The Sky Inside

by Clare B. Dunkle

  “It’s like this, Chip,” he said, taking a long drink of water. “I can’t believe Motley went this way. Everything this way is dead.” He shuddered. “Worse than dead! So no one brought a packet car down this line. We’ll follow the line that goes the other way.”

  They retraced their route as quickly as possible, coming to the junction in the packet lines before nightfall. Here, Martin led them west, toward the mountains that had long fascinated him. He had no good reason to make that choice over going to the north, as they had been doing. Probably, he just wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and the decomposed suburb.

  All of Hertz’s camping gear couldn’t make Martin comfortable that night. Over and over, Chip woke him out of terrifying dreams. As the night wore on, even the bot seemed to be losing composure, whimpering as he watched his master fight a battle he couldn’t understand. “You’re lucky you don’t dream, Chip,” Martin told him.

  The crags that began the mountain range were close now, but at first, the route toward them only served to depress Martin further. This was the trash line, and the colored squares he had seen from Hertz’s high knob of ground were dumps of all descriptions, one right after another, with a short packet line running to each. Here was a huge appliance dump, with crushed metal cubes rusting in geometric heaps. Next came a plastic dump, its colors bleaching away in the bright sunshine.

  The strangest of all was a shoe dump, a hole the size of a city block full of old shoes, baking in the warm morning with a heady aroma. Martin stared at it in wonder.

  “My old Hermies are in there somewhere,” he mourned. “I swear, it’s all I can do to keep from diving in to look for them. Mom threw them out last summer, right before school started. Nothing’s felt that good on my feet since.”

  By midday, the first steep hills of the mountain range were upon them, and the packet line began to curve and wind to find its path. Then they came to the ultimate trash dump, a place to dispose of the packet cars themselves. The deserted rail yard was old and vast, spread across a flat stretch of ground caught between the foothills and the nearest of the tall granite crags. Many rusting lines fanned out across it to hold hundreds, if not thousands, of unused packets. Nothing moved in that enormous parking lot. It was truly the end of the line.

  “This is just perfect!” Martin said. “After all that walking, we have to go back again and take the other line. I don’t guess anyone ever comes this way.”

  But Chip trotted ahead, looking interested. He picked out one of the many packet lines that crossed the dusty yard and followed it.

  “What’s up?” Martin asked. “I don’t see the point.” Then, after a minute, he thought he did. The other rails were dull, but sunlight gleamed off the set of rails they were following. This packet line had recently been used.

  The line led them in a wide arc around to the far corner of the yard. Here, long, low, open-sided sheds protected a select set of cars. The rails ran under the shadow of one of their tin roofs and ended at a tarpaulin-swathed packet. Martin loosened a corner of the gray tarp and peeked underneath. The packet car was bright red.

  “Chip, you’re a genius! It’s Motley’s car!”

  Further investigation confirmed his hunch. There couldn’t be two cars like this. But it was abandoned.

  “Where did he take them?” Martin wondered as they stood in the shade beside the car. “There aren’t any kids here. This place is way too quiet. Do you have any more hunches?” Chip laid back his velvet ears and wagged regretfully. “Okay then. We have to think this through.”

  Martin sat down on the packet platform and fortified himself with his last piece of bubble gum, chewing thoughtfully until he had it broken in.

  “So Motley uses this packet to carry the Exponents. Let’s say he gets them where he wants them. Then he’s got to get rid of the car so none of us can find it and find him. He ditches the car here, where it mixes in with all the other packets. But he’s not here. So he does one of two things. He either swipes another packet or he walks home. But this is the only line that’s been used, so Motley walked wherever he was going.”

  He backed up and peered over the top of the tin roof to get his bearings. Steep slopes dotted with short bushes hemmed in the yard on this side, breaking now and then into sheer rock faces that would support no vegetation. Behind them, he saw even steeper slopes and higher crags. The mountain range began here in earnest.

  “Unless he flew,” he amended. “Maybe you could walk up there, Chip, but I don’t think I could, and I don’t think Cassie could, either. But he didn’t take the kids back the way we came because there was nothing back there but dumps. Maybe they went somewhere on scooters. Let’s check for tracks.”

