The sewer roof stirred.
It was a vast, grim disc, the demarcation line between worlds. Below: the cramped warrens of the Yellow Zone. Above: the pristine spires of Silicon Canyon. The sewer roof is the ceiling for the buildings that housed the leaders of Mars. A floor for the corporations that created the leaders of Mars.
With a hydraulic groan, the roof opened.
Elevators ascended. From the wide, dark mouth, people poured out. Not like citizens. Like a single, desperate organism. They spilled into the canyon's sterile light and clustered tight, despite the space.
They parted only for one group.
A vanguard, led by a man in a battered respirator mask. They carried luggage filled with kinetic sidearms, polymer bags clinking with explosive crystals, and hand-stitched banners.
The banners screamed:
RELEASE US FROM THIS CRAMPED HOLE.
YOU DESTROYED OUR PLANET.
WE LIVE WITH A HUNDRED STRANGERS.
WHY DO COMPANIES GET MORE SPACE THAN WE DO?
The Masked Man stared up.
Bunkers dotted the rooftops—some static, some hovering on faint repulsor glows. The largest, a sparkling white diamond, floated serenely above the Onyx Technologies spire. When a project was deemed critical, those bunkers would seal into the canyon's dome, cutting the chosen off from the world until the work was done.
Directly ahead loomed the WASA complex. Its bunkers were the highest, its logo a study in arrogant history: the crumbling 'N' of NASA cradled by the descending 'W' of World, meeting the steadfast 'ASA' below. Worldwide Aeronautics and Space Administration. It gleamed with cold, institutional permanence.
Today, Silicon Canyon hummed. A faint, background whir of climate control and data streams. Muffled voices from within sealed buildings. The streets were empty.
Only the new arrivals were outside.
"We are tired!" the Masked Man screamed.
The crowd echoed it back. A wave of sound.
"We have endured!"
"WE HAVE ENDURED!"
"We are dying!" His shout tore at his throat, veins cording in his neck.
"WE ARE DYING!" The crowd's reply was a physical boom, a pressure change in the canned canyon air.
"We can't take it!"
"WE CAN'T TAKE IT!" The scream lingered, vibrating in the alloy and glass.
The vanguard opened fire.
Kinetic rounds sparked against skyscraper façades. Crystals shattered into harmless glitter against reinforced windows. Weak laser scorches marred pristine walls. WASA's building took most of the hits—the symbol of the delayed exodus, the broken promises.
The assault did nothing. A few cosmetic dents. A shower of sparks.
The mob's chant rose, twisting into the melody of Bella Ciao.
"We are in need of freedom, we live in cages," they sang. "O Bella Ciao, Bella Ciao, Ciao, Ciao. You fought a stupid war that ate up our planet. You destroyed Earth and brought us here."
Some sang in English. Some in the old Italian lyrics of the original song. A discordant, furious hymn.
"We'd rather die at home than on this fucking rock!"
They fired again. A useless, furious release.
******
Inside the WASA complex, Dr. Elara watched.
Tall, slender, immaculate. The harsh light glinted off the large thermal glasses shielding her eyes, striking her glistening skin. She did not blink, her gaze fixed on a specific cluster at the far rear.
She picked up a compact amp-field generator.
"Stop the violence." Her voice crackled from micro-speakers across the WASA façade, calm, magnified. "We cannot solve this with weapons. Our planet already made that mistake. Stand down."
Below, someone handed the Masked Man a dented megaphone.
"We are not stopping!" he roared.
"WE ARE NOT STOPPING!" the crowd thundered.
He turned to his people, his voice raw with rage. "They don't hear us! Form groups of fifty! Spread out! Arm five per group. The rest—find anything you can use as a weapon. Get inside those towers. And riot!"
The crowd began to seethe, to coalesce into packs.
Then, new gunshots cracked the air.
Not from the front. From the back.
All heads turned.
Fifteen figures at the rear stood their ground, kinetic sidearms and rifles raised—not at the buildings, but at the crowd.
"We go nowhere!" one of them shouted, her voice cutting through the chaos. "This is a riot, not a war. You want a war? We'll give it to you right here!"
The people near them scattered.
BOOM!
A concussive round from the group struck a rioter in the leg. The man went down with a scream.
"We're here to demand solutions, not become terrorists!" the female leader yelled. "Attack the Caliphates' property, and that's what you are. Disarm the vanguard. Or we will treat you all as hostiles!"
The mob's fury pivoted, confused, turning inward. A surge toward the front lines, hands grabbing for the leaders' weapons.
The Masked Man raised a fist.
The firing at the buildings ceased.
He stared at the dissenters, and pointed his weapon towards them, his eyes burning holes through his mask. A comrade touched his shoulder—a warning.
*********
Elara turned from the window, moving for her private elevator.
Her eight elite guards blocked the door. Electromagnetic shields hummed. Lasers gleamed. Sucre, her personal guard—a mountain of a woman—stepped forward.
"Ma'am. You are not going out there unprotected."
"Sucre. You will come. Shield deactivated. The rest of you," Elara's voice left no room, "stand down. That is a direct order."
"Director, the risk—" a guard protested.
Elara's gaze flicked back to the window, to the disciplined group at the back. A faint, cunning smile touched her lips. "I have elements in the crowd. The instigators are the only variable. I can handle myself. Sucre is for optics. Now. Move."
The guards fell back.
Elara and an unarmed Sucre stepped through the main doors into the thin, recycled air of the canyon.
"Good day." Elara's voice, amplified, was a blade of calm through the noise. "Quiet. Now."
The armed group at the back signaled fiercely. The crowd's roar subsided into a tense, buzzing silence.
"People at the rear," Elara commanded. "Lower your weapons."
They obeyed. As one.
"You think we are not working?" Elara's voice changed, warming, fraying with a perfectly measured emotion. "We have not abandoned you. You have always backed the Caliphates. Now our turn to back you. We lost Earth. We will not lose our home. Our freedom." She paused, letting the words hang. "We are the pinnacle of this universe. The most intelligent organism to ever exist. We conquer problems. The black hole swallowing our systems will not defeat us. We will conquer it, as we have conquered everything from the dawn of our existence!"
A wave of cheers erupted. She held up a hand, a barely-perceptible gesture for silence that took nearly a minute to be seen.
"Five years ago," she continued, her voice resonating with shared struggle, "the Caliphates united on a single project: making new homes. WASA and Space Y are at the threshold of habitable planets. Europa was promising. We are close. And with Red Zones claiming lives, we will find faster alternatives. Now. Go home. Rest. And know this—"
Her tone hardened into a vow, sharp enough to cut glass.
"I will personally hunt those who are silencing your voices in the Digital Zone. The net will be what it was: a place where you are heard. Where the Caliphates listen."
The explosion of adulation was physical. They chanted her name.
Elara smiled, a wide, benevolent, radiant thing. She waved. She signaled for the security gates at the canyon's edge to open.
She turned and re-entered WASA.
The moment the hermetic doors sealed, locking out the cheers, the smile vanished.
Her face went utterly, terrifyingly blank. Then it contorted into a mask of pure, undiluted contempt. She strode down the corridor, heels striking the floor like gunshots
She burst into the telecom nexus.
"Where are the Canyon's securities?" She screamed.
"They are all unconscious, poisoned with sleeping pills," they answered at once.
"Connect me to Bryce Onyx. Now!" she screamed, slamming her palms on the console. "Those ungrateful underground rats dare riot in my canyon?!"