The Sky Inside

  “For number twenty-nine, b. For number thirty, d. Do not press submit. Put your hands in your laps.”

  There was a knock at the door. The little gray-eyed woman who was their principal entered the room, and every student sat up straighter. Martin saw Mr. Ramsey straighten up too. The principal was that kind of person. Mr. Ramsey led them in a chorus of “Good morning, Principal Thomasson.” She nodded gravely in return.

  “We residents of Suburb HM1 are very lucky people,” she declared. “Matt Johnson, can you tell me why?”

  “Because we won?” croaked Matt. He looked wretched. Martin could sympathize. It was a very bad sign when the principal remembered a student’s name. Unfortunately, Martin’s name was one she had learned long ago.

  “That’s right,” she said. “Our grandparents competed for the right to live here in comfort. The nation faced sickness, poverty, certain death. You in the front row, how many survived?”

  A brown-haired girl dimpled, happy to be anonymous. “No one knows the exact number, but—”

  “Don’t embellish!” Principal Thomasson thundered, and the girl’s dimples collapsed.

  The principal’s gray eyes raked across the classroom. “Martin Glass!” she barked, and he jumped and quivered. “How many survived?”

  “A few,” he said, and her gimlet gaze softened ever so slightly.

  “That’s right,” she confirmed. “A few. Who did more than just survive. We thrive. We have everything we could possibly want. Happiness is not just our right. It is our duty.”

  The students gazed at her in reverent dread, and she nodded with satisfaction.

  “Next week, we will do a few things differently to make our gratitude and happiness more apparent. But first, will someone please tell me: What is that thing?”

  Chip was standing on his hind legs at one of the open windows. His head showed above the window frame, and his tan paws were hooked over the sill. Mr. Ramsey snapped around to glare at Martin, and Martin felt his face grow hot.

  “Whose toy is that?” demanded Mr. Ramsey.

  “Mine, sir,” Martin said. His face was flaming now. “I’ll get rid of him, don’t you worry.”

  He held a consultation with Chip at the window. “I mean it this time!” he whispered. “She better not see you again!” His dog slunk away, wagging uncertainly.

  The principal waited for the disturbance to die down. Then she continued her speech. “Starting next Workday One, and for the whole of next week, we will make our gratitude a little more clear in our orderly behavior. An adult from your street will collect you house by house and walk you to school in the morning. Wait inside your houses until called for. That same adult will collect you on the playground and walk you home. You will not visit friends or play outside in uncontrolled groups. Instead, you will stay indoors. Suitable sports, organized by Mr. Ellis and Mr. Ramsey, will take place in the park during the evenings. They will let you know if you are on one of the teams.”

  A whole week as bad as school! Martin didn’t dare groan at this unwelcome news. David gave him a little kick, as if to say, What did we do to deserve this? Martin gave no answering sign.

  “Most importantly, we will spend our time outside of school each day watching our television sets. Through judicious programming and advertising, our government notifies us of wholesome products, and we spend our money on them to keep our country strong. During recess, we will sing rhymes from the latest commercials, and I expect you to know the—Good gracious!”

  The class turned to see a most unusual Chihuahua sneaking in through the open window. Pea green, to blend in with the classroom’s color scheme, the little dog made its way up the side of the wall, its small paws making plopping sounds. It crossed the ceiling, navigating the spaces between the light fixtures. When it reached the spot above Martin’s desk, it stopped. There it stayed, hanging upside down from its four paws, its large ears dangling like streamers.

  The principal stared at it in astonishment. “Martin Glass, can you explain this?”

  Martin’s face smoldered with embarrassment. He was sure the neck of his T-shirt was about to catch fire. “Ma’am, I told him that you didn’t want to see him anymore.” His voice squeaked, and some students snickered. “Anyway, I—I think he’s trying really hard not to be seen.”

  “He is not succeeding,” she noted grimly. “We can all see him without difficulty.”

  “Yes, you’re right, I know. I—I think I better take him home. Look, I’m really sorry about all this,” he added, and the snickers and giggles got louder.

