy them to be bodyguards, assassins—even bombs. Security notices come out from time to time, and we watch for them in the packets. Whenever you see a bot act unusual, you should report it for demolition.”

  Martin’s dog was whining now. He stroked it reassuringly. “Yeah, but Dad, we don’t know any criminals. How would a bot like that get in here?”

  “Hopefully by accident,” said his father. “They’re made illegally in the factories, alongside the regular bots. Don’t talk about this to your friends, but if David says anything else, I need you to tell me. Ready for lunch now? I’m going to take the new scooter around the outer ring to see how fast it’ll go. Those things are supposed to do twenty miles an hour.”

  Now the shepherd was pawing at Martin, dark eyes anxious. “You know what, Dad?” he said. “I think I’ll walk home.”

  On the way, Martin had a quiet talk with his dog. “You’ll have to watch yourself,” he advised. “If people are looking, just do toy things. And don’t act so guilty all the time! It’s lucky Dad didn’t figure it out, the way you
carried on in there.” He ruffled the nervous dog’s ears happily. “Man, you are one cool toy!”

  As they passed tidy brick houses decorated with their yard work stickers, Martin thought about the shadow world below. What a thrilling place it seemed once he was safely out of it! Its stark utilitarian spaces were almost irresistible. Now that he possessed an illegal supertoy that could take him into that prohibited zone, he would learn all its secrets and become master of its gloom. He imagined himself popping in and out of his friends’ houses through a network of hidden doors.

  But perhaps this underworld already had masters. Martin fingered his swollen cheek. If nobody else knew about the place, what exactly had his dog seen?

  “Hold on! I know what’s down there,” he said in excitement. “It’s the people who disappear!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  After lunch, Martin went back through the door marked AUTHORIZED ENTRANCE ONLY, but this time, he was prepared. He had armed himself with his Hi-beam flashlight/water cannon, but not because of the water cannon; it was the only flashlight he’d found that would still work. He’d loaded his backpack with an assortment of chocolate bars and sour bombs, his latest Hero Man comic modules, and (after some hesitation) a Women’s Week module of his mother’s, in the hope that such gifts would win him the gratitude and affection of any desperate underworld beings he might encounter. As he stepped out of the hallway with the hideous red carpet and followed his dog into the creepy space, he wished he could have brought Matt and David along for company. But neither of his friends could be trusted with a secret this big, and he didn’t want them ratting on his dog.

  “It’s just you and me, computer chip,” he said. “And hey, if you’re a bodyguard bot, I’m gonna be just fine. Anyway, if you’re a bomb, I don’t think you’d blow me up. We’re friends, right?” The shepherd wagged cheerfully.

  They walked for a long time through the dusky concrete underworld that boomed and hummed with distant activity. The houses overhead clustered in tight rings as they approached the center. “Do you see any of them?” asked Martin, sweeping the shadows with his Hi-beam. “Can you find the people you saw last time?”

  The shepherd nosed the cement floor. It wandered back and forth, sniffing, and then struck out in a straight line. Soon they came to a blank wall. The heavy door set into its surface was unlocked.

  “Are they in here?” whispered Martin, worried at his plan’s unexpected success. “Okay. I think you should go first.” Light poured out as he opened the door, and the big shepherd walked through. Martin listened for ominous growls but heard nothing, so he stepped in and looked around, blinking.

  The space was stylish, with polished black granite tiles on the walls and tasteful recessed lighting. But the area was designed not to attract attention. Like the plain gold band of a ring that served as the setting for a valuable stone, this space existed to display two impressive features. To Martin’s right was a wide, clean, open flight of squared-off marble steps that came down from the street level of the suburb. To his left shone a sleek wall of clear glass, and through it, he could see the plush waiting room for a suite of executive offices.

  An engraved brass plaque mounted on the wall of the lobby proclaimed the company name, but Martin didn’t need to read it. “It’s the factory!” he said. “But why would they keep anybody in here? Nobody works in the factory anymore.”

  The large factory had been busy in Granny’s day, employing almost every adult in the suburb. Then had come the development of the independently operating tool bot. There had been a fear at first that they would mechanize the factory and lay off all the humans. Instead, employees had been given a choice: keep doing your job or lease a tool bot to do it for you. Regardless, they still earned a paycheck, spending it on the goods that kept their economy healthy. A robot could work, but it couldn’t be a consumer.

  At first, only the careful savers had been able to lease the expensive bots and feel the delightful thrill of not having to work. But soon tool bot prices had started to fall, and everyone could afford them. On-site management had continued for a while longer, but it became apparent that living managers weren’t needed either. Strategic decisions had always been made at Central anyway, and the tool bots were model employees.

