WAVE Orbiting Station
Now

DORIC

I racked my brain, trying to remember seeing Travers up here at the station in the detention centre during those early days of the blockade. But I just couldn't. I must have seen him, but I never noticed him. Course, I was concentrating on controlling the troublemakers.

Mostly, I had the night shift, and in between dealing with the incorrigibles, I had lots of time to watch the newsfeeds. And those drones, they got everywhere. The Rats would shoo them out of their shacks, but those cameras are incredible. They'd just peek through a porthole or a crack in the roof. No sound, of course, too much background noise, but those images. Clear, crystal clear. Fuck, those images.

I got hooked—like everyone else—on those images, every hour, every day, every night. I watched walking skeletons collapse and die. I remember feeling appalled the Rats would let their kids starve other than co-operate. I shook my head as if I were looking at people not associated with me, that I had no connection to, even though they were locked up in the cells all around me. I never understood. I never thought and then, and then ... the feeds kept buzzing out.

"It wasn't like your classic grey blizzards," Harmony said to Mac into the camera, sitting in that sterile, dull-white interrogation room. "The dust was definitely directed to take out those drones."

Technical difficulties said the media networks, due to high winds and blinding dust. They put on talking heads instead, or repeated the same taped footage again and again.

"Okay, let's say for the moment that I believe you about the dust, tell me who was directing it to take out the cameras?" asked Mac.

"Everyone. No one. It's hard to say," Harmony answered. "So much rage and sadness and exhaustion. Despite it being the still season, the dust couldn't settle. It would go around picking up on these fits of temper, spiralling, feeding on the energy, flinging those drone cameras out of the sky. It would peter out just as quickly, and they'd send more drones in. Then the dust would turn into this thick fog, dark grey and yellow and green floating and heavy all around, blocking the sun, making the cameras blind. The dust couldn't make up its mind, because we couldn't make up our minds."

"After all that, you didn't want the aid workers to come?" said Mac, barking, always barking. "Why the hell did you ask for them on live media then?"

"I don't know, I don't know!" she barked back, pitching herself forward at the table, her arm and wrist straining against the cuff.

"Did Omari put you up to it? Did the Council tell you to say that?"

She shook her head. "No, I've already told you, they didn't know I was going to say it. I didn't know I was going to say it until I did. I wanted to push past the stalemate. I just wanted my son back." Harmony's voice cracked, and she began to tear up. Ann, Ann, please don't.

"Stop, Mac," I said. "You're pushing her too hard. It's too much for her." But what I really meant was it was too much for me. I was struggling to keep it together.

But the look on Mac's face told me there was no way he was stopping now. "How did the council react?"

She heaved her shoulders, wiping her nose on her sleeve, trying to get the words out: "We fought for days. Sharise and Mancy nearly came to blows over what I said; they flung dust at each other so thick we all began to choke, until Bergen stepped between them. Omari was red with fury not because of what I said, but because I had not consulted him first. He had lost control of the council and he knew it. Ng was trying to keep a lid on his temper—he had become as the blockade wore on, less hot-headed and more fatalistic. But Olafsen's daughter had just died, and she had no anger left in her, no hope, no nothing, just a deep dark hole."

Before Mac could ask his next question, Harmony continued to talk, words now falling out of her. "Nearing the end of the week, Omari called another public meeting in the Pit, and we told everybody the aid workers and the freighters were on their way. Most of them were relieved, but some of them were so angry it made me sick to my stomach. After the meeting, I went back to my cubby in the main bunker, and tried to block them all out, tried to sleep. I think I did a little, but I woke sometime in the night, in the pitch-black. My mouth was dry, chalky with dust, my stomach empty and aching for Mancy, for his body, just as skinny as the rest of us now, but still gorgeous to me. I called to him. Mancy? Are you there? I miss you. Stop being stubborn and come back to the bunker. Because I thought he was above ground sleeping in his shack again, but then it came to me that he wasn't in his shack. Mancy? Mancy, where are you? I called and called, but he never answered and I realized I didn't know where he was. I couldn't feel his presence."

Just how long can you block your mind from him, Ann? I know it's longer than you let on before.

No Vestra, it's the other way around.

