The LC listened to the scrubs and inputted notes in her hand-puter until her communicator beeped. She pressed the device to her ear. Little tongues of red streaked up her cheeks as she listened. She gripped the knot of hair behind her head in a tight fist. Gesturing with curt motions, she issued orders to the other Pop Cops. They snapped to attention and marched from the room.

Turning on her microphone, she said, “Citizens, we have yet to locate the Broken Man, but we cannot keep you here any longer. Report back to your work areas or barracks. Anyone else with information is to see me at once.”

The Pop Cops opened only one door to let the scrubs out. I sighed. It would be another hour for me to reach fresh air.

When I finally arrived at the door, I was directed to one of the many Pop Cops in the hallway. They registered each of us in their black census recorders that kept track of the population. The LC stood nearby. She seemed tense as she talked rapidly into her communicator.

“Name, barrack and birth week?” the male ensign asked me.

“Trella. One-one-seven. 145,487,” I replied automatically. Identification was required every hundred hours. I calculated my exact age. I was 1,514 weeks old or fifteen point one four centiweeks or if I used the old-time measurement, I was seventeen point three years old.

He entered my data and waved me off. I was just about to slip past him when the LC grabbed my arm.

“Trella?”

Darts of fear raced through my shoulder and stabbed my heart. My thoughts scrambled as I stared at her violet eyes and angular features. I used all my energy to nod, keeping my face calm.

“Come with me,” she ordered.

She still had a firm grip on my arm; I had no choice but to accompany her along the corridor. Once we were far enough away from the noise of the Pop Cops, she stopped and released me. I glanced around, considering escape. The array of weapons hanging from her belt kept my feet planted.

“My sources tell me you spoke with the Broken Man around hour nineteen this week. Is this correct?” she asked.

Not trusting my voice, I nodded again. Those little laundry weasels. Scrubs complained about the Pop Cops and how they hated them and weren’t to be trusted, yet the first chance a scrub had to ingratiate themselves, they jumped. Granted, the offer was stellar, but I knew I’d never squeal on my fellow scrubs.

“Then why didn’t you come tell me?” she demanded.

“It didn’t seem important.”

A condescending smile twisted her lips. “I’ll decide what’s important. Tell me what you and—” she consulted her data screen “—Cogon talked about with Broken Man.”

Damn. She knew about Cog. Did they have him? I worried. It was common knowledge Cog had a weakness for the prophet-of-the-week so I went from there. “Cogon wanted me to meet this Broken Man. He said this new prophet had proof Gateway existed.”