My face stings as raindrops stab my cold skin, despite how numb it feels from being out in the chill, moist air. Harsh breaths form before me, matching each step my flying feet take as I run the path in the outdoor courtyard of the manor, my heavy boots squishing into the soaked lawn that resembles a pond more than a mowed quadrangle of silky grass. The wind kicks up. My body screams at me to give in to the chill and go back inside, but I push myself to run faster, lifting my feet higher and smashing them into the ground, leaving jagged footprints in the soggy mess of the courtyard and ignoring the bits of mud that splatter on the sides of my boots, forming oval splotches. Rain pelts my bare shoulders, and for a fleeting moment, I remember that I should have worn my jacket, but shake my head because I do not want to get it dirty.
Thunder rolls through the clouds. The rainy season has arrived. I push harder. With each circle I make on the track, my steps splash harder in the water, sending droplets of brown water into the air, soaking the bottoms of my pants. I ignore the cold. I ignore the pain of the stabbing rain. My mind refuses to calm itself, to stop harboring the images of the infant. In vain, I tried to sleep last night, but sleep eluded me, flirting with me, allowing me a few blissful moments of dozing before jerking me awake and teasing me, reminding me of the way a cat toys with its prey before delivering the final stroke. If only I could have been allowed to close my eyes, but each time I did, I saw the infant's frightened face.
I run faster.
My arms swing at sharp angles by my side as I extend my legs, forming long strides to obey my demands. The rain pours, shielding me from prying eyes, preventing me from looking upon the city I am sworn to serve—to protect. But I failed to protect—it was a plebeian child. I upheld the law. I did as I was trained. So, why is there this gnawing sense of guilt pushing against the barriers of my mind, begging to be released?
I run even faster.
My lungs burn for air and scream at me to stop, to let them breathe and give them a rest. I cannot rest. I must keep running. Running keeps my mind occupied. It prevents me from dwelling on recent events. My foot slips on the slick grass and I lose my balance, tumbling forward, and I roll across the ground, getting covered in water and grass clippings, despite my feeble attempts to catch myself. Curtains of rain surround me, enveloping me as I lay on the ground in a puddle that stretches from my nose to my ankles, and mud oozes over my back while bits of it fall from my chin.
Soft plops echo in front of me. I look up and watch as the toes of a pair of black boots materialize in front of me, challenging the weather to do its worse. A hand appears before my eyes, opened in a welcoming gesture. I take it and a strong arm heaves me from my embarrassment on the ground and to my feet, while another hand wraps a jacket around my muddied shoulders.
"Not the best weather for a run, is it?"
The kindness in Renal's voice startles me. I have never heard him sound harsh, but nor has he ever sounded this benevolent, as though he cared about what became of me.
"I'm just trying to stay in shape," I say.
"Come."
I do not argue, not that I believe I am in any position to put up much of a fight, so I allow him to guide me over to an awning that is a few feet away from the nearest door into the manner, but protects us from the sky's furious tears.
"I have found myself out here on many occasion when I feel restless."
"I'm not restless," I snap.
In response, Renal gives me a doubtful look and raises an eyebrow, telling me that I am not fooling him.
"There comes a time in every arbiter's life when they start to be plagued by the faces they meet."
"You mean the people we detain."
He nods his head. "Some call it guilt. It troubles some sooner than others and it appears that it has latched itself onto you, for the moment."
I keep my mouth shut. Guilt? Why should I feel guilty for doing my duty to Arel?
"I think Commander Vye has been pushing you too hard, but yesterday, no one could have spared you from dealing with the unregistered child, except for Commandant Gazini, but he is a man... well, some believe that he is not human. You are a good arbiter, Noni, and you have more than proven your loyalty to Arel."
"Then why can't I sleep?"
Renal looks around and I notice a few stripes on his shoulder that stretch beneath his undershirt, stripes that match my own. "Listen to me very carefully. You did as you are supposed to. You must push these other thoughts away. Do not dwell on them."