  This turned out to be a waste of time. The storm that had drenched them yesterday had washed away any traces there might have been. And it occurred to Martin that Motley could have dropped off the children before coming here to leave the packet. Finding the car didn’t prove anything after all. Cassie still might be far away.

  A sharp bark interrupted this gloomy train of thought, and Martin went to investigate. At the very back of the yard, under the shadow of a granite cliff, the long tin awnings ended in a series of small cinder-block sheds, each about ten feet square. Chip stood in front of one shed, wagging furiously.

  “Chip, these are just little storage rooms, like a garage,” Martin said. “I bet they’re full of packet junk, like Dad’s storage rooms near the loading bay.” But Chip just became more excited. He bounded up and put his tan feet against Martin’s chest.

  “Okay then, show me. Make this good.”

  The door was locked, but not for long, and the enthusiastic dog soon pulled down the shelves that stood behind it. A steel door was fitted into the back of the shed and, beyond it, a dark passageway.

  “Whoa!” Martin said. “That can’t be here! These things are little squares.” He stepped out of the shed and looked around. “No, I get it—the rest are right next to the cliff, but this one backs up against it. You’d never know it, though. It looks like it’s just an accident, to keep them all in a nice even line.”

  They entered the tunnel. Chip trotted along first, eyes aglow, and Martin followed him. The passageway was dark, winding, and creepy, but comfortable and clean. It was just wide and high enough that Martin didn’t need to stoop and his knapsack didn’t get caught on the walls. It had chiseled sides and a concrete floor. Long flights of steps interrupted its progress from time to time.

  For an eternity, they trooped along through the solid rock of the mountain, stopping to rest now and then. The passage turned and curved, ascended and descended, but never branched or split. “Good thing,” said Martin. “If we came to another passage, we wouldn’t have a clue which way to go. I just wish I knew how much longer this is gonna go on. I’m starting to get creeped out.”

  At last, a glimmer appeared ahead. Martin thought it was just his imagination until they came around a sharp curve and almost fell into the daylight.

  They stepped out onto an outcrop of gray rock that overlooked a little valley full of fir trees. The mountains enfolded this shadowed hollow in tall, stony splendor. Martin had to tilt his head far back to see past their craggy walls to a small circle of pale blue sky.

  “You know, Chip, this is really pretty,” he said.

  “TRESPASSERS WILL BE ELECTROCUTED,” a voice roared in answer, and Chip fell motionless at Martin’s feet.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A massive bot stepped out of the tunnel behind Martin. Twice as large and half again as tall as the biggest man Martin had ever seen, the apparition was clad from head to toe in silver-gray body armor. It didn’t seem to belong in that idyllic mountain setting. It would have been more at home in the dimly lit underworld of HM1 or perhaps in Martin’s nightmares. Its face was a blank mask of disinterested menace.

  “TRESPASSERS WILL BE ELECTROCUTED,” it blared again in a resonating rumble, like a roomful of double bassoons. “YOUR BOT
HAS CLEARLY TRESPASSED.”

  “My dog!” wailed Martin and dropped to his knees on the uneven stone. Chip lay on his side, eyes staring, mouth open, and legs flung out as stiffly as an overturned chair. Martin tried to smooth his rough fur and cried out in pain. His hand felt as if it had been jabbed with sewing needles.

  “PLEASE EXERCISE CAUTION,” advised the enormous battle bot, a note of worry creeping in among the bassoons. “FROZEN SIMULATION GEL CAN BE HAZARDOUS TO THE TOUCH.”

  “You killed my dog!” Martin cried, weeping furiously. “You stupid jerk! You stupid, stupid moron!”

  The steely bot crouched beside Chip, and Martin shrank away, wiping a forearm across his wet cheeks. Had he just imagined the thing’s size before? It was big, yes, but not enormous.

  “I DID NOT KILL THIS BOT,” it informed him civilly, the bassoons now playing pianissimo. “ITS SUBROUTINES ARE INTERRUPTED. IT NEEDS TO BE RESET.” It reached out a gray arm to touch the dog, and Martin wiped his eyes again. Arm—or armor? He was getting confused. He kept seeing things.