I stared at her. A puzzle piece slotted into place. When I visited him in his cell, Mancy told me Ann was a liar, but, of course, he could have been the one lying. Hell, both of them could be lying.

"Is that it?" Mac asked through the mic, wondering why Ann had fallen silent.

"No, there's more," she said.

Pit District
Four and a half months ago

HARMONY

The next morning, I climbed out of the bunker and went to see Mancy in his shack. He had come back by then, you see, I knew, I felt him, he couldn't keep that from me. I asked him where he'd been.

"Here," he said, speaking out loud. "I was here all night."

I told him that I hadn't felt his presence in the night, and then reached out to touch him, but he pulled away. He shrugged. He told me that it wasn't his fault our connection was weaker now. Then he blamed it on the dust, saying that it had gotten so unpredictable. I knew he was lying.

Caraq called for me late in the afternoon. It was a very short meeting. He was distant, not nearly as charming as he once was.

"What's the matter Moses?" I asked.

"I'm to tell you formally that the aid workers will arrive on Simoom in three days. There's twenty of them and they will take possession of the old aid station down the slope that morning at eight. They will enter through this gate. They have declined our offer of a security detail. So, it will be up to the Pit Council to ensure their safety. They will also act as observers for the safe and orderly evacuation of the district, starting with the most vulnerable—the young, the old, the sick."

I nodded my head. That day Caraq was all business. I asked him how long the aid workers would stay. He told me for however long they were needed. Usually, by this time the voices in my head would be going at it full steam, but that day everyone on the council seemed subdued—resigned even. The fight, I think, had been knocked out of them. But I knew there were others in the Pit who were not ready to give up. "What about those who refuse relocation?"

"We won't force anyone to leave. But since we expect the evacuation to take several weeks, we're hoping most of the Pit residents will come around to accepting relocation. As a gesture of good faith, WAVE Corp. will provide enough food stuffs, water and medical supplies to keep the residents going until the last of the freighters leaves for New Earth." He slid a stack of printed paper across the table at me. "These are the terms of the resettlement offer. I expect you will find them quite generous."

I glanced at the dense paragraphs on the papers. "Just give me the highlights, please."

"Dismissal of all vandalism, trespassing and theft of company property charges. Full medical coverage, room and board and third-class passage to New Earth. Once you arrive and disembark you'll have to fend for yourselves. But no doubt, since you're all such media stars now, the New Earther NGOs will be lined up to receive you with open arms."

I felt a hiss of doubt from Sharise in the bunker. I asked the question that was on her mind: "How do we know that once we're on these freighters WAVE Corp. will keep its word and deliver us to New Earth?"

"You're just going to have to trust us," he said, then smirked when he saw the expression on my face. "Or you can be assured that neutral observers, as well as reporters and their drones will be on the freighters as well." Sharise was mollified, but only just.

"And the people who refuse to be relocated? What happens to them? Will you lift the blockade? Allow them to find jobs?"

He shrugged. It was clear by his face that he assumed everybody would get on those freighters sooner or later.

Then I asked the question that was most on my mind. "And our people being held in detention? What happens to them?"

"My superiors tell me they too will be offered a pardon and relocation. Exactly how or when is yet to be determined."

My heart fluttered—I felt all the hearts of the people with loved ones in detention flutter. "What do you mean 'yet to be determined'?"

"There's some legalities to sort out, and some logistics involved in making sure the detainees are assigned the same transport as their people in the Pit. I assume you don't want Travers travelling to New Earth on his own, maybe arriving months before you—you want to be on the same freighter as him, don't you?"

Relief and hope washed over me. I was so touched by the unexpected thoughtfulness of this gesture—I just knew that this was Caraq's doing. I was so grateful to him in that moment, I leaned across the table and touched his hand.

The touch lasted no longer than a second before we both pulled back. "Thank you," I murmured.

"Well," he said, clearing his throat. "Then I will expect you and your other fellow council members here at the barricades bright and early three days from now to greet the aid workers. No doubt the media drones will also attend. So, let us all be on our best behaviour."

I nodded my head and left him. When I said good-bye, I noticed he was staring at the hand I had touched.

So Caraq does have a heart after all—let's vote on it.