Descendants of Power

By P.N. Shafa

When the 1% flees a climate-ravaged Earth for a luxury Martian colony, will the survivors left behind build a new utopia or collapse into post-apocalyptic chaos?

Earth has devolved into corporate feudalism. The mega corporation NewOrigin promises a quick escape from an Earth made uninhabitable by global warming, and a fresh start on their new Martian colony.

But when a whistleblower reveals that the colony has the capacity to hold only a tiny fraction of the Earth’s population, the ultra elite stampede for a standing spot near the bathroom on the last shuttle to Mars.

There is Liam and his daughter Jemima, distant relatives of the CEO of NewOrigin, who battle against Earth’s remaining billionaires in a race to the Skylift shuttle minutes before its last launch.

Then there is Finbar, an establishment loyalist working at one of the largest social media networks on Earth. If she just keeps her head down and ignores the rioters outside, her contract promises her a golden ticket to Mars.

But does the new colony really offer salvation? NewOrigin’s rule becomes increasingly authoritarian in the struggle to control an overflowing population. Florentine, the once tech-billionaire, finds himself a member of the overstuffed colony’s burgeoning underclass.

In a world of only the powerful, who will dominate, who will revolt, and who will be left when the dust clears?
Earth and Mars evolve in parallel over the next one hundred and twenty years. One civilization runs from its mistakes, while the other must meet them head on.

When Tsunami, the great granddaughter of the once mighty NewOrigin CEO, flees Mars to beg political asylum on Earth, old resentments must be confronted in a planetary-wide, precedent-setting immigration hearing.

Descendants of Power is darkly comedic science fiction at its best, merging rising fears of climate apocalypse with dreams of Martian colonization. It is the narrative of a people divided and reunited again, and at its core the question: can we outrun our own human nature?

• Language: English
• Publisher: P.N. Shafa
• Release date: Mar 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005454449

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Copyright © 2021 P.N. Shafa

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Descendants

of

Power

P.N. Shafa

Native Humanoid Press

To Edmund.

Without you, there is no book.

Without you, there is no author.

The quandaries of our time are war (the shadow of power) and pollution (the shadow of progress).

–Sam Keen, Fire In The Belly

Martian Immigrants VS People of Earth

Court Transcript

Day 1

It is at that point that we will need to ask ourselves—that humanity will need to ask itself—what must we do differently this time? What are we not doing differently, that we cannot see?

—Baptista Rhyne, Mediator of the Defense, OneRace Representative 

First in Line

Year 0

Earth

Liam

In precisely 132 minutes, Liam Heinzer will be swinging a golf club at the last of Earth’s billionaires while leapfrogging an endless snake of luxury cars like lily pads.

But he doesn’t know that yet. For now, he’s relaxing in an impeccable suit of athleisure, sprawled in the back of his self-driving, Compu-Pilot Tesla as he settles into his second martini.

Don’t judge, Jem. Flying makes me nervous, Liam jokes, but his wit goes right over Jemima’s head. She’s only four, after all. 

It’s hard to tell through the buzz, but Jemima seems especially unresponsive today. Could be that Liam fed her a bit too much Adderall this morning. It was still within her prescribed dosage, but Jesus does it knock her out.

Are you excited to see Mommy? he tries, watching her over the wide rim of his martini glass. She turns to look at him slowly, then keeps going, past the point of eye contact, out the other window, and…she’s gone.

I don’t know, maybe the anti-vaxxers were right. Liam drains the last of his drink and tosses it aside. It bounces on the carpeted floor and rolls under one of the plush leather seats. It’s no worry, they’ll never use it again. The glass or the car.   

The Tesla glides over the cusp of the hill, rising to meet the ceiling of acid ripe red clouds as the freeway comes into view. It is filled with cars idling from north to south. And honking. Lord, are they honking.

Jemima makes a small, distressed sound. Her first noise of the day.

Don’t worry Jem, public highways are for the…well, not us.

No, they’ll be taking the private tunnel directly to the SkyLift. Musche friends and family only. Very exclusive. Thank. God.

As predicted, the Tesla does not veer toward the freeway but turns onto the old highway. It’s mostly deserted these days, made up of the narrow winding roads of a bygone era. 