  Chip melted with a whisper into silver gelatin, and Martin waited for the ovoid pool to reform. After a minute, he realized that nothing was happening.

  “Hey!” he protested. He tried to recapture the anger he had felt before, but it eluded him now. He just felt tearful and wretched—and frightened. The big bot watched him from behind the blankness of its armor. Martin had a fleeting impression of a wrinkled face superimposed upon that shiny mask, as if, for just a second or two, an old man had used it for a mirror.

  “I discharged your bot’s batteries,” the bot explained, its sound reduced to a half dozen tubas. “This bot must remain nonfunctioning until my orders change. It is a trespasser. My orders are very clear about trespassers. About you, my orders are not so clear.”

  Martin peered at the bot. Yes, it definitely had a face. Blue eyes were peering back at him through the clear shell of the mask, blue eyes under thick white eyebrows.

  “Well, what are your orders?” Martin asked hoarsely. “Trespassers will be ELECTROCUTED.” A blast of bassoon underscored this familiar phrase. “Are you a trespasser?” the bot went on. “It’s a simple question; you ought to know.”

  Martin licked his lips and poked Chip’s simulation gel, which was something he had always wanted to do. The gel felt springy and hard, like rubber.

  “You know,” he pointed out, “we humans don’t electrocute so good. I mean, you zap us and poof! That’s the ball game. No resets with us.”

  To his surprise, the battle bot nodded. It had acquired a distinct impression of age. It now stooped over the puddled Chip, no larger than Martin’s own father. “I’m aware of that,” it said in a voice like a rather cautious oboe. “That’s why I want to be sure. I’d hate to make a mistake.”

  Martin pondered the machine’s alterations. He wasn’t losing his mind, he decided. It seemed to be losing its mind. Simple programming, he reminded himself. That’s the secret to bots.

  “Well,” he asked, “if you don’t think I’m a trespasser, then what do you think I am?”

  The bot was silent for several seconds as it puzzled over the question. Its features, vague and indistinct, flickered like a bad hologram. “I think . . . ,” it admitted finally, “I really think . . . that you might be a child.” As Martin stared in amazement, a kindly face supplanted the battle mask. It had white hair and a long flowing beard. “And if you’re a child,” it continued, “then I have to get you to school. Electrocution would never do, you see.”

  A gentle old man knelt on the rock now in soft, steely gray robes. He was gazing at Martin with mild blue eyes.

  “Oh, I am definitely a child,” Martin said. “You better get me to school right away.”

  “Wonderful!” cried the old man. “I was sure of it! It’s a very good thing I was careful. Rudy would have been cross with me for days if I had electrocuted a student.” He rose to his sandaled feet and flopped the thick silver pancake that was Chip over his shoulder. “We’ll take your friend along too. I’d better bring you to William first; yes, William’s in charge right now.”

  They climbed down the granite outcrop and crossed the little valley under the shade of the fir trees. Martin had to trot to keep up with the bent old bot. “You’re a student I don’t believe I’ve met before,” he noted. “Martin, is it? Delighted to meet you. They call me Sim.”

  Some distance from the outcrop, well under the shadow of the sheltering mountains, they came around a bend in the rock and entered a shallow cave. It wasn’t a cave for long. Sim pushed open a pair of industrial-looking metal doors and led Martin down a passage very much like the factory corridors or the halls off the loading bay. Offices, rooms, and other hallways split off on one side or the other.

  “Wow!” Martin said. “I never would have known all this was here.”

  “Certainly not,” Sim agreed, hobbling along beside him. “What’s the point of making a secret government facility if everyone can tell it’s there? This one is so secret that not even the government seems to know about it anymore; at least, that’s what Rudy hopes.”

  He knocked at a door, and a muffled voice summoned them. He cast a worried glance at Martin. “I do hope you don’t get into trouble.”