"So, I am not the only one?"
Renal gives me a questioning look.
"You said that guilt plagues some sooner than others. That means that others have found it difficult to do their duty. What happened to them?"
"Some learned to separate themselves from it. Others could not escape it and the fires in the crematorium burned even brighter than in the past. I knew a man once. He was an arbiter like yourself and had to perform a similar task, dealing with an unregistered child."
"What happened to him?"
"He lost his mind. Tried to assassinate a member of the council, and the dogs that guard the wall had a feast that night."
The downpour continues, creating a melody that lulls one into a calm silence.
"Just remember your training. Remember who it is you serve."
"Is that what you do?" I ask Renal, trying not to stare at the marks on his shoulder.
"I have other reminders."
I give him his jacket back. He tries to refuse, but I shove it in his waving hands and thank him. The door is not far and I am already wet, so what does it matter if I get a little more rain on me? He takes it and gives me a reassuring smile, leaving me to wonder what other reminders he referred to, but I dare not ask. Some things are best left untouched.
Leaving Renal alone under the awning, I jog back to the manor and hurry inside, not caring that my boots track mud in, until I see the same plebeian girl I had seen my first day here. She tries her best not to show her ire at me leaving mud prints, but I read her facial expressions and know that she is thinking about the time she will now have to spend cleaning it up. Doing something I have never done in the past, I take my boots off, holding them so that no more mud will drip onto the carpet, and carry them up the stairs to my room, passing the new plebeian boy that Mandi had brought by as he cleaned an adjoining room and tried to not watch me.
Once in my room, I change out of my wet clothes and into a dry uniform, putting the rain gear on over it in preparation for my patrol duty. I stare at my boots, the last item I need to put on, and the mud that still adorns them, masking their polished exterior, a color that is a bit darker than my skin tone. I reach for them, but pause when I remember the girl cleaning the carpets. Sighing, I snatch a rag from the pile of dirty clothes that I need to send down for the wash and wipe the mud off my boots, performing another task that I have never done before. When done, I place my sore feet into my boots, the blisters on the balls of them burn as I put my weight on them, a constant reminder and side effect of my position, and I lace them up.
Ready to report for duty, I scoop up my dirty clothes, admonishing myself for not dealing with them earlier as untidiness is frowned up, open my door, and stop when met by a startled squeak. In front of me stands the new plebeian girl that Mandi had dropped off. She jumps to her feet, the brush she had been using to scrub a stain out of the carpet dangles from the tips of her tiny fingers, and individual strands of her blonde hair frizzes, pulling away from her head because of the extra humidity in the air. I shove the pile of clothes into her slender arms, causing her to take two steps backwards.
"I want these washed and pressed by the end of the day," I tell her.
"Yes, ma'am," she replies in a quiet voice, keeping her eyes downward.
"What is your name?" I demand, knowing I needed to call her something other than "new girl".
"Gwen, ma'am."
I pause. Her voice sounds familiar. I remember it. The girl I had tried to stop during my night patrol had blonde hair, at least, it looked blonde in the pale light. I take bits of her hair, wrapping them in my fingers, but being careful not to cause her harm, and stretch it across her face so that only her gray eyes are visible. My mind works overtime, trying to piece together the fragments of that night, but something about her is familiar. Is she...
"I can take those and have them washed," says a voice. "It will allow her to finish cleaning the carpets."
Snatched from my attempt to remember why I thought I had seen her before, I look up and see the same plebeian boy—my age, I assume, so close to being considered a man—walking up to us with a duster in his grimy hands.
"Did I ask you for your assistance?" I snap at him.
"No, ma'am."
"Gwen, you will have these washed and pressed in addition to your other duties. If you cannot manage to accomplish your tasks, then we will find another place for you."
The girl, Gwen, bows her head and nods, indicating that she understands my threat.
I stomp down the corridor, but stop next to the boy that had interrupted me. "Name?"
"Chase," he replies.
