4
THE MEETING
For five months, Bryce and his team had vanished into isolation, chasing Project 782's impossible brief: a wireless camera to probe a black hole. Three descents. Twenty tests. All failures. The latest prototype survived spaghettification only to be lost in temporal distortions.
The black hole gnawed at Mars, swallowing another habitat zone every month. Riots scorched the Orange Zones. Infrastructure crumbled. Protests were a constant, choking hum in the air.
Elara had opened all public Orange Zones to displaced residents, save for Silicon Canyon and critical tech hubs. She donated two million corporate bunkers, setting them to float above the cramped companies' infrastructures as emergency shelters.
It wasn't enough.
The masses struck back. Factories were torched. Tents and makeshift homes sprouted from the ruins.
The elites and the surviving middle class fumed.
Today, the wealthiest had called a meeting at WASA's Glenn Research Center, summoning the Caliphs who support them.
They possessed the wealth, the influence, the resources required to become a Caliph—everything but the one thing that mattered: Bryce Onyx's final approval.
The center hummed with low, angry conversation. CEOs, high-ranking syndicate staff, and territorial dignitaries mingled—some sipping wine, others swapping B-Wax contacts, striking deals in hushed tones. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and suppressed rage.
The last guests arrived.
Forty souls packed the secure conference room, sinking into three rows of sleek couches. Eleven ultra-thin screens lined the back wall, each bearing the live feed of a Caliph. Elara's face was among them, calm and watchful.
Matilda, CEO of the Phobos Mining Syndicate, strode to the podium. Tall, slender, and muscular, her presence severed the remaining chatter.
"Good day," she said, her voice a steady, cold blade. "Thank you for assembling on short notice. Our next formal fundraiser is in nine Sols, but the current… insurrection… requires immediate consultation."
She paused, her eyes scanning the room like targeting scopes.
"We are under direct attack by the very populace our capital sustains," she stated, her frown etching deep lines. "Our funds filter their water, power their grids, and fill their ration packs. We supported Elara's two million bunkers. And they respond by biting the hand that feeds them." Her voice tightened, sharpening with contained fury. "We are here to present our proposals to our allied Caliphs. Dr. Obi, the floor is yours."
Matilda stepped down.
Dr. Obi, a lead astrophysicist from WASA, took her place. He was of average height, dark-skinned, impeccable in a tan suit, his calm as precise as his science.
"We have modeled a permanent solution to the congestion crisis," Obi began, addressing the screens. "With your permission, I will outline it."
"Proceed," a Caliph's voice filtered through a speaker.
"The direct approach—razing the tent cities, rebuilding fortified factories, deploying private security armies—is logistically sound," Obi started. "But it is economically blind. The masses are our consumer base and our labor pool. Overt force diminishes both. Therefore, we propose controlling the variable itself: population growth."
He let the silence hang, heavy and deliberate.
"The planet is literally shrinking. Births must become a regulated resource. We mandate a permanent, single-dose contraceptive for all females of breeding age. The antidote—a one-time, reversible treatment—is then sold at a premium. Only the capable, the contributive, will afford to procreate. And in strictly limited numbers."
On the central screen, Lil Chen, leaned forward. "It is an elegant plan. We presented it to Bryce. He refused. After the war killed seventy percent of humanity, his obsession with repopulation is pathological. His decree was to wait until the black hole claims half of Mars. Then we may discuss regulation."
Obi nodded slowly. "Then we must discuss the alternative. The General will elaborate."
He stepped aside.
The General ascended the podium. He was broad, athletic, his fair skin a canvas of scars. Two fingers are missing from his left hand. A bloodshot, milky eye. A polished robotic patch covering half his neck and his left ear. His dress uniform glistened under the lights, and two Kinetic Side Arms were crossed in a sharp 'X' over his back.
"Hello, Elara," his bass voice boomed. He offered a casual wave.
On her screen, Elara returned a thin, knowing smile and a slight wave of her own.
"We do not require Bryce's approval," The General stated. "He rejected the gentle solution. We now walk the hard path. Our surveillance networks have compiled biodata on ninety-four percent of the Martian population. We engineer a tailored biological agent. A virus that targets the redundant, the non-productive, and the burdensome elderly."
He froze.
His robotic ear twitched, a subtle servo-whir. It had picked up a sound—a shuffle, a whisper—from behind the sealed door.
His eyes snapped toward it.
He moved at an inhuman pace. The Kinetic Side Arm was in his hand before the audience could blink.
He fired.
The reinforced door splintered inward. Five bodies slumped in the hallway beyond, each clutching a Kinetic Side Arm of their own.
The General stood in the sudden, ringing silence, staring into the dark void of the hall, his weapon poised, wondering if more were coming.