  The small dog disengaged itself from the ceiling and reformed itself as it dropped through the air so that it could land right side up. Once on the ground, it expanded quickly and quietly into a German shepherd again, like a fountain bubbling outward from its base. In seconds, Chip was back, licking Martin’s hand. The entire class was breathless at the sight.

  “Man!” David said. “My cat never does cool stuff like that!”

  “David, you will report to afternoon detention,” Principal Thomasson snapped. Martin hurried from the room before she could send him there too.

  He ran down the hallway, out the front doors, and across the playground as fast as he could. By the time he arrived at the loading bay elevator, he was completely out of breath. At least now his hands had a reason to be shaking.

  “Okay,” he said, collapsing against the metal door next to his dog. “Okay, we need to work on that when-you-shouldn’t-listen-to-me thing.” He paused for breath, and Chip gave him a repentant lick. “Okay. But you did get us out of there, and we have time to find a good place to hide. Remember, Dad better not see us. He’d be furious if he knew I was skipping class.”

  Martin typed in Dad’s password to call the elevator, and they rode it down to the bottom. But they didn’t exit through the freight door. Instead, they left the elevator by the small door in the back and worked their way through a maze of hallways and storage rooms. When they reached a wide corridor that opened directly onto the loading bay, Martin found them a hiding place behind a pile of pallets. From there, they could see the steel gates and the main line that the incoming packet would take.

  Martin knelt on the concrete floor and peeked through the crack between the pallets and the wall to watch the freight bots rolling back and forth at their work. Chip lay beside Martin with his muzzle on his paws, not looking at anything in particular. Time dragged, but Martin reflected that it could be worse. He could be in class right now.

  “I wonder where Bug’s going,” he whispered to Chip. “I wish there was some way to find out.”

  At nine thirty, the steel gates swung open, and a modest-size packet pulled in. It actually had windows, clear glass windows just like a house. Martin had never seen windows on a packet before.

  A door at the end of the packet slid open, and a trim blond woman emerged. She wore a white lab coat, a pink shirt, and black slacks. In one hand she held a small leather bag. Dad walked over to her, and Martin realized how short she was: the top of her head barely cleared Dad’s chin. They talked together for a minute or two, but they were too far away for Martin to hear what they said. Then Dad went back to his console, and the woman walked straight toward the corridor that hid Martin and his dog.

  In a panic, Martin looked around for more cover. There was none to be had. The stack of pallets hid them from the front, but not from the side. Crouching against the wall, he pulled up his knees to make himself as small as he could and motioned for Chip to lie still. The woman in the lab coat passed by not five feet from them, her face set in a look of pleasant expectation.

  For some inexplicable reason of his own, Chip jumped to his feet to greet her. Martin grabbed him before he could intercept her, and the woman walked off, unheeding. The fluorescent lights sent bright glimmers across her collar-length hair as she made her way to a turn in the corridor.

  Martin watched her till she was out of sight, then turned to his dog. “What are you, crazy?” he hissed. Ears ba
ck, Chip thumped his tail halfheartedly, and Martin hyperventilated for a few seconds. “Oh no! She’s bound to come back this way! We’d better find another—No, too late!”

  The gentle murmur of the woman’s voice was coming toward them. There was nothing to keep her from seeing them as she made her way back to the loading bay. Martin could only curl up as close as he could to the pallets and hope that she wouldn’t glance over.

  And then he saw Bug.

  The bearded man was staggering, sliding his feet along the floor so that his whole body swayed from side to side. Dark blood crusted on his arms and in his hair. The little woman led him slowly down the hallway, watching him closely and talking soothingly to him. “You’re going to like the trip,” she said. “I’ll let you sit by the window. You’ll see, we’re going to have fun.”

  It was impossible to say whether Bug was taking any of this in. He was barely able to stay on his feet. At one point, he jerked his head to avoid falling, and Martin caught a glimpse of his face. His mouth hung open, and a bit of froth had strayed into his beard. His red-rimmed eyes seemed devoid of life.

  None of this disturbed the woman. She leaned close to her shabby companion. “We’re going to a wonderful place. I know you’ll be glad when you see it.” Her small hand was locked around Bug’s grimy wrist like a living handcuff.