How quaint. What a romantic way for us to exit this world, eh Jemima? Liam waxes, only slightly sloppy, before adding, TV: On. Liam waits as the dashboard lights up. Turn to: Public Access.

The numbers on the dashboard flicker—a digital light show to appease human aesthetics—before settling on a channel. On the ceiling, the TV screen fills with the bug-eyed stare of a distressed reporter getting his close-up as he reads from the teleprompter.

"…Clashes between rioters, terrorists, and security personnel have erupted nationwide in response to the Central Bank’s decision to freeze all digital transactions until social order is restored…"

What a fucking mess. Liam tuts, fishing under the seat for his dismissed martini glass. Not quite done with that, on second thought. He glances up at Jemima. Don’t tell Mommy I used the F-word?

But Jemima doesn’t seem to hear him. She’s staring at the news with rapt attention.

Like a miniature Wall Street exec, Liam thinks fondly and pours the gin. 

"…Live streams from citizens around the country indicate that insurgents have already overpowered the governing bodies in at least four districts, including Walltown, Amazonia, and FaceFeed campuses. Casualties are being reported in…"

Let’s change the channel, shall we? Getting a bit gruesome for my taste. And it doesn’t really concern us, does it, Jemima? Let’s see… Liam pauses, tapping his lip as he bites it. A little habit he picked up back when he was a track star in college. Practiced it in the mirror daily, that little ‘thinking’ face of his. And damned if it didn’t work with the ladies. Women like a thinker. Or at least someone who looks like they could be thinking.

It’s how I got your mom, he tells Jemima without preamble and flashes her a wink. It’s like talking to a garden gnome. Entertaining when drunk, perhaps, but ultimately a one-sided endeavor. Liam sighs. 

TV: Turn to: Exclusive Intelligence Channel.

The digital light show of numbers flashes again, before landing on a private subscription channel whose news anchor is of an entirely different caliber. A man who could accurately be called a silver fox is wearing a matching silver sequined tuxedo, floating with well-bred ease in zero gravity. Behind him, the floor to ceiling windows look out onto an endless universe of speckled stars and galaxies. He speaks with a voice as smooth and rich as a bottle of bourbon worth more than an out of state college education.

…From 650 miles above sea-level, we thank you for tuning into Exclusive Intelligence! I’m Blake Burgundy and we’re continuing our top story following the ‘tick–tick–tick’ of time running out for those who want to live their best life in the New World! With unparalleled accuracy, our agents on the ground are informing us that the situation on Earth has turned U–G–L–Y following dramatic escalations overnight—meaning we have now entered the final countdown in the Amazing Race!…

The words ‘FINAL COUNTDOWN’ slam together to form a heading at the top of the screen.

Oh, I love this guy! Liam says, spilling his drink.

…In–house estimates have the clock run down to mere hours before our brave security personnel at the SkyLift and other major launch sites are overwhelmed by hordes of violent extremists. So if you are still on the ground and you don’t want to die drinking unfiltered water from a puddle with a guy named Derrick, you had better grab your favorite designer bag and move–move–move, baby!…

The screen blips dark and flashes to commercial.

"…Secure your spot in Mars’ premium condos HERE today! Don’t show up without a plan! Limited number available and going fast!…"

Liam moans. "I pay for this subscription. Bloody expensive, too. And they’re running ads? He slugs back the last of his third martini. TV: Show me: SkyLift Live News Update."

The screen fades to blue and a stack of large, simple print black words scroll down the display.

Due to unexpectedly high demand rates, SkyLift is only accepting riders and carry-on bags.

Strictly no pets, and no stow-away luggage.

All riders must submit to a full-body scan before entry.

Please be advised that due to security concerns, use of force has been authorized to all personnel.

One hour and twenty-eight minutes until the next lift departure.

What! Liam jerks upright from his slumped position. They’re not supposed to take off for another five hours! He looks at Jemima, but she’s staring at the static screen.

TV: Off! he yells, and the screen goes dark. Jemima blinks and returns to looking out the window. Outside, the wheels of the Tesla splash arcs of water as it sails through the rising puddles that pool at the foot of the seawall, left in disrepair ever since the TaxPayer Riots last year.

