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Inside Out
Maria V. Snyder
Keep your head down. Don’t get noticed. Or Else. I’m Trella. I’m a scrub. A nobody. One of thousands who work the lower levels, keeping Inside clean for the Uppers. I just do my job and try to avoid the Population Control Police, who dream of recycling scrubs into fertiliser. So what if I occasionally use the pipes to sneak around the Upper levels?It’s not like it’s dangerous… Well, turns out it is. Because I know every corridor, pipe and shortcut I’ve become the go-to girl to lead a revolution.I know if we find a gateway to Outside it’ll be suicide plain and simple. But guess who likes a challenge? I should have just said no…Featured in Peter’s Gazette Librarian’s pick of ‘What’s Next’ FOR FANS OF THE HUNGER GAMES
Praise for New York Times bestselling author
MARIA V.
SNYDER
“Inside Out surprised and touched me on so many levels. It’s a wonderful, thoughtful book full of vivid characters and a place—Inside—that is by turn alien and heart- breakingly familiar. Maria V. Snyder is one of my favourite authors, and she’s done it again!”
—New York Times bestselling author Rachel Caine
“This is one of those rare books that will keep readers
dreaming long after they’ve read it.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review, on Poison Study
“This rare sequel to live up to the promise of its
predecessor, Magic Study is a wonderful combination of romance and fantasy.”
—Audible.com Editor’s Pick
“Snyder delivers another excellent adventure, deftly
balancing international and local hostilities against
Yelena’s personal struggles.”
—Publishers Weekly on Fire Study
“With new magic and new people introduced in
Storm Glass, Ms Snyder has a fertile new landscape to mine for us. I cannot wait.”
—Fallen Angel Reviews, a Recommended Read
“A compelling new fantasy series.”
—SFX magazine on Sea Glass
inside
OUT
MARIA V. SNYDER
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
MIRA is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited, used under licence.
Published in Great Britain 2009.
MIRA Books, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road,
Richmond, Surrey, TW9 1SR
© Maria V. Snyder 2010
ISBN: 978-1-408-92914-8
Version: 2018-01-23
To my niece, Amy Snyder, for your willingness to read my first
manuscript. Your enthusiasm for my stories sparked the idea
that I could write for a younger generation.
In loving memory of my grandmother, Mary Salvatori, and my best friend Hazel
Acknowledgements
My thank yous always start with my husband, Rodney. His support is critical to my writing and essential when I'm flying all over the place to attend book events. My children, Luke and Jenna, also get a thank you for inspiring me and for not making me feel too guilty when I'm running around for my other job.
The entire story for this book came to me in a dream, including characters, plot twists and ending. That hadn't happened to me before and hasn't since. However, dream novels still need to be written, and I’d like to thank a group of Seton Hill University critiquers who looked at the first chapter and said, "You may have something here."
Thanks to Dr. Michael Arnzen, Venessa Giunta, Johanna Gribble, Sara Lyon, Kathryn Martin, Heidi Ruby Miller, Darren Moore, Sabrina Naples, Rachael Pruitt and Shara Saunsaucie.
A special thank you to the original Tricky (the good one), Mike Mehalek, who came up with the cool title!
A big thank you to those who read the first draft and helped with revisions–my editor Mary Theresa Hussey, my agent Robert Mecoy, my critique partner Kimberly Howe, and Elizabeth Mazer. Also to all those at MIRA who helped the book along the way (too many to count, let alone list), thank you all so much! The cover is dead on perfect–a heartfelt thanks to the art department and all the talented artists and designers who helped with the cover.
No acknowledgements are ever complete without thanking my mounting army of Book Commandos. They are spreading the word about my books in bookstores, in book groups, in libraries, in line at the grocery stores, throughout their families and online. You guys rock! A special thank you for those who went that extra mile: Amberkatze, Lorri Amsden, Deborah Beamer, Linda Childs, Allison Leigh Davis, Michelle Deschene-Warren, David Hankerson, Michelle Haring, Kristy Kalin, Lexie, Holly Nelson, Lora Negrito, Rosemary Potter, Lee Ann Ray, Christina Russo, Rachel Smith, Michelle Staffa, Jenny Sweedler and Diana Teeter. Trella will want to recruit you all to the Force of Sheep.