Without warning, I raise my fist and backhand him across the mouth, drawing a few droplets of crimson blood. "You will not interrupt me again, and you will only speak when spoken too. Understand?"
The boy refuses to wipe the blood from the edges of his lower lip, keeping his eyes downcast, as he says, and the disdain in his voice is quite evident, "Yes, ma'am."
The rain beats against the pane of glass in the window, reminding me of what I will be spending my day in and a thought strikes me. If I have to spend the day soaked, there is no reason why he cannot also. "I want you to clean the equipment outside."
Satisfied that I have gotten my point across, I hurry down the stairs and out the door to my patrol duties.
Time passes at its normal pace as I make my rounds, following my own system of wandering the streets and checking each of my assigned areas, a system taught to me by both Commander Vye and Renal, which I modified to suit me. Anemic sun rays poke through the clouds at odd intervals before the sun disappears again behind the charcoal obstructions as rain continues to pour, making me glad that I have my raingear. The streets are quiet; even the walkways are sparse, as people must have decided to remain indoors on a day like this. I head to a moving walkway that is protected under a roof to get out of the rain for a while.
Something smacks into my back. Startled, I whirl around, wondering what has just struck me, and why. Mud slaps my face and I rear my head back, wiping its slimy essence off my skin as a boy's laughter fills my ears. He bolts. I chase after him, splashing in the puddles that fill the holes within the pavement, catching up to him, grabbing his coat and yanking him off his feet.
"What was the meaning of that?" I demand, my anger at having mud thrown at me rising.
"Arbiters are mindless drones that do the bidding of the council!" he spits.
Interesting. "Where did you get such a notion?"
No answer.
"Tell me!" I shake him in an effort to force him to tell me.
"No one!" wails the boy, not wanting to tell me the truth. It doesn't matter. There are ways of getting the truth from people.
"Do you realize that slinging mud at an arbiter constitutes assault and that assaulting an arbiter is a crime?"
Fear fills the boy's face.
"You'll have to answer for this," I say.
The boy struggles to get away, but my grip remains firm as I drag him through the streets to an information booth in the rain, which seems to have picked up. I place the boy's palm on the screen on the side of the booth and his information pops up, listing his name and guardians, telling me that he is one of those few children permitted to be adopted by a couple who had applied for such a privilege.
To give the illusion of familial relationships, Arel will allow some to adopt children. The parents do not get to choose the child, as all selections are random, and they will follow in the footsteps of their adoptive parents, meaning that if the guardians are bakers, then their adopted child will be a baker; though, sometimes exceptions are made.
I scan the screen. No prior infractions. "For the infraction of assaulting an arbiter. Recommend questioning the guardians as well," I say when prompted to give my reason for the arrest.
A panel slides open, revealing the detainment box, and I shove the boy into it, ignoring his protests and promises to never throw mud at me again. He clings to the side of the opening, forcing me to pry his fingers away from the doorframe. He is no match for me, and with one final push, he slams into the back of the box and the panel slides close, cutting off his pleas for forgiveness and cries of remorse.
My stomach growls. Checking the time, I realize that it is close enough to lunch and I know just where to go. Turning away from the booth, I head to the only place, according to Renal, to get a meal.
I open the door to the diner that Renal had taken me to my first day in the eastern sector and step through, entering a bustling world of cheerful banter, and I am inundated with the tantalizing aroma of sausage roasting on a spit. Listening to my stomach growl as my nose takes in the spiced vegetables, fresh-baked bread, and herbed chicken roasting on another spit, I take off my rain gear and wrap it around my arm, not wanting to drip water all over the wood floor.
"Come in! Come in!" greets Sigal, the proprietor, taking my rain coat from me and hanging it on a hook by one of the fireplaces so that it could dry. "I'll take that."
Again, I find myself amazed that he is not frightened of or even cautious around an arbiter, which seems to be the habit of many within Arel. I smile at him and stroll through the diner to a secluded table near the back where I can observe everything around me, but remain unnoticed. Within seconds of me sitting down, Sigal's wife places a tumbler full of a pink-colored juice drink in front of me.