Liam slams his head back against the carpeted interior. He cannot—no he can not—stay on this godforsaken hellhole of a planet. They have to make it to the SkyLift. Oh God, he’ll never see his wife again…

Liam! Pull it together! Think, man! He gives himself a hard slap across the cheek. This, at least, gains him Jemima’s transitory attention as she turns to watch him with a distant interest.

"Okay, I know! Ah, Tesla: Increase speed to—"

"At legal speed limit," the Tesla chides him.

Liam has watched his father-in-law do this a hundred terrifying times. The man has all his play-cars illegally outfitted with a manual drive mode that can override road laws.

Enter manual drive? Liam tries. He doesn’t know how to drive. Not really. Certainly not on a public road. He’s a father for God’s sake. How irresponsible would he have to be to—

"Manual drive mode ready for activation."

Okay! I can do this. I can do this, and we’re going to Mars! Liam crawls from the lounge area in the back of the Tesla to the front seat and reaches into the bag where he keeps Jemima’s Adderall. He cracks a capsule open onto the dashboard and snorts it fast. 

Okay! Liam gasps and wipes away the nose bleed. It’s fine. It’ll be fine! He’s driven his father-in-law’s special edition sports cars around the racing rink before. This can’t be that different.

Liam takes a deep breath and puts his hands on the wheel, activating manual mode.

Increase speed by…fifty miles per hour. They lurch forward. Jemima falls from her seat in the back and slams onto the car floor while their passports sail across the dashboard. They have plush fur carpeting, she’s fine. 

Woohoo! Liam screams, feeling, honestly, yeah, pretty damn high.

Sure, he swerves a fair bit, but there’s no one else on the old highway. They’re all plugged up on the expressway, the idiots, so Liam gets to the private access tunnel in record time, no problem.

Liam pulls up to the gate and leans out the car window, exposing his gargantuan pupils for the retina scan, before it swings open.

We’re going to make it, Jemima!

They swerve around the reflector lit corners, down the dim tunnel, and towards sweet, sweet freedom.

Liam can hear the rushing sounds of other vehicles far in front and behind him, the growl of their motors ricocheting off the cement walls. He tunes everything out, narrowing in on the tight turns of the tunnel as he instructs the Tesla to go faster, yes,  faster! He loses track of time, but they must have been driving for at least an hour. He can hear the sounds of those other invisible cars building up, which means they’re nearly at the parking garage…

Liam slams on his brakes, barely tapping the bumper in front of him.

He can’t believe it.

Idling cars stretch down the tunnel and out of sight as far as the eye can see. They may be of a more luxury branded variety, but otherwise they aren’t any different from their dented and dulled cousins filling the public expressway. And they’re honking. Goddamn it, they’re honking! Give a man a horn, and they’re all the same honking bastard in the end. 

This was supposed to be private, Musche family and close friends only! Who the hell are all these people? But it’s no use. They’re stuck.

TV: On! Liam barks, pushing down the panic. He’s got to keep it together. Keep it together for Jemima.

The television flashes back to the channel it was left on: The SkyLift Live News Update. He scans the static screen, and there it is, at the bottom. His fate etched in block letters:

Twenty minutes until the next lift departure.

Liam can feel his blood pulsing in his ears. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do, all he knows is he can’t stay here. Not in this car. Not on this planet.

Jem! The stress and the Adderall combine to create jittery, impatient bedmates. Get out of the car! Liam sweeps their passports off the dashboard and tumbles out the door. He races to the trunk where his golf clubs are stored and selects a large titanium driver for good heft. God knows he’s swung it enough to know how to handle it. 

Jem! Liam pulls open the back door and grabs her by the shirtfront, hauling her out. Get on my back, Jemima! He squats.

Without a word, she clambers aboard. Twining her little arms around his neck, she clings to his shirt collar. Liam hoists his chosen club over his shoulder and stands up with a grunt. None of the other car inhabitants have noticed him. They’re all lost in their own worlds, yelling at their spouses or hammering angrily on their dashboards.

Here goes nothing. Liam squats, quads bunched and leaps onto the car idling in front of his own. 

