I took my turn with the vamp box and wove my way through the dining room toward the kitchen, finding a seat as close to the kitchen doors as possible. LC Karla stood on one of the tables. A fire burned in her eyes as she barked orders to the Pop Cops around her. I wondered why she chose this location instead of the other two meeting areas. Perhaps she enjoyed standing on the table. Yeah, right, just like I enjoyed these assemblies.

Another buzz sounded, signaling all scrubs were in their designated locations.

Karla addressed the crowd. “Citizens, welcome to the end of the week celebration. Now begins week number 147,002.”

An old scrub sitting next to me chanted. “A million weeks! A million weeks! A million weeks!”

Another scrub leaned over to him and said, “Hush, old man, you’ll be lucky to see another two weeks. No one cares about the millionth week. We won’t be here.”

His companion laughed. “Just think,” said the second man, “in another seven thousand weeks or so, everyone in this room will be gone and there will be a whole new generation forced to listen to the same crap.”

They chuckled together as the old scrub squinted at them. In the minds of the scrubs, the millionth week had been blown to mythical proportions. Some prophesied that on week one million, our fuel and air would run out, ending all our lives. Others claimed we all go Outside. But when you considered the average life span of a citizen was sixty to seventy centiweeks, and there would be roughly a hundred and twenty-two generations of scrubs before the millionth week, it was hard to get too concerned.

With a gnarled finger, the old scrub tapped the man who had hushed him. “Laugh all you want, but the millionth week isn’t the end. It’s the beginning.”

“…Broken Man.” Karla Trava’s voice cut through the buzz of voices around me. My attention snapped back to her.

“Information is still needed. You will be rewarded for any tips that lead us to him.” She stopped for a heartbeat. “But don’t lie to me.” Her tone turned deadly. She gestured. Two Pop Cops pulled a scrub forward. Karla yanked the poor guy up to the tabletop by his collar. He swayed on weak legs and his face was a mask of fear. His hands trembled. Silence blanketed the dining room.

Karla patted her weapon belt, looking as if she debated. With a blur of motion, her kill-zapper jumped into her hand. She pressed the nozzle to the scrub’s chest.

“This,” she said, “is what I do to liars.” A crackle built to a crescendo as the man jerked and twitched.

When the lieutenant commander pulled the weapon away, the man dropped to the floor with an echoing thud.

6

THE SOUND OF THE SCRUB HITTING THE FLOOR BURNED into my mind like the kill-zapper had burned into the man’s chest. I shook in my chair, feeling hot and short of breath. It didn’t take much imagination to envision myself an arm’s length away from LC Karla with a kill-zapper at my breast.