"Whatever you have for your special today," I tell her when she looks at me for my order.
The woman smiles, the genuineness of it causes her face to glow with a natural charm that is not seen much in my city, and whisks away, the bracelets on her wrists clinking as she does, and weaves her way through the bustling crowds as though performing a waltz.
I sip my drink. Strawberry. I like it. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a woman carrying a child, a jubilant smile on her face as she shows off her offspring to Sigal, who commends her on having such a beautiful baby. The green papers in her left hand indicate that she had been approved to adopt an infant, and it is only a few months old. Once all newborns reach three months, they are brought in to the hospices for a full physical examination, the second one of their life, and new papers are issued. I watch as Sigal's wife takes the baby and holds it in her arms. A maternal grin crosses her lips while memories of the woman in the factory fill my mind. Her ash-covered face, coated in streaks from the sweat that dripped down her skin, glares back at me with vehemence as she challenges the authority of Arel. She possessed a similar facial structure as Sigal's wife. Perhaps they were related. Cousins, maybe. I will never know.
A sharp wail strikes my eardrums, thrusting my wandering mind back to the furnaces in the factory as I recall the harsh screams of the plebeian infant while I held it in my arms, until I silenced it. It had no mother to wrap it in her loving embrace, much like the woman in the diner is doing to her child. It had no one to comfort it, to tell it everything will be all right, that the nightmare was just that—a dream. It only had me.
I place my hands over my ears to block out the harsh cries of the infant, but it passes through them, determined to taunt me, to remind me of what I should not be feeling. My hands slap the hard surface of the table in frustration, their sudden movements knocking my drink over and spilling pink liquid all over as it oozes over the edge and drips onto the floor, forming a sticky puddle. Before I have a chance to reach for a napkin, Sigal's wife is upon the mess and cleans it with a blue towel. She must have the eyes of an eagle.
"Sorry," I apologize, but she remains silent, giving me another of her genuine smiles, and places a fresh glass of strawberry juice on the table to replace the one I have spilt.
The chair across from me scoots away from the table as someone sits in it. "You should have told me that you were coming here," says Renal.
I scold myself for not seeing him, nor hearing him approach. Vigilance in a necessity if you wish to remain alive and I have failed, allowing myself to become wrapped up in my own thoughts, my own troubles, my conscience. Do not dwell on it, that was Renal's advice to me this morning, and I must adhere to it. Guilt is for the guilty and I am an arbiter performing my duty. So why do I feel otherwise?
"I did not know I was coming here until a few minutes ago," I reply. That is true enough. Some days, while on patrol, I do not have time for a meal, so I do not plan on stopping at any eatery, deciding that it is best to just wait and see, and take it on a day by day basis. "Been here long?"
"Long enough to enjoy Sigal's daily special."
"You recommend it?"
"Of course."
I lean a little closer, having a question burning on my mind that I've been wondering about for some time. "Might I ask you something?"
"Depends on what you want to ask."
"I have noticed that there are a lot of children in the eastern sector, and it's probably not just here."
"That is not unusual. We have a hospice here."
"Unregistered children." I lower my voice so as not to attract the attention of unwanted ears.
Renal gives me a pensive look, but remains silent.
"Back at the hospice, there was the councilman with three children, all unregistered. When the riot took place, another unregistered child was found, and at the factory was a third. That is a lot of children being born outside of the breeding centers."
"Where are you going with this?" asks Renal, but the cautious tone of his voice hints that he already knows what I am about to ask.
"The sterilization additives put in the city's water supply to control the population—is it not working?"
I do not intend to cause trouble, but I cannot help but wonder. Since I reported for duty in the eastern sector, I have seen an unusual amount of unregistered children. There have always been a small percentage of kids born because the sterilization additives do not work on everyone, but they work on the majority of the population, or so I was told at the training academy.
"You silence that questioning tongue of yours right now."