What the hell! the man inside the car screams as its roof dents in the shape of Liam’s feet. But Liam is already off, jumping onto the next car’s roof, and the next. He springs, leaping from one tightly tucked Lexus to the next customized Mercedes. People are pissed. Probably jealous they didn’t think of it first. Someone tries to grab his feet, but he’s too quick, bounding out of reach. Thankfully Jemima is small for her age. And you can’t disqualify his daily runs with the weighted vest.

Lucky for you, your daddy runs marathons, Liam huffs, the Adderall really starting to kick in. Your daddy never let himself go! He lets out a battle cry, swinging the golf club high and then low. The cool steel meets the smooth glass of an adjacent car window, shattering it.

The stalled cars are filled with bickering family members, their windows rolled down in the heat. Liam catches snippets of their TVs as he leapfrogs by. Unsurprisingly with this crowd, they’re all listening to the same channel: Exclusive Intelligence.

…Emboldened by some unknown anger, crowds are rushing the base of the tower like it’s midnight on Black Friday!… Blake the spangled commentator cries out in jovial repulsion.

Almost…there, Liam pants. He has to say it out loud. He has to believe it.

He turns out to be quite the trendsetter. As the idlers watch him sprint past, it seems to spark something in them. To kindle open panic, burning the last of their social reserve away. They push out of their cars, running after him. But no one else is as fast. They’ve taken too long to catch on.

…Sea-water cannons don’t seem to be working too well for the security forces since these resourceful rebels brought shields to the party!… Blake Burgundy’s delighted voice sings over the crowd, following Liam car after car after car.

There! Liam can see it. The parking garage. The elevators are clogged with people trying to claw their way into the tiny compartments already crammed with too many bodies. He makes a split-second decision and sprints past them, up the long, spiraling car ramp. His adrenaline is pumping. He can’t think. There’s nothing but his feet hitting the pavement and the goal ahead of him. His lungs are burning, two hot coals pressing against his ribs as Jemima’s small body grows heavier and heavier, the footsteps behind him, closer and closer. He can see the double doors that lead to the SkyLift launch dock, but they’re still so far away. Liam releases any hope that this hell will end, that he will ever not be running, Jem’s lank body thumping against his back. He focuses on the pounding of his feet against the cement, on the feel of his self-made breeze against his sticky, sweat-soaked face.

And then, he’s there.

He made it.

Liam would collapse with relief but there’s no time. He shoves open the door to the docks to find another line, congested with people. Less of a line, more a pulsating mob. It presses forward as those toward the front argue with the guards, and those in the back argue with those in the middle. Liam pushes his way to the front. The mob pushes back. He lifts the golf club over his head and swings it. People scream and scatter.

Over the loudspeaker, a tired, authoritative voice says, "Keep your distance from the door! The loading bay is currently full. You will be notified as soon as room has been made available above."

Are you kidding me? It’s been two hours! an angry man ahead of Liam shouts.

No, sir! I am not kidding you! a guard replies. "Stand back! Everyone, stand back! I am armed and will use force if necessary—Sir! Sir, get back now! Sir!"

But Liam has come too far to follow orders. He’s almost at the front of the line, angry people squeezing in around him. The guard lifts his taser in warning, and Liam drops his club. He swings Jemima off his back and grabs her by the armpits, holding her up above the crowd.

I have a Musche! he cries out, his voice hoarse from his exertion. I have a Musche! I have a Musche!

The guard pauses, lowers the taser. Passport!

Liam shifts Jemima to his hip and fumbles for both their passports. He hands them over, sweat-soaked.

Are you kidding me? the angry man behind him demands. This asshole gets in after he’s throwing a club around? He cut everyone!

Liam turns around and screams into the man’s blotchy red face. SHUT UP!

He turns back to face the guard, who’s looking over the passports, nodding.

He’s right. Jemima Heinzer-Musche. It’s hyphenated though. Still count? the first guard asks a second female guard who has joined him.

The second guard shrugs, tired and indifferent. A Musche is a Musche.

Liam can barely hear them. Somewhere nearby, sirens are going off, while the voice on the loudspeaker drones repetitively, "Two minutes. Final doors closing in two minutes…"

Come on come on come on… Liam watches the guards as he jostles to keep from being swept backward by the crowd, surging behind him.

Right, says the first guard to the second. Here. Go ahead and take her up. You’ve got a couple of minutes before they lock the doors for lift off.

