The Sky Inside

by Clare B. Dunkle

  A murmur arose at these remarks, but it was thoughtful and receptive. This stranger had indeed put his finger on a problem that they couldn’t solve.

  “What I propose today will sadden you,” he continued, “but I know you will do what’s best. Allow me to take them with me to a special school, a place where they can be with their own kind—where at last, they can be the normal ones.”

  Martin stood still in shock. Take Cassie away? Take his little sister?

  “Fine with me,” he heard someone say behind him.

  “Best idea I’ve heard in years,” agreed another.

  “I know this will be hard for you all,” concluded Motley, “but I need your decision at once so that I can take the children with me today. I’m afraid I can give you only a few minutes to confer. This is a complicated process, and I have other locations to visit.”

  He stepped down, and the noise swelled to an uproar, as if someone had turned up the volume. Dad waded through the little children around the packet car and climbed up onto the platform, waving his arms. “Quiet! Quiet, please,” he called over the mounting din. “All parents of Wonder Babies, follow the steel rails into the loading bay. I’ll give you five minutes to assemble. We need to take a vote.”

  The commotion became even louder after that, with people pushing through the throng and out of the room. Only Martin seemed rooted to the ground, unable to think what to do. Confused thoughts whirled through his mind as he tried to make sense of the situation. Take Cassie? How could the stranger do this to him? Motley had seemed so nice!

  Without planning to, he wandered over to the packet car, where the little children had gathered. Chip followed in his wake, and sober-faced Wonder Babies came over to hug the big dog for moral support. Motley sat in the midst of the youngest children, holding baby Laura on his knee. He seemed to be trying to calm them.

  “I know you’re all sad right now,” he said, “but my school is a wonderful place.”

  A wonderful place. Martin felt as if he had been jolted by an electric current. He couldn’t be—no, it couldn’t be—

  “I know you’ll be glad when you get there,” Motley went on. “You’ll see, we’ll have fun.”

  “Oh man, oh man!” breathed Martin, stumbling blindly away. “Oh no! He’s one of them!”

  He shoved and socked and punched his way through groups of protesting people. The paneled wall reeled up in front of him, and he leaned against it, gasping. A worried whimper attracted his attention, and he crouched down to bury his face in Chip’s thick fur.

  “It all makes sense,” he whispered. “He’s like the lady who came for Bug! They’re not even going to wait for these kids to grow up. They’ve sent him to get them now. Dad—I’ve got to talk to Dad!”

  The Wonder Baby parents were straggling back out of the loading bay by the time Martin got there. He found his father standing by the inoperative console, trying various keyboard combinations. “Dad, you’ve got to get rid of this guy!” he said. “He’s not like he looks. I mean, he seems nice, but they’re supposed to seem nice!”

  Dad was sweating, and there was a sick look on his face, as if he had just tasted something nasty. “We voted to let the children go to their school,” he said. “And that’s what’s going to happen.”

  “But, Dad, I think this guy isn’t even human. I think he’s a bot!”

  His father turned, and the strange expression in his eyes scared Martin. “What’s wrong with that?” he demanded.

  “Well,” said Martin, taken aback, “it means that—I don’t know—that we can’t trust him.”

  “Why not? What do you know about where he comes from? What do you know about his business? What about the school? Have you been there?”

  “No,” Martin admitted. “I mean, maybe there’s a school. I guess I don’t know for sure.”

  “Stay out of it, then!” Dad snapped, wiping the sweat from his brow, and he went back to work on the console.

  I don’t believe this, thought Martin, more confused than ever. I better talk to Mom.

  He found her near the packet car, hugging his little sister. “Well, Cassandra,” she was saying.

  Cassie’s face shone with excitement, even though tears were in her eyes. “If he brought the packet here once, he can do it again,” she said. “Maybe for my birthday.”

  Mom didn’t reply. She just stroked Cassie’s golden curls, unwinding the soft corkscrews between her fingers. “Better get in line,” she said quietly, and Cassie darted off.