1
A VIBRATION RIPPLED THROUGH MY BODY.
I awoke in semi-darkness, unsure of my location. Reaching out with my hands, I felt smooth sides arching up and in. My fingers touched overhead. Pipe.
A distant roar caused unease, but with sleep fogging my mind, I couldn’t quite grasp its significance. The pipe’s vibrations increased as the thunder grew louder. Water. Coming toward me. Fast.
I scrambled in the narrow space. My bare feet slipped on the sleek surface of the pipe as I advanced toward a faint square of bluelight emanating from the open hatch. It seemed an impossible distance to reach.
Cogon’s voice in full lecture mode echoed in my mind as the water rushed closer. “Someday, Trella. You’ll screw up and there will be bits of you raining out of the showers.”
I reached the hatch and dove headfirst through the opening, convinced the water rushed at my heels. Landing on the hard floor, I shot to my feet and slammed the door shut. When I finished sealing the hatch, the whole pipe shuddered, then the vibrations calmed as the water returned to its normal flow. The metal cooled under my fingers, and I leaned my sweaty forehead against it, catching my breath.
That was close. Soft bluelight glowed all around the water-filtering machinery. Hour eighteen: I knew by the rush of water. The upper workers adhered to a strict schedule.
I checked my tool belt to make sure nothing was broken and my flashlight still worked. Then I climbed from the ductwork and made my way to level two by taking a shortcut through an air conduit. Traveling through the pipes and air shafts, I avoided seeing my fellow scrubs. But my peace and quiet ended too soon as I opened the vent, swung down and landed in the middle of a crowded corridor, scattering scrubs.
Someone knocked into me. “Watch it!”
“Come to mingle with the lowly scrubs, your highness?” A mocking bow.
Used to curses and hostile glares, I shrugged. The mass of people in the tight corridor jostled and pushed me along. Life in the lower two levels teamed with scrubs at all hours of the week. They moved from work to their barracks and back to work. We were called scrubs because rust and dust were the twin evils of Inside and must be kept at bay; however, scrubs also maintained the network of mechanical systems which kept both uppers and lowers alive.
The scrubs shoved. They frowned. They complained. I hated every one of them. Except Cog. No one hated Cog. He listened. Empathized with tales of misery. Made people smile. A rare occurrence—as rare as a person like Cogon.
I headed toward the cafeteria in Sector G2. It stayed open around the clock. As far as I could tell, Inside’s length and width equaled a square with four levels. All constructed with sheet metal. Overall measurements, by my calculations—for reasons unknown Inside’s exact dimensions and specifications were classified—were two thousand meters wide by two thousand meters long by twenty-five meters high. Each level was divided into nine areas.
If I drew a square with two lines across and two lines down inside it, I would end up with nine smaller squares. The first row’s three squares would be labeled A, B and C, the next row D, E and F, and the last row G, H and I. With this configuration, there were four Quadrants A, C, G and I, which were Inside’s corners, and five Sectors B, D, E, F and H. That was the basic map of each level. Boring, unoriginal, and predictable to say the least.
The cafeteria and dining room for the lower two levels encompassed all of Sector G2. The number two meant it was on the second level. Even a four-hundred-week-old scrub couldn’t get lost. Hydroponics resided directly below in Sector G1—the lowest level—making it easy for the food growers to send vegetables to the kitchen scrubs.
The hot, musty smell of people packed together greeted me at the cafeteria’s door as the noise of them slammed into me. I paused, deciding if eating was worth being in the same room with so many scrubs. My stomach growled, overruling my reluctance.
The line to get food remained perpetually long. I took a tray and waited, ignoring the stares. Most scrubs changed from their work clothes to wear the drab green off-duty jumpers before eating, but I was scheduled to scour an air duct at hour twenty. So I remained in my formfitting uniform. The slippery dark blue fabric covered every inch of skin except for my hands, feet and head. The material helped me slide through the tight heating ducts when I cleaned them. And I didn’t care if I was the only person not wearing moccasins. My mocs were back at my bunk in Sector F1. With so many scrubs around to clean, the floor didn’t even have a chance to become dirty.
