Kai was right. People can act a little crazy in a countdown. It's what our affair can boil down to—being fucked against a clock.
It must be what has the people of the URE rattled as well.
From my spot on the flour pile, I witness their evolution.
Before the news, they were average, compliant citizens. They lived their lives with a thick layer of normalcy encasing their day-to-day monotony.
The morning after the broadcast, their tough shell cracked.
The morning after the fly-over, it split.
Now, I wait for the whole mess to fall apart.
"You can't be serious. Forty creds? For this piece of shit?" one disgruntled civilian shouts at a vendor. "I'd rather go Topside to find this junk myself. Forty creds. You're deranged!"
"You think you can find any quality pieces like this floating around in space? You're a bigger idiot than you look. Pay what I charge, or get the hell out of my booth."
"You're a criminal."
"Come back and say that to my face, asshole."
A brawl breaks out. A few more fists gravitate toward the squabble.
Jumping off my flour cliff, I throw myself into the middle of the fight, pulling one man by the collar while a militiaman grabs the other. Their blood, spittle, and angry grunts spark through the air around us. My head flings back when the vendor's fist connects with my chin.
The militiaman and I drag them to Level 9 where the prison roils with aggressive screams. Through the confusion, I locate a solitary guard.
"Good morning, Commander. I'm sorry, we're overcrowded," the older militiaman says.
"Overcrowded?" I ask in disbelief. "How's that possible?"
He clicks through his PAHLM, checks over his shoulder while whistling one long note, and returns to face the four of us. "Take a look. Six to a cell—it's unheard of."
A quick scan confirms his bizarre claim. There's no room.
It's hot here with civilians hanging through the bars, glaring at me. One spits on the ground. One kicks at the bars. One quakes with violent anxiety.
"She's one of those ship commanders," a woman shouts, pointing her accusing finger in my direction.
"She's a Reaper," another snarls. "She's trained for this all along."
"She's gone and let them win. She's on their side."
Their venom hits my skin and seeps through my pores.
I'm unprotected in my civvies. I hoped that in Moyra's old brown jacket with the cream curled collar, my go-to for years since her "death," I'd find a comfortable place to blend in. But this place is too small. This place has always been too small.
"I've got this from here, Commander," the guard says.
I thank him and return to my unofficial post. My duty is not here anymore. I'm Commander of ARC10—I have other places to be, other shit to do, other problems to solve.
Humanity, for now, is still in Earth's Militia's hands.
I fear the day when they'll be back in mine.
The flour-sack ledge is empty when I return to wait for the next incident to occur. They're cropping up with more frequency.
Fewer market booths opened today.
"I'm not doing it," an older vendor says to a set of militiamen who have come to insist she open her shop. "It's my business. I'm not opening it just to be mauled by the rabid dogs. I'm waiting till this whole thing blows over so I can resume business again." Her gray-streaked gossamer hair stands on edge.
The electricity activates behind the backs of the militiamen.
"You are in violation of ordinance thirty-three, section two of URE consumer law—all parties holding active licensing for distribution of produce and/or perishables must retain operational hours as per United Regions of Earth preset operational vendor guideline agreements. Do you acknowledge your violation?"
She hisses at them.
Their red rods hiss back.
I itch to intervene, to talk some sense into the woman, but it's too late now. I face the open sections of the market again.
My focus drifts into the crowd. Just in my peripherals, I catch a familiar figure. All senses hone in.
I groan internally. How is it everyone knows where to find me? My marketplace stoop is for solitude, not for office hours. He's the last person I want to see right now.
"Nika, we need to talk." Dean's frown stiffens his face. He approaches me as a man on a mission. This is the face Dean projects when he has something he has to get off his chest.
A sudden stabbing renders me speechless. Does he know? What did that bulky bastard tell him?
Who cares, I remind myself. I'm not contracted to him anymore. I owe him nothing. He is not conjuring images of me while holding Connie Jiang at night, impregnating her while I toss and turn alone in an empty pod. None of this matters.
Thank the Heap these thoughts are confined to my head. They sound incredibly juvenile, even for me. I'm pleased as pistons that not a word of it spills out.
Because it does matter. I do care.