  “Mom,” ventured Martin. “Mom, this isn’t right. She shouldn’t go.”

  His mother was watching Cassie join Jessica and Abigail next to the packet car. Cassie caught hold of her friends’ hands, and the little girls began jumping up and down.

  “You think we should keep her here all alone while the rest of them leave?” asked Mom. “Think how terrible that would be for her. Think how much she’d be hated. Your Dad’s right. Cassie needs a school like this where she can be herself.”

  “But—”

  “But what?” she murmured, still looking at his sister.

  Martin couldn’t explain it. Dad was right. He didn’t know, not for sure.

  He found himself among the little children again, feeling dazed and numb. Thin arms wrapped around him. Cassie was hugging him tightly.

  “Isn’t it funny?” she gushed. “You must think we’re idiots.

  We’re so excited over a school, and you just hate school!”

  “Yeah,” he muttered. “It’s pretty weird.”

  She gave Chip a hug, but the shepherd didn’t respond. Instead, Martin’s dog was watching him closely, as if there were something he should tell him to do. “Listen, Cass,” he said. “About this school. I think—” Yes, he thought, but what did he really know? Then she was smiling at him again, and he lost his nerve.

  “I have to get back in line,” she said. “We’re almost ready. Motley wants us to board by age groups.”

  “About the school,” Martin tried again, walking her over to her class. “Look, I just want to say, if you don’t like it, if it’s”—he groped for words—“I mean, maybe it’s no good. Just remember, I won’t leave you there. Not if it’s, you know, if you don’t like it. I’ll come and—and—” But words failed him. He didn’t know what he would do.

  Cassie looked up at him with her big blue eyes. “I know you will,” she said.

  “So I’ll see you,” he said, getting angry. “No matter what! I’ll see you later, Cass. I mean it!”

  She hugged him again. “See you, Martin,” she whispered.

  The littlest children were already boarding the packet, lifted up over the steps by the mysterious man in bright plaid. One by one, they were disappearing into the packet car, just like the rats scuttling into his refrigerator. Laura stood on the platform, graciously waving to her sobbing mother, looking like the world’s smallest beauty pageant queen.

  “I count seven three-year-olds boarded,” said Jimmy to Motley, peering at the screen on his handheld. Patches was back on his shoulder now where he belonged.

  “I’ve checked off everyone below four,” Motley said, reading his own handheld. “Time to count the four-year-olds and send them inside.”

  Martin couldn’t stand it any longer. “Look, don’t think I don’t know about this,” he accused, barging up to the stranger. “And I’m not letting you get away with it, either.”

  Motley glanced at him and then quickly gave Jimmy his hand-held. “Keep loading them. Use my list.” Then he took a step aside. “Now, what is this about?”

  “You know,” Martin declared. “I’m not letting you haul away my little sister. I know you’re one of those lab-coated creeps!”

  This shot hit home: dismay flickered across Motley’s face. “How do you know about that?” he asked quietly.

  “Never mind how,” Martin said. “I know a lot. I know about the game shows, too.”

  Now the man looked stunned. “Exactly what do you know?” he as
ked, seizing Martin’s arm. Chip bristled, curling his black lips away from sharp teeth. “And where did you get your hands on a modified bot?” demanded Motley, even more amazed.

  The effect of this comment on Chip was instantaneous. One second, the bot dog was on his feet, growling ferociously. The next second, he was sitting by Martin’s side. The change happened faster than a dog could move. To switch moods, he actually transformed.

  By then, Motley had recovered his amiable charm. “I know about you, too,” he said. “That’s how I knew you were the one I needed to help me with my rattrap. You’re a Dish Fourteen. No wonder you don’t trust me. You’re suspicious of anything new. If someone buys your socks in the wrong color, you won’t speak to them for two days.”

  Martin gaped at him. “How do you know that?” he asked. “Did you talk to my mom?”

  “No,” Motley said. “You didn’t have a mother. No offense; I didn’t, either. But I’d say that any woman who has put up with a Fourteen for—let’s see—thirteen years now has definitely earned the title of ‘Mom’ the hard way. Your teachers stop her on the street to complain about you. Your grades are terrible. But you always know the things that are really worth knowing.”

