Chapter 6: The Sublevel

Ten minutes to eight, I’m in the kitchen, ready to meet Imani. My stomach is in knots, a million scenarios playing through my mind where Imani shows up empty handed. But I have to trust her, I have to believe she’ll come through.

The kitchen is bustling with activity, dozens of workers running around and prepping food. I stand in the corner, doing my best to avoid getting run over. Exactly at eight, I see a flash of movement in my periphery, and I look over to see Imani standing in the doorframe of a small closet at the end of the room. I make my way to her, and we both slip inside. It’s a utility closet, filled with brooms, mops, and harsh chemicals that sting my nose.

I look down at Imani, but before I can say anything, she reaches out her hand and places something in my palm. I can feel the cool edges of the plastic card, the indent where the NU is embossed into the front.

A security badge.

Somehow, Imani found one. Somehow, she’d gotten me exactly what I needed. I pull her into a tight embrace, and she hugs me back.

Thank you! I write onto the pad of paper I’d brought with me. She smiles then pulls out her own pen and paper.

You’re welcome.

She then continues to write.

Remember, that card won’t last long. You have to go now.

I read her answer then begin to write back, but she taps my arm before making three deep underlines under the word “now.” The black strokes are so forceful they almost rip through the paper.

I want to say more, to ask how she got it, but she taps the paper then points to the other side of the door. She mouths the word “go” and pushes me toward the door. Her urgency propels me forward, and I head toward the exit, tucking the card into my pocket.

Before I know it, I’ve made my way to the sublevel, the large doors looming before me. I think of how Trevor had been in this same situation just hours before his own death, but I don’t let that deter me. I’ve made it this far, and there’s no going back.

With a steady hand, I scan the badge over the reader and wait for the red light to turn green. When it does, the door lets out a hiss of air before rolling open, a wall of thick blackness greeting me on the other side.

With a deep breath, I take a step forward into the darkness.

I enter a small vestibule, which lights up from a single bulb recessed into the ceiling. The door behind me closes, and I notice the red light on the pad next to the interior door turn yellow. I step forward and scan the badge over the pad, the light changing to green as this door slides open.

My heart thumps in my chest as my eyes adjust to the dimly lit space beyond the door. Only a pool of light sits on the other side, lighting up a circle no wider than ten feet across. Everything else stretches out to inky blackness, too dark for my eyes to penetrate.

Slowly, I take a step toward the open door, uncertain what I’ll see. Trevor mentioned people down here, but I don’t see anyone. However, when I listen more closely, I notice a strange noise, a shuffling sound that emanates from the darkness in all directions.

Then, the sound gets closer to the opening.

I consider scanning the badge again and running out the door, but I stand my ground. I’m not going to turn my back now, not when I still don’t know what’s happened to Sanjeet. I ball my hands into fists, ready to attack, then burst out of the small room and into the open space beyond.

I whip my head in the direction of the approaching noise, hoping to see someone farther down the hallway, but instead, all I see is a tattered blue jumpsuit suddenly in my face.

I scream as a figure descends upon me. We collide, and I feel the person’s hands reach into my hair as we tumble to the ground. Without looking, I punch them, my fists raining down on their chest.

The person resists, pushing at my shoulders, but I refuse to relent, adrenaline surging through me. I won’t let them take me, not before I find Sanjeet. I don’t care if they eject me into space, I just need to know what happened to Sanjeet first.

I continue to smash my fists into the person until I realize they’ve taken their hands off me. They’re still wriggling, but it’s more of an attempt to get free than to fight back. A muffled gargling comes from their lips, and I finally look at their face.

My skin blanches as I take in the sight. My hand flies to my mouth and I scramble backwards off the man, trying to put as much distance between us as possible.

He’s wearing a worn employee jumpsuit that looks like it hasn’t been washed in weeks. Stains dot the front, and patches are torn away, loose strings hanging limply in the air.

But it’s not the clothes that have frightened me—it’s the man’s face.

His skin is a sickly pale color, small bumps erupting in tiny clusters randomly across his face. His skin sags, like it’s grown too fast to stay fastened to his skull. And the man’s eyes—they’re bloodshot with huge pupils, as if he’s in some sort of trance. I notice his lips are chapped and torn, yellowing teeth poking out from swollen gums.

He rises from the ground, and I scramble even farther away until my back is pressed against the cold metal wall. I stand, grabbing the panel for support, and my hand slips as I push myself upwards. My fingers press a button and lights suddenly burst on around me, widening the pool of light.

With a loud clunk, rows of lights switch on down the long room. And suddenly, I understand where the shuffling sound was coming from. Dozens of other people wander the room, oblivious to the lights that now shine down on them. As they walk, the fabric of their soiled jumpsuits rubs together, making the shuffling sound I’d heard earlier. It’s like a hive of bees whose buzzing combines together, culminating in a sound that is felt more than heard.

My attention snaps away from the scene in front of me and returns to the man. He’s awkward on his feet, like a newborn calf. I expect him to charge at me, but he acts as if I’m not even there.

With a grunt, he walks past me, his glassy eyes staring straight ahead. Like the others, he seems oblivious to my presence. He continues to lumber forward, his arms and legs flailing strangely as if he isn’t quite sure how they work.

Something’s wrong with him, that’s clear enough. Not just physically, but mentally. Neurologically. There’s something wrong with all of them. I glance at the others, who are still mindlessly shuffling around, and I notice they have the same appearance. The same drooping, sallow skin, the same dilated pupils, the same cluster of bumps across their flesh.