Renal's abrupt anger and unusual harshness catches me off-guard, and I back away from him. He softens his eyes and leans closer, glancing around to make certain that we are not overheard.
"Forget the question you just asked me."
"But..."
"Cast it far from your mind. What you have seen, what you have witnessed, forget it all."
"It is difficult."
"You must do it."
Disappointment grabs me by the shoulders, threatening to throw me off the chair as I stare at Renal, angered the he refused to answer my question. I cannot be the only one to have noticed this. The population must be controlled; otherwise, we will face famine and people will die, though, many have already died and some by my hand.
I cast aside the remnants of guilt that ebb at the base of my subconscious mind before it has a chance to take hold of me. I am an arbiter. An enforcer of the law. I have no time for remorse when all I've done is fulfill my duty.
"But, what if..."
"No ifs," Renal cuts me off. "The additives work. You must keep telling yourself that. And never, under any circumstance, speak of this again. If anyone were to hear you..."
Renal allows his voice to trail off, leaving his statement hanging open, but I understand his meaning. Asking unwarranted questions is not allowed. I knew a fellow recruit at the training facility who questioned everything around him. I never saw him again, nor was his name ever mentioned. It was as though he never existed.
"You are an arbiter. You will do your duty," Renal says to me. "You will find, Noni, that some things are not as they told you while in training. You will notice things. You may even start to wonder about these strange incidents, but do not speak of them, or ask about them. Promise me that you will never bring up this subject again."
A note of desperation fills Renal's voice and a part of me is curious about his past. Did he lose someone? Did he once ask the wrong question and was reprimanded for it?
"I promise," I whisper.
"And as for the plebeian infant," begins Renal, "remember what I said to you this morning: do not dwell on it. Emotions are luxuries that arbiters cannot afford to have."
Luxuries? I have never thought of them as such. Molers always described emotions as burdens best left behind. "I understand," I say.
A pleased smile crosses Renal's face and I look to see where my food is. On the far side of the room is Sigal whispering to another man. They split up and the man creeps over to a back room, looking around before disappearing behind a plain, rust-colored door, while Sigal chats and jokes with his customers, worming his way to the same door and ducking behind it. I sit up straighter, craning my neck for a better look, but before I am able to see anything more, a curved shape appears in front of me, blocking my view of the back room. Sigal's wife has arrived with my food. She places the platter in front of me, along with another glass of juice to replace the one I have emptied.
"Will there be anything else for you?" she asks, remaining between me and my line of sight of the back room.
"No, thank you," I reply.
"You enjoy your meal." She pauses next to Renal, before leaving, "And you, don't you go helping yourself to her lunch. You've already had yours."
"Wouldn't dream of it," jokes Renal.
When she leaves, Sigal is back in the main dining area, participating in a bout of banter with a group of customers as though he has been there the entire time, and I find myself doing the very thing Renal has just warned me about: wondering about something that is best forgotten. What was Sigal doing back there? And who was that man? I shake the inquiries from my mind as I glance at Renal and his warning about asking too many questions storms through my mind. My food grows cold and I have no desire to eat it that way.
I take a forkful of twice baked sweet potato and savor it, allowing the combined flavors of garlic, cinnamon, and parsley waft over my tongue. As I savor every moment of my meal, my eyes dart in Sigal's direction and I notice him looking at me as he talks to his wife, but before I can wonder about their conversation, he looks away and continues bantering with the group he is with.
The television monitor in the room flashes red before blowing up and forming a wall-sized, three-dimensional image of Ulani—the premier news reporter of Arel—appears. All chatter ceases and people hold their utensils, filled with bites of food, in midair as they look up and wait for the announcement to follow.
"We interrupt your normal programming for breaking news," Ulani says in her usual businesslike manner, her rose-colored suit pairing well with the nature of the report. "Riots have broken out in the southern sector"—images of people running in the streets with homemade explosives, torches, and anything they could find to use as a weapon fill the screen, followed by footage of screaming children, a destroyed hospice, and a burned education center—"as people voice their discontent with the leadership of our presidents. Fires engulf the southern sector as our brave arbiters attempt to stop the rampage."