  “Wow!” Martin said. “That’s right!” He was jostled by the six-year-olds boarding the car, but he didn’t even notice.

  “And you’re a fantastic big brother,” Motley added after a slight hesitation. “You’re very protective. Your goal is to be the meanest person in your little sister’s world. If anything worse comes along, you’ll fight it to the death.”

  “Right again!” said Martin in amazement. “How did you know?”

  Motley laughed. “Let’s just say that I have some personal experience. I know a Fourteen well. She’s going to be very pleased when I tell her about you.”

  “Who is she? Is she good in school?”

  “She was frightful!” said Motley cheerfully. “Mainly because she was never there. She was always cutting class because she thought school was stupid. She could have done well if she’d wanted to, and so could you. You’re very smart, you know.”

  Martin felt a grin zigzag across his face. “You think so?”

  “Absolutely,” Motley said with a smile. “I’ve seen the IQ scores. You were the best model of your year. You’re a rarity—expensive and elite. Not many parents could afford a Fourteen. I wasn’t surprised to hear that your father’s the packet chief.” He paused. “Not so good at talking, though,” he added with a touch of remorse. “When it comes to that, Fourteens are easy to outsmart.”

  “What?” Martin asked. But Motley didn’t stay to explain. With one quick movement, he was on the platform.

  Martin looked around, startled. The children were gone. Motley was at the controls now, and the packet car was rolling into the loading bay. Martin ran after it, but his father grabbed him. “You’ll spring the net,” he said.

  Motley reappeared in the open doorway of the car, his handsome face regretful. “Good-bye, Fourteen!” he called. Then bells rang, and the steel gates swung open. The packet car got away.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The transmitter arrived a couple of hours later on a special flatbed packet car, looking like a white enameled freezer that had sprouted an ugly growth of red wires and short metal segments. The freight bots knew not to go near it. Fat and ungainly, it lumbered off the packet, extending for the purpose a series of thick gray cylinders. Laboriously, it climbed the corrugated support framework of the steel gates, using a number of squat, clawlike legs. Once it reached the high ceiling, the transmitter wedged itself tightly between two I beams. There it brooded, watching over the suburb like a spider watching over its web.

  Dad observed the transmitter’s sluggish progress, trying without much success not to look repulsed. But Martin missed its arrival. He was spending the remainder of Rest Day shut up in his room, trying to make sense of Cassie’s departure. Over and over, he played out the episode with the red packet car, looking for the precise moment when he should have made his move, as if he were studying a game cartridge to unlock the next level. Unfortunately for Martin, real life refused to grant him game saves, but he was so unfamiliar with deep regret that it took time for this realization to soak in.

  At the next morning’s playing of the national anthem, the family was quiet and withdrawn. Mom and Dad voted for opposing sides, but today Mom didn’t try to argue Dad over to her point of view. Dad didn’t disappear from the house, but he didn’t speak, either. He sat like a lump at the breakfast table, holding his coffee but not bothering to drink it.

  Martin stirred his cereal as Cassie would have done, staring into the colorful bowl as if he could hypnotize himself into believing that his little sister held the spoon. The doorbell rang about the time the cereal turned gray.

  Principal Thomasson stood outside with a small flock of frightened students. “Martin, you’re not ready,” she observed.

  Martin glanced at his pajamas and then at her. “Ready for what?” he asked blankly.

  “For school,” she replied in a chilly tone. “Students get walked to school in orderly groups, remember? I live on your street. I’m walking you to school. I’ll give you five minutes to get ready.” She transferred her gimlet glare to Chip, who stood by his side. “And leave your dog at home!”

  For once, Martin welcomed the soporific routine of the school day. It occupied him without requiring his full attention, and it gave him something to do. Every now and then, the frustration of Cassie’s departure would flare up inside him, and he could feel himself glow with the heat of it, like a steaming iron. But that happened less and less often as the endless questions trickled by, cooling him off with their impassive demands.