  To Martin’s boundless horror, Chip jumped out in front of her. But he didn’t growl. From deep within him came the vibrating tone of bot speech.

  The woman stopped at once and glanced their way.

  What she might have said to them was lost in confusion because at that moment, Bug saw them too. A long bellow, inarticulate and dreadful, emerged from his cracked lips. Again and again, he called out, shouting and then screaming, a frantic cry for help.

  The blond-haired woman didn’t seem to mind. Smiling blandly, she resumed her platitudes. Then, as Bug thrashed, she simply picked him up and hoisted him over her shoulder. “Such a nice place,” Martin heard her say as she walked off. “I’m sure you’ll like it when you get there.”

  The next half hour passed by in a blur. Martin came to himself again at his own front door. Chip stood on the step, and Martin had a vague idea that he had followed the dog home. He could taste acid in his mouth. Had he been throwing up?

  His mother’s shocked expression brought his wits back, and he stood in the doorway for several seconds, trying to think of something to say.

  “Sick . . . sent home,” he managed to mutter, but Mom had already come to this conclusion herself. She marched him straight to bed, and he obeyed without protest. This reaction worried her even more.

  “You don’t have a temperature,” she said. “Still, you’re very warm. Try to tell me what hurts.”

  What hurt? Everything. His memory. His idea of safety. His ears, still echoing with Bug’s shrieks. “My stomach,” he groaned, hugging it. That was something every kid could rely on.

  Mom looked relieved. “I thought so,” she said, tucking the blanket under his chin. “Maybe it was the milk. I thought it smelled odd. Oh dear, I hope your father’s not ill! He was expecting a very important packet.” Under the covers, Martin curled up like a shrimp. He didn’t want to think about that very important packet anymore.

  After Mom left, he lay without moving, trying as hard as he could not to remember. A heavy body jumped onto the bed and lay down at his back, and he was glad to have Chip close by. Hours passed as he slipped in and out of sleep. Eventually, he began to feel better. He reached over to flip on his plasma lamp and watched the green and purple paisley shapes circle the room. Feeling restless, he felt around on the floor by his bed and found a game cartridge. Alien spaceships melted like shaved ice before his devastating onslaught, and he began to perk up.

  He turned on the bedside light. The plasma shapes, now nothing more than pale hints of color, continued to slide across the walls. Chip lifted his head and put his ears back in a friendly way, and Martin rubbed the thick, doubled fur of his ruff.

  “You know, Chip, Bug was kinda out of control,” he said. Chip laid his head down on Martin’s stomach and watched him with one dark eye. “Anyway, that lady seemed nice. Not like policemen in the movies. And even if criminals die on the game shows, that doesn’t mean Bug’s going there. He didn’t do anything wrong. He’s probably being taken to a special first-aid station, maybe getting cured. He needed that. He looked really bad. She said he’d like it when he got there.”

  This made him think of something else, and he sat up quickly, dislodging Chip, who scrambled about a bit before righting himself and lifting his head again.

  “And what do you think you were doing, jumping out to meet her when we were hiding? You were a bad dog!” At the ultimate reproach, Chip pawed him again and uttered a short bark of protest. “Hey, no back talk! Just for that, get off the bed.”

  Chip jumped to the floor, ears askew. Once there, he crouched with his head down and whined.

  “I guess you think you know better than me, huh? Shame on you! I told you not to speak bot around people.”

  Quite suddenly, the cringing shepherd ceased to be a dog. Its form flowed from horizontal to vertical. A three-foot-high copy of the trim blond woman stood beside Martin’s bed now, looking cheerful and holding out her leather bag.

  “Whoa!” Martin gasped, flinging himself back on his pillow and away from the apparition. The miniature woman smiled. She took a step toward him, and he panicked completely. “Mom!” he yelled. “Mom!”

  Running footsteps thumped down the hall, and his door crashed open. “What’s the matter?” his mother cried. For answer, Martin pointed at the little phantom, but the blond woman had disappeared. In her place was Chip, wagging contritely.

