I should be happy. Domotor’s discoveries would prove me right. Yet the possibility of the Controllers not living with us or even being a person caused a finger of fear to brush my spine.

Morbid thoughts circled and conversations replayed in my mind. To escape them, I laid down. I would rest a few minutes.

“Lousy son-of-a-Trava!” Domotor’s curses woke me from a dreamless sleep. Hours and not minutes had passed. So much for my shift. I hoped my supervisor hadn’t checked on me. I stretched and padded to the living area.

Domotor scowled at the computer monitor. He punched a few keys then slammed his fist on the table.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“New security systems have been installed.”

“And?”

“I might not be able to get around them.” He typed a few words. “The program is…odd. The Controllers aren’t usually this…creative. They stick to what they know and what has worked.”

“Perhaps your earlier forays into the system alarmed them?”

“Possible. But this other program should work. It’s just complicated.” His attention returned to the screen.

I left him to his work and showered. My stomach growled with urgent need and I resigned myself to spending the next five hours gathering food for me and Domotor.

He grunted when I said goodbye. I traveled through the heating vents until I reached one of the main hallways. The scrubs traveling through the corridor ignored me. No curses. No taunts. I joined the flow and aimed for the cafeteria in Quad G2.

Standing in line, I noticed the stiffness of the people around me. It was well known I didn’t like them and they didn’t like me. They called me Queen of the Pipes, believing I thought I was better than them. Used to glares and sneers, I now had scrubs avoiding eye contact. Different. And the ones who met my gaze, nodded. A few smiled in encouragement. Stranger still was the muted hum in the room. Pop Cops patrolled the aisles between tables, and a mist of fear hung in the humid sweat-scented air. Yet a sense of purpose emanated as if no matter how afraid they were, the scrubs were determined to endure the Pop Cops’ scrutiny.

I pushed my tray along the metal track and pointed to a vegetable casserole. The scrub spooned a ladle-full into a bowl then added in a second scoop. I glanced at the man in surprise.

“There’s a clog in the kitchen’s air shaft,” he said. “Can you clean it out for us?”

It took me a moment to realize he was talking to me. “Report it to the kitchen manager.”

He stared at me. “I did. She said to have someone check the shaft at hour eighty.” He returned to filling bowls and the press of the scrubs waiting behind me propelled me toward the tables.

Odd. The whole exchange worried me. The scrubs couldn’t know about me. Could they? No. They’d rat me out in an instant. I shoveled the food into my mouth, but didn’t taste a thing.