  At recess, he stood with the others in rows on the playground, singing songs from the latest commercials. Last week, he had been a champion of the tiny and defenseless. This week, he felt unimportant, puny compared to the older students, uninteresting to the rest.

  “Martin, you weren’t singing,” said Mr. Ramsey sharply. “You can lead this next one, then. Give us the Tic-Tac-Taco jingle: ‘I’m a Mexican jumping frijole.’”

  School ended. Martin tagged submissively home in Principal Thomasson’s flock, with no little hand nestled in his. He found Mom sitting at the kitchen table looking at the family’s photo modules. Her eyes were swollen from crying, and her hair was a tangled mess. What looked at first like a craft project turned out to be a dozen crumpled tissues.

  “Hey, son,” she murmured, attempting a smile. Martin came around the table and gave her a hug. “I’ve missed you,” she said. “How was school today?”

  Martin could think of no word bland enough to describe the experience. “It was school,” he said at last.

  “I wonder how Cassie’s doing,” Mom said. “Do you think her school is far away? I wonder what they’re learning.” It was the first time Martin had heard an adult mention the children since their departure, and something that had been building up inside him deflated with a sigh of relief. All day, he hadn’t mentioned the Wonder Babies because he wasn’t sure if it was allowed. He hadn’t known how much longer he could stand it.

  “Maybe they’re learning about isotopes,” he said. “Cassie was working on a lecture.”

  “Was she? Tell me about it,” Mom said. So Martin sat down at the kitchen table and explained what he remembered of half-lives and fission, not very clear on the processes but happy in the memories, while Mom played the cooker and chose their dinner—two lemons and a bell: chicken-fried steak.

  But Dad came home and spoiled everything. “I wouldn’t talk like that,” he cautioned. “The walls.”

  Mom looked stunned. “But this isn’t like the others,” she said. “Cassie wasn’t removed from the suburb. She’s at school.”

  He shrugged. “Better to be safe.”

  They sat down to dinner, but Mom was too upset to eat. She rinsed her food down the drain. “Walt,” she said in a small voice, standing at the sink, “I d
on’t think I can bear it, not talking about her. I miss her. I have to have something.”

  Dad came to put an arm around her. “You have so much, Tris,” he said. “Cake decorating, stained glass, judo. You’ll get through this. How did the chess club go today?”

  Mom pulled back and stared at him. “I didn’t go to the meeting,” she said.

  “No?” He looked uncomfortable. “I’d rather you’d gone. This isn’t the time for . . . unless you were watching television, eh?” He smiled the way he always did for photos. “I’ll bet that’s what you did.”

  Mom looked completely baffled, and more than a little ill. “Do you—” Her voice shook. She paused to bring it under control. “Do you have any idea what’s going on here? She’s gone, Walt. Gone! How can you stand there and smile? And you didn’t even—” She choked and stopped, shaking her head.

  “Didn’t what?” Dad asked.

  Say good-bye to her, thought Martin, watching them. That’s it—I’m out of here. And he left the room, called Chip, and curled up on the sofa with his dog. The raucous noise of a skateball game drowned out his parents in the kitchen. This was one conversation he didn’t want to hear.

  A short while later, Dad came into the room, looking unhappy, and settled down in his recliner. Martin expected his mother to join them, but it appeared that she had gone to bed.

  Jell-O, the furniture for every taste, prattled the television. A bright new look for your living room, just as soft as the real thing. Matching sofa, love seat, and ottoman come in black cherry, orange, strawberry, blue raspberry, and green apple. Jell-O furniture—the sweet suite!

  Martin idly watched the commercial. Just a few years back, the Wonder Baby ads had been on. Maybe there’d been ads for his model. He tried to think what a commercial for him might say. Had they mentioned his special aptitude for action game cartridges? When he and David played a game, he always got the highest score.

  Maybe he and David had been different brands, like soft drinks. But just because a new soft drink came out, the old ones didn’t go away. Why had that happened when the Wonder Babies came out? How did that work?