  “Oh! Hey, boy,” said Mom. She bent to pat Chip on the head. “Martin, you just had a bad dream.”

  Martin gawked at the dog for a second or two. “Yeah,” he murmured faintly. “It was bad.”

  Mom sat down on the bed. “Is your stomachache better?” she asked, feeling his forehead. “Are you ready for food yet? Maybe? Yes? Okay, I’ll go get you something.”

  She went away and left him alone with his pet. Chip seemed to realize that this was an awkward moment. He flopped onto his back, exposing his pale belly and asking for a tummy rub. Martin declined to give him one.

  “Man, that was creepy!” he said, shuddering. “Don’t scare me like that! So you mean she was a bot, like you. That makes sense, you know—because that’s how she could pick him up. Poor Bug!”

  Chip began to whine unhappily, and Martin gave in.

  “Come here,” he said, and he scratched the shepherd behind the ears. “I’ll say this for you bots. At least you’re nice. I mean, you really care about what you’re doing. Like that woman: I would have gotten mad at Bug for shouting and stuff, but she was really sweet. Well, it was sweet, anyway. Or at least it acted sweet. Yuck!” He shuddered again.

  Cassie came home while he was eating some crackers and entertained him with the news: Principal Thomasson had come to the Wonder Babies’ classes and had scolded them for failing to participate with the other students.

  “Jimmy said that all the other students do is beat us up,” Cassie told him. “And she said that’s what we deserve for failing in our civil duty. Or was it civic duty? Martin, which one’s right?” He shrugged, and she went on. “Anyway, she said we don’t have any student rights as long as we refuse to follow the approved curriculum. But Jimmy says the school’s curriculum isn’t education at all. He says it’s designed to deaden intellectual curiosity.”

  “He’s got that right,” Martin sighed.

  They heard the bang of the garage door and Dad humming as he walked in. “Cassie, set the table!” Mom called.

  Martin wandered out to the living room in time to see his father sink into the big green recliner and tip back the seat. “How’s the boy, then?” Dad asked affably, giving Chip a generous scratch behind the ears. “And how’s my other boy? I hear you’ve been sick all da
y.”

  “I’m okay,” Martin said. “Hey, Dad, how did today go? Mom said you had an important packet.”

  “Couldn’t have gone smoother,” Dad said, stretching out in his chair. “Hand me that pillow, would you?” He picked up the remote. “Now, what’ll we watch? A little fishing?”

  “No, I better go help with dinner,” Martin said. He felt better. His father looked perfectly normal, and that meant Bug was wrong. Nobody had sent him off to die. Martin imagined Bug in a first-aid room, having his bloody arms bandaged, maybe even getting a shave.

  Cheered, he turned to leave and almost fell over his dog. Chip sat like a statue, staring fixedly at a point on the living room wall. At first, Martin thought he might be hypnotized by the blue- and green-toned spirals of Mom’s plate-painting projects. Then Martin discovered a sequinlike object stuck to the wall beside them.

  “Hey!” he yelped, pointing.

  Dad brought the recliner forward with a snap.

  “Stop that!” He grabbed Martin by the shoulder and hustled him over to the couch. “You heard what I said in the loading bay. You are not to take notice of those!”

  “But, Dad, in our house!”

  “Of course, in our house—in all the houses, or will be by Rest Day, when the transmitter gets in. Now, I’ll tell you the one thing we don’t need, and that’s you and a bunch of your idiot friends fooling around with these things. From now on, you know nothing about them. Nothing about them! Do you understand?”

  Martin nodded.

  “Good! Now don’t mention them again. To anybody! You know why.”

  Martin glanced toward the tiny device, thinking of the squirmy oval thing that had crawled right through his living room and deposited it there to do its work.

  “You’re right, Dad,” he said in a husky voice. “The walls really do have ears.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Martin went over to David’s house after school the next day to help with the zombification of the ImCity cartridge. He sat on David’s bedroom floor, tinkering with different settings, while his creations blasted the tidy little neighborhoods into rubble. Flesh-eating spirits haunted the burned-out floor plans and refused to answer the door.