“That’s a valid point. Why are you getting so defensive?”

“I’m…” I had been about to protest, but realized I had overreacted. “It was an automatic gut reaction. The Pop Cops had brainwashed us to believe the uppers were superior in every way.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Knowing and believing are sometimes hard to combine.”

While Riley discussed the network problems with Logan in the infirmary, I showered then slept. When I woke, Riley had left a wipe board listing the frequencies of all the mics next to Sheepy.

I reported to the air plant at hour seventy to assist with the clean up and repairs. No surprise to see Hank there, barking orders and organizing workers. Pleased to see so many helpers, I waited until he finished instructing a team before claiming his attention.

“You’re in high demand,” I said to him with a smile. “Do you even have time to sleep?”

“Sleep? What’s that? A new type of casserole?”

I would have laughed, but the craters under his eyes proved he and sleep were strangers.

“You have a big crew now. Can’t you take some time off?” I asked.

My comment had the opposite effect. Hank’s mood soured. “Yeah, lots of scrubs being forced to help.”

“What do you mean?”

Hank shook his head in a slow way as if he couldn’t believe I had to ask. “Where have you been, Trella?”

“In the infirmary, growing new skin.”

“Oh. Sorry. I forgot.” He ran a calloused hand over the stubble on his face. Dirt and ash stained his coveralls. “The Committee and ISF have commandeered hydroponics and the kitchen. If the scrubs want to eat, they have to work two hours for each meal.”

I noted Hank’s use of the word commandeered. Even though the Committee was desperate for aid, they had mishandled the situation. In theory Hank should be on their side. He bore all the stress of having to make repairs with a limited crew. They should have asked him how to recruit workers.

“Any work or just repair work?”

“Any. Laundry, recycling, kitchen duty, waste handling… All the jobs that need to be done. Repair work actually counts double—one hour for one meal—because of the critical time-sensitive nature of them.”

“Did they set the same requirements for the uppers?”

“What do you think?”

Damn. “But to be fair, the uppers are still doing their jobs. It’s just—”

“None of the scrubs has a clue what their jobs are. I know, and the scrubs on the Committee understand, but the rest of them believe all the uppers do is sit in front of a monitor and type every so often. No one is taking the time to explain it to the scrubs.” He swept a hand out, indicating the flurry of activity around the air filter bays. “At least there has been one positive thing to all this. I’ve a few uppers who don’t mind getting their hands dirty and they’re putting in long hours right beside the scrubs.”

The situation felt sickly familiar. “Who’s keeping track of a person’s hours?”

“The ISF or as we’d like to call them, the Mop Cops.”

“Do I want to know what that means?”

“Things are a mess right now, and they’re trying to mop it all under the bed and pretend it’s not there.”

Hank had a point, but I didn’t believe the Committee and Anne-Jade had been blind to the mess, just overwhelmed.

I asked for my assignment and Hank sent me to the fore man. He eyed my skin-tight climbing suit and tool belt, handed me a stack of air filters, and listed the air ducts to install them in.

Glad to be productive, I set the filters inside the shafts. The magnets along their edges made the installation easy. The best part, I could plant the mics as I worked. The worst, my new skin protested the activity. And my muscles hadn’t returned to full strength. I lasted four hours, which equaled two meals. I found the ISF officer and made sure to report my time.

Over the next twenty-five hours, I installed filters and mics in four-hour shifts. During the last four hours of the week, I planted one of Logan’s mics near the air vent above Sector D1 where Jacy tended to hold meetings with his people. An unhappy murmur drifted through the shaft over the barracks.

I slid east over the bunk beds in the barracks in Sectors D and E. With the buzz of voices below, I doubted anyone even heard me. As I crossed into Sector F1, snatches of loud conversation reached me.

“...did you see the piles of laundry?”

“...the air still smells bad. It makes me nauseous.”

“...idiots…we need a better Committee.”

“...I saw Meline and Bo behind the dryers. They’re finally together.”

“...still haven’t seen Kadar. I bet they tortured him and fed him to Chomper.”

“...uppers have it sweet. We outnumber them…can bribe a few Mop Cops, get weapons…”

I froze, then backed up to the last vent, listening to the man.

“...I heard that Tech No is out of the picture and the computers are going crazy. Perfect time to attack. We’ll force the uppers to be scrubs and live in their posh apartments. Then feed the Committee to Chomper.”

The man’s voice grew louder and I strained to see who spoke.

“What about that little scrub who started this whole mess?” a woman asked.

“I heard the Committee’s upset with her. Maybe we could…” He lowered his voice.