The female guard grabs Jemima from Liam’s outstretched arms and turns away. She slides past the security gates to where the SkyLift elevator waits, empty.

Wait! Liam yells after her, his voice breaking from exhaustion and hysteria. Wait! What about me? I’m her father!

Says here: Liam Heinzer, the first guard observes dully. Not a Musche.

But I’m married to a Musche! Liam screams, sobs. My daughter is a Musche! I didn’t change my name, I…

Gotta say ‘Musche’ on the passport. Them’s the rules. The guard is already walking away.

Wait! Jemima! Jemima! Liam yells after the second guard, Jemima balanced on her hip as the elevator doors open and they step inside.

But Jemima doesn’t seem to hear him. She never does. And she’s gone.

60 seconds until doors close for final departure, the loudspeaker drones overhead.

Liam turns around, tears blurring his eyes, and comes face to face with the irate man from earlier, flanked by a sea of enraged, desperate people. Liam reaches for his golf club, but it’s gone.

The mob is angry, frightened, hopeless.

Ravenous.

They swallow him whole.

Martian Immigrants VS People of Earth

Court Transcript

Day 2

Unearthed documents have since revealed that the infamous SkyLift terrorist attack was an insider job. At that point, King Musche had run the numbers, and he didn’t want any more people going up to Mars.

—Gunther Johnson-Fry, Great Departure Historian, Expert Witness

Golden Ticket

Year 0 

(4 Months Earlier)

Earth

Finbar

1

You know my dear, what they call food these days isn’t really food. You ought to know that, Finbar, darling, even if it won’t do you any good.

Finbar swallows her sigh, reminds herself that she only has another two hours of this, and murmurs demurely, Yes, it’s very difficult, Grandma.

Finbar’s grandmother is not a kind woman, and Finbar is never quite sure how it ended up being the two of them here, to face the end of the world as they watch the last spark of Earth blow out. But here they are, she and her grandmother. Finbar tucks her slate of shoulder-length, strawberry-blonde hair out of her gray eyes, and inconspicuously checks the time on her SmartGlasses.

These lines! Finbar’s grandmother continues, now in general complaint mode. How is there not some kind of tiered system for those of us willing to make this a priority?

Make what a priority? Finbar wonders. Food?

Finbar has long since learned not to voice any kind of dissent. Instead, she says nothing, stretching her pale, freckled face into various expressions of submissive agreement. 

There is a tiered system. This one happens to be by neighborhood, creating the facade of utilitarian equality. The last vestige of a denial-based utopia, carefully gated to keep out the riff-raff.

"At last!" Finbar’s grandmother gasps when it’s their turn to pass through security and into the supermarket. She makes it sound like they’ve been waiting for air, instead of a security scanner.

Bag. The guard blocking their entrance smiles without her eyes crinkling even slightly.

Finbar and her grandmother dump their belongings onto the conveyor belt and watch as they slide slowly through the x-ray machine.

Community ID. The guard’s voice is the perfect balance of cheerful and dead-inside. Finbar is already holding out their identifying badges. The guard makes a cursory glance before handing them back.

Ration level D enacted this morning. She motions them through the metal detectors and into the store.

Finbar’s grandmother twists her face into something even meaner than her resting expression. "What. The. Hell." Her voice rises higher with each word.

Grandma… Finbar censures, embarrassed but unsurprised.

"Is goddamn—"

Grandma!

Ration Level D?

Ma’am— the guard begins. Her gritted smile grows somehow huger, while behind her blank eyes she passes from the third to fifth levels of hell.

"Because last Saturday was Ration Level C, and I haven’t had breakfast all week!"

Finbar slumps and gazes through the metal detectors at the ice-white linoleum floors and freshly spritzed food items lining the walls. So close.

Ma’am. The guard’s gaze moves smoothly from detached to fully comatose. Then her expression changes.

For a moment Finbar thinks that it’s because of her. When she lifted her eyes with an apologetic expression, the guard saw her, understood her. That at that moment they connected, they—

There is an explosion behind Finbar, and she flies forward, through the metal detector (it doesn’t go off, for what it’s worth) and onto that smooth white linoleum floor. She smears it in a long trail of blood that she realizes used to be inside her nose.