More images of arbiters in full riot gear tearing into the crowd, holding hoses that release powerful streams of water, while others resort to their weapon, fill the room, engulfing all within the diner.
"It is believed that a small group of terrorists are responsible for this riot, but we will not know for certain until an investigation can take place. For now, all citizens of Arel are encouraged to stay in their homes. Curfew will begin at three, for your safety, until the riots have ended. We will keep you informed of further updates."
The three-dimensional images disappear as the television screen returns to its normal size and goes blank. No one speaks. Sigal's wife hands boxes to patrons who wish to take their food with them, while their daughter takes the payments in a quick and steady fashion, scanning people's wristbands and deleting their rations from their accounts.
"Let's go," says Renal, standing tall and zipping up his jacket.
"Go?"
"Commander Vye will want us to report in before sending us where we will be needed, to make certain that the riot does not spill over into the eastern sector."
That makes sense. I take one longing look at my unfinished meal, cursing the rioters for interrupting my chance to eat—they could have waited another half-hour—as I zip up my own jacket and follow Renal outside, where we run to the nearest detainment kiosk, which also serves as a communication station in emergencies. He scans his wristband and a screen pops up, demanding to know his name.
"Lieutenant Renal. Serial number R26389."
The screen flashes green and a trap door opens, revealing a two-seater car. Before he is able to move, another screen opens, asking if he is alone.
"No," answers Renal.
In response, the screen angles toward me, demanding to know my name as well. I give it and scan my wristband. The trap door remains open, and before I have time to consider what I am supposed to do, Renal shoves me over the edge and to the track below.
"Get in!" he yells at me as he drops beside me and takes a seat in the underground car.
I situate myself in one of the seats, strapping the harness around me just as a glass casing closes around us, forming a protective barrier from what is to come next. It speeds forward. My body slams into the back of my seat, threatening to push through it and come out the other side as the gravitational force takes hold, making me glad that we at least had the protective glass shield to protect us from the rush of air. The track turns to the left and the shuttle follows it, causing me to lean sideways as I attempt to compensate for the sudden change in motion. The track takes a sharp swerve to the right. Again, the car follows it and I find myself jerked to the left and pressing into Renal, the straps of the harness digging deep into my skin and cutting through my jacket.
"Just follow my lead when we get there," Renal says.
I want to ask him questions. I want to demand what is going on. I thought we were to report to Commander Vye, but it appears that our orders have been changed without any forewarning.
Red flashing lights streak past us as we continue our trek underground. I try to look around at the tunnel I am in, its polished, steel walls reflecting the movement of the car, which looks more like a blur as we careen down the tracks, instead of an actual transport. Pipes run from the floor to the ceiling and stretch across it in an ordered fashion of parallel lines and sharp angles, all forming a sense of order with their symmetry.
We take another turn and my head slams into the side of the glass as I am thrust to the right. With each second, my heart beats faster, skipping every other beat as my breathing quickens from nerves and the uncertainty of where I am being sent. Before I have a chance to calm myself, the car jerks to a stop and I thrust forward; only the harness prevents me from flying through the glass shield, and I grip the edge of my seat for a bit of added security, though it does little to prevent the momentum from flinging me forward. Once stopped, my body slams into my seat and I remain there for a moment, regaining my senses, but that moment ends when Renal seizes my shoulders and yanks me from the car, pushing me toward a stairwell that leads upward and to another trap door. In front of the stairwell are other arbiters, some of whom hand out riot gear, while others take it and put it on.
Renal steers me to the people parceling out the gear. Before I have a chance to comprehend what is happening, an armored vest, helmet, and weapon are rammed into my arms. I do not need to be told what to do next. I place my armored vest on, having only worn one once before while as a recruit in the training facility, but this is different—now I will be wearing it to put down an actual riot, one that must be worse than previous incidents if they are handing out protective gear. Ripping velcro fills the tunnel around me, drowning the murmurs that spread among the other arbiters as they strap on their gear and ready their weapons with a series of clicks that rattle off the walls and to my ears.