  They entered a small office piled high with computer equipment and mounds of white sheets of paper. These items perched on or fell off the central piece of furniture, a very large ugly metal desk. The desk seemed to be not so much a place to put down the handhelds and papers as a magnet to attract them in drifts. This left very little room to walk, so Martin stopped right inside the door.

  Two plain wooden chairs stood in the room. One, propped invitingly near the door, could have held Martin if it weren’t already holding two reams of paper in a big cardboard box. The other, behind the desk, was already occupied. It held the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

  The girl came around the desk to meet them. She was about Martin’s age, but while he had been growing straight up, all her growth had gone to soft curves. Her thick hair was brown, with warm highlights, and her eyes were large and green. Just at the moment, those green eyes weren’t very friendly.

  “Sim, what is this?” she demanded.

  “Martin is a new student,” Sim said. “He and his companion bot came to the school just now. I followed them through the passage and made sure they were alone. He cried when I disrupted his bot, so I realized he had to be a child.”

  Martin squirmed a little over this report. “You didn’t have to tell her that!” he said. Then he remembered how quickly this bot could cease to be a gentle old man.

  “A new student,” the girl said dubiously. “Martin just hiked in to our mountain retreat and decided to enroll.”

  “Indeed, yes,” Sim assured her, with an encouraging nod to Martin. “He wanted me to take him to class right away, didn’t you?”

  “Well, yeah,” Martin replied as innocently as possible. “I’m a typical kid. I like school.”

  This statement only seemed to annoy the girl. “You hate school,” she informed him. “Let’s dispense with the absurdities. Your model makes an unpersuasive liar. Tell me who sent you here and how many of you know about this place.”

  “Oh my,” sighed the friendly old bot. “I was afraid you’d get into trouble.” He slung Chip’s oblong gel from his shoulder and set it down with a wobbly boing. “Better be ready,” he explained mournfully, “in case I have to electrocute you.”

  “Hey, look, nobody sent me,” Martin said. “I ran away. Nobody knows about your mountain re-re—I mean, school. We even locked the door behind us.” Only after saying this did he realize he might have been unwise. If they were looking to solve their problems by eliminating him, he had played right into their hands. “But hey—you should know that my friends are gonna be really upset if you electrocute me. I mean, I don’t think you want that kind of trouble.”

  “Martin has a good point,” Sim said, eager to put in a good word. “It would probably mak
e his friends cry too.”

  The girl listened attentively. Her green eyes gave no sign that his arguments were working. Martin noticed she had a dusting of freckles across her nose. He thought they were cute, and that thought immediately struck him as pathetic.

  “Sim, bring him along,” the girl directed and led them out of the office.

  Martin followed her down the sterile hallway, feeling angry with himself. Chip was gone, and he had acted like a brainless, whiny idiot in front of a girl his own age. He wished he could have returned her indifferent stare with one of his own, but Sim would have had to electrocute him first. It wasn’t her clothing, which was simple enough: she had belted a knee-length blue T-shirt to wear it as a dress, and her red high-top sneakers looked comfortably broken in. But somehow, on her, the plain T-shirt and high-tops seemed gorgeously feminine, as if she were wearing one of baby Laura’s party dresses. And her brown hair twinkled, he noticed, every time they walked under a bank of lights. Not fair! Martin protested to the universe at large. This is not fair!

  “Leave your pack here in the hall,” she commanded, and then led the way into a large white-tiled shower room. “First things first,” she said, setting supplies on a three-legged chair by one of the dripping stalls. “Sim, our intruder needs a bath.”

  “Well, duh!” Martin said bitterly. “I was running for my life through weeds and dumps. I didn’t exactly have a bathroom following me around.” She left without bothering to answer.

  Oh, but that shower was wonderful! Martin scrubbed and scrubbed, and soaped, and rinsed, and scrubbed and scrubbed again. When he emerged, Sim gave him new clothes. The bot mopped up water and cleaned twigs and grass out of the shower stall while Martin got dressed.

  It felt good to put on clean stuff, he decided generously, even if it wasn’t his. A loose blue T-shirt, jeans that were not quite long enough, white socks that were thicker than he really cared for—

  “Hey! Where’s my sneakers?” he demanded. “These aren’t mine.”