Except, now that I’m watching them more closely, I realize they aren’t just mindlessly walking back and forth. And then, to my astonishment, I realize what they’re doing.

They’re working.

I twist my head to follow the man who I’d thought attacked me and, sure enough, he’s reached into a chute in the side of the wall and begun to pull wads of dirty laundry out of it and place them in a nearby cart. When the cart is full, he pushes it toward a wall of washing machines, his process slow as he fumbles with his steps. Once at the machines, another worker with the same glassy expression and stilted movements helps him unload the laundry.

I stare in disbelief as I take in all the tasks the others are doing: ironing clothes, washing dishes, polishing silverware. Suddenly, it dawns on me that none of us on the floors above ever did any of this type of work. I never washed a single bedsheet. Sure, I stripped them and put on fresh ones, but the dirty laundry was always thrown in the laundry chutes, and the new ones came neatly stacked on our housekeeping carts.

All the work that can be done behind the scenes, out of sight from the guests, is being done here, done by these workers who clearly aren’t well.

“Hello?” I say into the large room, “are you okay?” But no one responds. They continue with their chores as if they can’t hear me. The only noise is the awkward shuffling as they walk from station to station and the hiss and whirr of different machines in the room. They seem completely unresponsive to anything but the chores laid out before them.

Assured they aren’t aggressive, I step farther into the room, looking at all the faces of the people that hobble around me. This is what Trevor must have seen, these zombiefied employees toiling away at their tasks. Their lives have been reduced to nothing more than the service they can provide for the ship. Part of me wonders if they sleep, if they eat, but I push it away. I can’t get lost in that; I have a job to do.

I need to find Sanjeet.

The larger room breaks off into various smaller rooms, all with even more employees whittling away at their tasks. One worker puts freshly folded sheets into a dumbwaiter, which she then closes before it zips upward–a contactless handoff so the workers above don’t see what’s going on below.

Room after room, I look for Sanjeet, and with each door I open, I’m overwhelmed by how many people are down here. People who have been trapped in the sublevel, forced to work until who knows what happens to them.

My rage builds as I search, and then, I see him. Sanjeet. The anger melts away, relief taking its place. But it’s only temporary. As expected, Sanjeet looks just like the others. His brown skin has become pallid, the tiny bumps spread across his face and hands. He’s skinnier than I’ve ever seen him, the bones in his face and wrists pressing outward against the sagging skin.

I rush over to him and pull him into an embrace. I’ve found him. I’ve found my brother. He’s standing at a large machine that opens and closes with a hiss of steam, pressing the fabrics between its grip. I hold Sanjeet tight, but he doesn’t budge. He just continues to push on the pedals at his feet that operate the machine.

I hold him at arm’s length and look into his eyes, his pupils the same bloated shape as the others. I expect some flicker of recognition to cross his face, but there’s nothing. He just stares blankly ahead as he continues to man the machine.

“Sanjeet?” I say, my voice cracking. “It’s me. It’s your sister.” But he doesn’t budge. Just the blank stare as he struggles to break free from my grasp that’s interrupted his work.

I grab his hand, determined to take him away from here. I don’t know where, but I can’t let him stay down here any longer. It’s killing him down here, I can tell, and I can’t let him go.

Not again.

But as I try to pull him away from the machine, he just grunts and pulls back, still not making eye contact. He’s surprisingly strong for how weak he looks, and I tug his arm again, but he resists, the grunting becoming louder, more distressed.

“Sanjeet,” I plead, tears now streaming down my face. “Please, come with me.” He doesn’t register my cries though, so I let go, afraid if I pull too hard I’ll hurt him. Free, he calms down and returns to the machine, placing a new bed sheet between the large paddles.

I allow myself to sob, to let the emotion of the moment take me over. I know it’s not rational, but I need to feel this in order to clear my head. I cover my face and sob into my hands, unconcerned with being heard. There are others down here, but none of them notice me. They just continue with their work. And that makes me cry even harder.

I let the tears fall until there are no more. I don’t know how much time I spent crying, but it feels good. My head throbs, but it’s a good pain. The kind of pain that helps you focus, helps you think more sharply.

I’ve mourned for my brother. Now, it’s time to save him.

I pull out my phone and open the camera app. Clicking the video, I press record and begin to film.

“I’m in the sublevel of the New Unity,” I say, pointing the camera at the people around me. I begin to narrate what I’ve seen, covering as much ground as possible. I demonstrate how I can’t get the workers to break away from their tasks, how they act as if I’m not even there. I show close ups of the condition of their skin and uniforms, making sure it’s all captured on video. Once I leave, I know I won’t be able to come back down, so I need as much evidence as I can get. It needs to be clear that something’s wrong with these workers and that they’ve been forced into the sublevel.

After I gather the video evidence, I head to the exit. I take one last look at the workers shambling around, and my heart hurts for them. They have families, loved ones who care about them who don’t know where they are. But more than that, they have lives beyond the work they’re doing here. Lives that, for whatever reason, have been stripped away from them, reducing them to cogs in a machine meant to meet the needs of the guests aboard the ship.

I feel a bubble of anger rise up in my stomach, anger at the injustice and unfairness of it all, but I push it down. I can deal with that anger later. Right now, I need to get out of here.

I turn back around, push the button that returns the room to darkness except for the small halo around me, and then I scan the badge to open the exit.