Renal is dressed before I have secured the first strap of my vest. He takes one look at me, and without a word, his hands fly over the other straps, fastening them, and securing the vest, making certain that it fits tight against my skin. No smugness fills his eyes, just his methodical movements ensuring that I am prepared. I put on my helmet and hold my weapon, ready to meet whatever is on the other side of the door.
"Stay close to me," says Renal, his helmet muffling his words.
I nod.
Boots stomping on metal, grated stairs erupt into a chorus of rhythmic thumps as we run upward to the door and pass through it, spilling onto the street above. Sunlight blinds me for a second as my eyes adjust—which does not take too long thanks to the darkened visor of my helmet—and I follow the arbiters before me, allowing them to lead. A quick glance around tells me that I am no longer in the eastern sector, but the southern one.
A long, slender object flies overhead and plummets to the ground, landing in the middle of the crowd of arbiters that I am with, sending a metallic clink to my ears—a hollow sound that stands out among the shouts and screams that surround me. A hand seizes my right shoulder and shoves me to the ground, away from the mysterious object just before it detonates and sends a shockwave in a 360-degree radius that rips through anyone in its path. People writhe on the pavement, gripping their injuries as they wallow in pain, while a few try to stand, despite their wounds.
Stunned from the blast, I aim my weapon at a person running through the crowd and fire, not knowing if he is part of the riot and not caring.
Renal pulls me back to my feet. He points me toward the crowd and I nod, telling him that I understand and follow him. We charge toward the chaos, joining the other arbiters as they attempt to quell the riotous crowd. A man runs toward me. I fire at him and he drops to the ground, still clutching a Molotov cocktail. Before it has time to explode, I scoop it up and throw it into the melee where it bursts in midair, pelting those near it with shards of glass. Another charges Renal. I plow into him, shoving him out of the way, bringing my weapon up and blocking the knife that the rioter thrusts at me, kicking him in the stomach. He doubles over and I ram the butt of my weapon into the back of his neck, knocking him to the ground. In an instant, I scoop up the knife and throw it at another rioter as she runs for me, striking her just above her diaphragm.
The melodic dong of a bell fills the air. Looking around for the source, I spot a man with a sledgehammer, pounding the bell that sits in a plaza square as though he is sounding the charge. His antics fuel the rioters who shout with fervor and charge any arbiter they see, ignoring the streams of water that fall from the high-powered hoses that are being used on them. Some scream as a jet of water plows into them, knocking them off their feet.
This riot must end.
I do not know if the man ringing the bell is their leader, but he is urging them onward, which makes him a threat. Knowing what must be done, I race for him.
"Noni!" shouts a worried Renal.
I ignore him. I need to be closer to hit him, as the current distance is too great for my shot to be of any use. I swerve to my right to avoid an arbiter locked in hand-to-hand combat with a member of the rebellious crowd. Another breaks from the mob and charges me. Bending low, I dive to the ground, allowing him to trip and fly over me, smashing into the pavement. Without bothering to look back, I jump to my feet and head for the man ringing the bell once more. Just a few more steps.
The screams of the people mingle with the detonations of homemade explosive devices, filtering through my helmet, making me wonder if I wore it at all as it permeates the atmosphere and fills my ears, disorienting me. I focus on my target, dodging between people as I run and leap over bodies that litter the ground. I am in range. Stopping, I place one foot in front of the other, keeping my knees bent, and breathing slow, steady breaths as I raise my weapon and take aim. I have my target in my sights. Having not performed a feat like this since my training exercises, my nerves threaten to overwhelm me, smothering me with their agitation, but I release a slow breath, steadying my heartrate as I block out the chaotic sounds around me. I pull the trigger. The recoil knocks me to the side a little as I did not account for the power of the weapon handed to me, nor is my shot heard, drowned by the fray, but I watch as the man with the sledgehammer bangs the bell one last time, before dropping to the ground.