Later Finbar will know that people were screaming, but now when she lifts her head, all she sees are their gaping mouths, their twisting uvulas, dancing to a long, unbroken ringing in her ears. Ringing through the silence.

***

When they see her back at the FaceFeed corporate campus later that evening, Finbar’s work comrades are concerned. They gasp the following words, in no particular order:

Oh, my GAWD! Fin!

"Bar-Bar, your  face…"

"—So glad you’re safe…"

"—Told us not to leave campus when…"

—Riots!!

"Montberry whistleblower…"

Finbar presses the blood-soaked bar towel to the front of her face. The police wanted to take her to the hospital, but she’d assured them that the FaceFeed campus doctors would see her much faster than anything public.

Here, in the ultra-hip FaceFeed cantina, she’s making a mess and attracting attention from the other patrons. The bartendress glances pointedly at the pile of bloody, bunched napkins at Finbar’s elbow as she sets down her drink, a dirty martini. 

What whistleblower? Finbar wheezes nasally around the cloth, pressed against her still bleeding nose. Unbidden, an image of her grandmother flits through her mind’s eye: the woman shoveling coveted fresh fruits into her purse and blouse as those around her, much younger, much sprier, lifted their pulped heads from the floor and look around in a daze. She’d caught Finbar’s eye as she tucked a can of oily fish into her bra. Her stern expression told Finbar to stop napping and make herself useful.

You haven’t heard? Finbar’s FaceFeed comrades exclaim. The Montberry whistleblower! It’s all over the news! Came out this morning!

Finbar blinks, and she’s back. I haven’t heard anything. Nothing on the street monitor…

Eye rolls all around.

"Of course not on the street monitor! Not on FaceFeed, naturally. They censored it."

Then where…

Jesus, Finny! Darius, the most vocal and ‘hilarious’ of her FaceFeed comrades, chides. You’re such a goody-two-shoes! Don’t you check Satcher? Or Viral Winds?

Of all the hunched-back technocrats that make FaceFeed their home, Darius is perhaps one of the most extrovertedly handsome on campus. His curling black hair, always bouncing into his honey-brown eyes, his confident smile, white against olive skin—courtesy of the few well-placed splashes of Persian blood that run through his veins. Add in the good posture, and he’s a true rarity.

The Dark Web? Finbar stammers.

They laugh at her, bloodied, smashed nose and all.

Yes, the ‘Dark Web’! Ginett makes her voice ominous and reaches out to pinch Finbar’s cheek. You wuss.

Finbar wrenches her face away, and a slime trail of blood drips down from her left nostril. She’s not sorry to see that it gets all over Ginett’s wrist.

Uggh! Ginett shrieks, but Darius is already pushing doggedly forward with his bit.

That’s okay, Fin-Fin, that’s why you keep the company of such dangerous friends. Gotta keep your ties to the street. He winks, and the others give soft snickers of appreciation. None of them have ties to the street. It all seems contrived to Finbar. Darius makes a funny. Everyone hah-hahs.

Darius sighs theatrically (he minored in acting, and it shows with every word and movement), and swipes his SmartGlasses off his face, holding them out to Finbar. Her own pair were crushed in the explosion and she’s yet to order a replacement.

Welcome to the Dark Web, baby.

Finbar hesitates but puts them on. Their custom fit, made for Darius’s face, is large on her.

A video of a tall woman with a large mane of silver-streaked curls is already playing. Its audio automatically syncs to the chip discreetly implanted behind Finbar’s left ear, filling it with a deep, conspiratorial female voice.

…Been left for dead. The public must know. It is time you know! The last of the heritage seeds have been sold and shipped to Mars, friends. Montberry sold NewOrigin the last reserves of their pollinator beehives last week, right after Montberry’s CEO confirmed his own ticket to Mars and job offer at NewOrigin. It’s over! The last of Earth’s emergency resource rations have been sent to Mars. There will be nothing left. You don’t care? You think you’re going to Mars? You’re not going to Mars! There isn’t enough room for you. No! It’s time to rise up! Time to fight back! Time to call this charade for what it is…

Finbar takes off the SmartGlasses, and the audio sync disconnects as she hands them back to Darius.