  Everyone knew the factory was still there, churning out high-quality merchandise in some isolated area of the suburb. But no one walked through it anymore. It was every schoolchild’s ambition to earn mediocre scores and qualify for a factory job. Then they could sit at home all day and get paid to watch television.

  Martin crossed the lobby to the attractive waiting room. Heavy glass doors slid open, and he stepped onto the thick pile of a cream-colored rug. He expected the place to be dusty and run-down, but soft music played over the hidden speakers, and everything sparkled. The receptionist might have stepped down the hall for five minutes instead of fifty years.

  “Custodial bots,” he said as the shepherd joined him. “Those guys don’t have the sense to stop polishing.”

  They walked through the managers’ suite and found the rooms empty and bare. Only one office seemed odd. In the middle of the handsome mahogany desk stood a large, airy sculpture. On closer inspection, it turned out to be chicken bones, bleached and glued together. Martin’s dog sniffed it and growled softly.

  “I bet one of the disappeared people made it,” said Martin. “They must have a lot of free time. Hey, you don’t think anybody has died down here, do you? I wouldn’t want to find anybody lying in a corner or something.”

  They wandered the industrial hallways, looking into a deserted laboratory and a records room full of old computer consoles. “Let’s see what we make,” Martin proposed, heading toward the racket of the workshops. “I’ve always wondered what we export. Maybe it’s something cool, like power plant fuel, except I never see any of those fuel containers leave the loading bay unless they’re empty.”

  The taupe fabric panels of the hallway blunted the noise considerably, so Martin was surprised at the din when he pushed open a swinging door.

  “What a mess!”

  The big rectangular room held thirty or forty workers knitting at brightly colored projects. The tool bots were stuck everywhere to the walls and ceiling, all their metal pairs of arms flashing busily, like big spiders with too many legs. The floor and table space that they had vacated was taken over by massive wads of loose yarn—vibrant red, bright blue, butter yellow, jewel-toned purple—so deep that no one could have waded through them. Many long lines of that vivid yarn fed from the piles to the untiring bots above them, forming a colorful web that could trap a person foolish enough to stroll through.

  As the bots completed their knitting projects, they dropped them into a system of tubes that ran around the edge of the room. Martin walked down the hall to the next room and pushed open another door to see where the tubes led. Here, the room was heaped high with soft drifts of fabric stuffing, and bots were filling the knitted shells and tossing them into waiting bins.

  “We make bears? This whole suburb is here for the stuffed bear market? That’s gross! I’m not looking in the other workshops. They probably manufacture toilet paper!”

  The shepherd stopped abruptly. Then it pointed its long muzzle up at the taupe-colored wall and gave a low howl. Martin came to investigate and noticed a flicker at eye level. A solitary oval form was moving along, its perimeter of hairlike legs undulating in a continuous wave and its fat body gleaming smoothly, like beige plasticine.

  “It’s one of those inspection things!”

  Martin watched as it crawled for a few feet. Then it flattened itself briefly. When it moved on, a pearly cylinder was sticking to the wall where it had been. The tiny object protruded a few millimeters, round end facing out, about the size of a sequin. Martin tapped it cautiously. It felt like it might be glass.

  Walking down the corridor, he found more of the little cylinders clinging to the wall, glistening wetly, like the whites of tiny eyeballs. Spaced about ten
feet apart, the minuscule things were all but invisible until he knew where to look.

  “Government business,” Martin told his dog. “Maybe they have something to do with the disappeared people. Where are those people, anyway? I thought you knew where they went.”

  The shepherd recommenced sniffing, wandering up and down. It led Martin through a series of passageways and past more noisy workrooms, then stopped, growling quietly.

  The narrow room before them held a kitchen cabinet complete with cooker and refrigerator, a couple of sofas, and a long dark brown vinyl-topped table surrounded by padded dinette chairs. A large television set was blaring away in the corner. The managers’ break room still looked comfortable, even after fifty years of no management.

  A bearded man sat at the table across from the television. He had far too much hair, a long russet mane of hair, and his beard started high on his cheeks and engulfed the lower half of his face like a fuzzy brown fungus. Only a bit of pale skin around the eyes and his high-bridged nose managed to escape the scrubby growth. He was wearing a worker’s uniform of pale blue cotton and carrying on a running dialogue with the talk show host, a kind of counterpoint to the woman’s comments. His brown eyes, lively and shy, slid by Martin in the doorway. Martin’s presence appeared to affect the content of his speech, but not its fluency.

  “It’s played by colors,” he said, speaking with a bit of a quaver, and Martin noticed the mounds of metal disks that lay on the table before him. “Each disk has a color dot, and I have to set them up in sequences. If a stack falls over, I lose. If I get to twenty, I win. Want to know what I win? Nothing. Want to know what I lose? Nothing. That’s the nice thing about this game.” He held the disks delicately in long fingers, but his fingernails were ugly square things, bitten down to the quick.