A blunt force slams into my back, knocking the wind from me, despite the vest absorbing most of the impact. I fall face first to the pavement, my elbows aching from the force of the impact as I land, and my helmet flies off my head, rolling a few feet away on the uneven ground. Rolling onto my back, I bring my leg up to kick my attacker, but he avoids it and is on my chest, straddling me. Pinned, panic rises within me. I jerk from side to side to throw him off, but his weight proves to be too much, and all I manage are a few twitches that are nothing more than mere annoyances to him. He goes for my throat and squeezes. I seize his wrists, but he is too strong for me. Choking, and fearing that I will pass out soon as my brain starves for oxygen, I release his wrists and flail my arms, searching for anything that will help. My fingers brush something jagged. I reach for it, desperate to grab it. Almost have it. Gasping, I snatch the piece of glass that had once belonged to a bottle, and plunge it into the side of the man's neck. He releases me. I throw him off me, crawling to my helmet, seizing it, and swing back around just in time to strike the man in the head with it, before he is able to attack for a second time.
A low whistle breaks the melee. I glance at my wristband and notice it flashing red, each flash happening faster than the previous, and I know that it is counting down. The attack drones are on their way. As the whistle grows, morphing into a thunderous roar, I seek shelter, joining the other arbiters who all know what is coming, but I do not have time to reach the buildings that the others have gone to, so I hunker by two bodies, pulling them over me. A spray of gunfire rains down upon the area, shattering the ground around me as I cling to the bodies I use to protect myself. I watch as feet race past me, unaware of my presence, belonging to panicked screams as people try to flee the onslaught, but many of them stop and bodies fall, unable to escape.
The ground rumbles. A smile crosses my lips. I know what is coming. The rumbling grows and the pebbles around me dance and bounce as armored vehicles appear, each armed with men ready to fire upon the crowd. I throw the dead bodies off me and crawl out from under them, jumping to my feet and hurrying to join the other arbiters as they fall in behind the tanks. Soon, the riot has been put down, leaving us with the aftermath: destroyed property, dead bodies, and wounded people who were executed on the spot as collaborators, a scene of death shrouded in the smoldering remains of what had been beautiful architecture serving as a testament to Arel's rise from the darkness.
Softball-sized drones appear, ready to capture the moment that another riot has been put down. I stand among the wisps of smoke as they trail across the pavement, reaching for the strands of hair that escape my ponytail, my helmet hanging from my limp grasp, studying the scene before me and the open eyes that look past me. What had started this? The southern sector is a good sector, protected from the attacks on the wall. What reason could they have to destroy their own home? I spot Renal and remember what he had told me earlier: do not ask, just do. He spots me and relief washes over him.
"Put your helmet back on," he says in a low voice when he reaches me.
I do, just as another group of arbiters arrive, the ones who will take our reports and submit them to the council.
"Remember," whispers Renal, "answer only the questions that are asked."
"What's going on?" I ask.
"They will want your account of what has happened."
"But they did not want one when the eastern sector fell prey to a riot."
Renal shushes me. "They want one now. Just give them direct answers."
An arbiter with red bands on both his sleeves, marking him as one of the council's investigators, marches up to us with a handheld tablet.
"State you names and serial numbers," he commands us in a stern voice, devoid of emotion.
Renal and I obey.
"Tell us what happened here," says the man.
The next ten minutes are spent with us each recounting our role in putting down the riot. I am careful to give short, concise answers, following Renal's lead. The investigator makes me uncomfortable and a line of sweat forms along my forehead, causing the inside of my visor to fog up, but his cold manner unsettles me, and I sense the same tension within Renal.
Once we are finished, Renal grabs my left arm and leads me away, back to the trap door we had come of, where we hand in our weapons, helmets, and armored vests before taking the two-person shuttle back to the eastern sector.