It’s the leaked manifesto that’s causing all the riots outside the walls! Lia blurts, unable to wait for Finbar to mull her response. Lia is tiny and young, a genius snatched up by FaceFeed at the tender age of twenty. 

Who is she? Finbar doesn’t recognize the woman.

Elísa Almodóvar, Darius says, skittering over the twisting Hispanic pronunciation. "Head of research—well, ex-head of research—at Montberry’s agricultural development facilities."

Finbar’s memory flickers. She supervised that Montberry project on restoring Earth’s native bee population, right? The one that had all the press a few years back?

That’s right. Darius nods. "As the story goes, Elísa had an associate with whom she was very close, wink, wink. He oversaw Montberry’s Hybrid Seed Restoration Program, where they genetically reconstituted those heritage seeds to grow with less water and sunlight. Elísa Almodóvar and her ‘friend’ exchanged notes and realized Montberry was emptying their stores from both programs, shutting down shop. Mass lay-offs. They did some sleuthing, and found out that Montberry sold the whole batch to NewOrigin, to be taken to Mars! The kicker is they unearthed that Montberry’s CEO secured a sweet little job offer as NewOrigin’s agricultural contractor. Selling the goods to themselves and getting a job offer to boot! Brilliant!" Darius slams his palm appreciatively on the bar and knocks back the rest of his drink.

Point is, Lia cuts in, the general populace is hysterical. Not enough room on Mars for all the commoners, the way Ol’ King Musche promised, apparently!

They didn’t really think they were all going to make it on, did they? I mean, that’s not even realistic if you do the math, Ginett says, sneering.

Was if you did your math like King Musche! According to him, tickets were going to be a dime a dozen in no time at all! Darius laughs. I guess we know the truth now. Makes sense that they would try to keep it all hush-hush. Wouldn’t want to get people riled up. He holds two fingers up at the bartender for two more shots, before leaning back on his elbow to say in a lazy, inebriated drawl, "So here we are, the evil elite taking the last of Earth’s reserves with them to Mars. There won’t be anything left for the poor rodents here. No plants, no bees. They’re going to die on this wasteland, and no one cares. Nothing to lose but a few billion plebeian lives, eh?"

Everyone but Finbar titters distantly at the injustice of this. But not too hard. They themselves are not rodents, left to starve on an empty Earth. They work for FaceFeed, one of the greatest corporations of the world, and every last one of them holds a golden ticket: the promise of a seat on the NewOrigin shuttle to Mars. It’s written into their contract. Comes out of their wages, but still, without connections you can’t even get your hands on a ticket these days, no matter what you’re willing to pay. Finbar is on a ten-year contract. She’s been at FaceFeed for five years now, so she’ll get her ticket in another two rotations. Once Earth and Mars have aligned again, as they do every two and a half years. Not so long to wait, really. 

The others could talk endlessly on the subject. The end of the world is an exciting topic of conversation when you’ve already secured your ride to the next one. Two more drinks and Finbar’s friends move seamlessly from mocking the lower classes to deriding their own savior, King Musche himself. 

Guess a fellow can’t go around with the first name ‘King’ all his life before it starts getting to his head. Darius waggles his eyebrows at Finbar. Gets him thinking he really should be a king! No vacancies on Earth? Why not Mars! 

That’s what the NewOrigin colony really is! A kingdom! Ginett giggles at her own daring statement, contemptuous and delighted. Despite their words, Finbar doubts they really care if the CEO of NewOrigin, King Musche, wants to play monarch. Not as long as they’ve secured their own roles as noble subjects.

Finbar is tired. She wants to go to the doctor. Get her face cleaned up and her nose straightened out. Take a bath and pop a couple of her anxiety pills, another perk of the FaceFeed employee package. She’d been itching for them the whole train ride back to campus. Normally the little mustard-yellow bottle of relief stays in her purse and comes with her wherever she goes. But she’d forgotten it this morning, and regretted it the moment her grandmother opened the door to greet her with a faceful of cigarette smoke and a dry, ‘you’re late’.

Finbar tries to hop off her barstool, but Darius grabs her wrist and turns on his imploring, baby-round oh-won’t-you-stay eyes. She motions at her bloodied face. "I’m going to get this cleaned up. Then