Pushing my tray along the metal shelf, I pointed to what I wanted from three different choices. The big containers held either green-, yellow- or brown-colored slop, and they all smelled like moldy vegetables. The food was easy to prepare, easy to cook and best of all easy to reuse. I didn’t even bother reading the names of the dishes. If the kitchen staff called it a casserole, a quiche, a stew or a soup, it all tasted the same. A pulpy, leafy spinach flavor dominated the other ingredients lurking in the recipe.
To be fair to the cooks, hydroponics didn’t offer much in the way of variety. Mass production of the hardier vegetables had replaced diversity, and there was only so much a person can do with mutton. I didn’t want to be fair, though. I just wanted something different to eat.
After being served, I found an empty seat, and let the discord of multiple conversations roll over me.
“Where’ve you been?” a voice asked over the din. I looked up at Cog’s broad face as he pressed into a seat next to mine.
“Working,” I said.
“You were supposed to be done at hour ten.”
I shrugged. “Got to make sure the pipes are squeaky clean for the uppers.”
“Yeah. Like it would take you that long,” Cog said. “You were sleeping in the pipes again.”
“Don’t start.”
“You’re going to get hurt—”
“Who’d care? One less scrub to feed.”
“Grumpy, aren’t we? What’s the matter, Trella? Get wet?” Cog smirked, but couldn’t hold the expression for more than a second. He was soon smiling, unaffected by my mood.
“Shouldn’t you be changing a fan belt or something?” I asked, trying to be nasty, but Cog ignored me, knowing it was all an act—although with any other scrub, I wouldn’t be acting.
He nodded to scrubs passing our table, calling out hellos and sharing his smile.
“How’s the shower head in washroom E2?” Cog asked one man.
“Much better,” the man replied.
I had no interest in mundane details so I tuned out their conversation. Instead, I contemplated my only friend. Too big to fit into the pipes, Cog worked with the maintenance crew and did odd jobs. Most of it busy work, just like scrubbing. Too many idle hands had been deemed dangerous by the upper workers.
Scrubs also labored in the recycling plant, the infirmary, the care facility, hydroponics, the kitchen, the livestock yard, solid-waste facility or in the waste-water treatment plant. Most scrubs were assigned their jobs. A Care Mother noted the skills and aptitudes of each of her charges and recommended positions. My smaller size automatically matched me as a cleaning scrub. It suited me just fine.
“When’s your next shift?” Cog asked.
“One hour.”
“Good. Someone wants to meet you.” Cog’s eyes held an avid glow.
“Not another prophet. Come on, Cog, you know better.”
“But this time—”
“Probably just like the last time, and the time before and the five times before that. All talk. No action, pushing false hope. You know they have to be employed by the upper officials to keep the scrubs from rioting.”
“Trell, you’re jaded. Besides, he asked for you by name. Said you were the only one who could help him.” Cog seemed to think this divine calling should impress me.
“I have better things to do with my time.” I picked up my tray, intent on leaving.
“Like sleeping in the pipes? Pretending you’re all alone, instead of crammed in here with everyone else?”
I scowled at him. My fiercest frown, which usually resulted in some breathing room.
Cog stepped closer. “Come on. Hear the guy out.”
Again, his face glowed with the conviction of a true believer. Poor Cog, I thought. How can he set himself up for another crushing disappointment? How can I turn him down? Especially when he was the only one who remained my friend despite my abuse. And who’d watched out for me, growing up in the care facility together.
“Okay. I’ll listen, but no promises,” I said. Perhaps I could expose this prophet as a fraud to keep Cog from becoming too involved.
Dumping our trays in the wash bins, we left the cafeteria. Cog led the way through the main corridors of the second level toward the stairs in Quad A2.
The narrow hallways of Inside had been constructed with studded metal walls painted white. Only Pop Cops’ posters, spewing the latest propaganda, scrub schedules and the list of proper conduct could decorate common area walls on levels one and two. At least the massive bundles of greenery in every section of Inside helped break up the monotony. Although, if the plants weren’t needed to clean the air, I was sure the Pop Cops would remove those, too.
I would never have had the patience to fight my way along the main paths, but Cog’s thick body left a wake behind him. I followed along in this space, walking without effort and without touching anyone. A moment of peace.
We descended the wide metal steps. Cold stabbed the soles of my feet and I wished I had worn my mocs. Bare feet were useful in the air ducts, but not in the main throughways.
