The air stung, cold with chemburn.
Everyone was flagged for processing—some for transit, others for conscription. The system didn’t explain, it just scanned and sorted. A bin passed overhead, mounted to a rusting rail. ZÜRICH was stenciled on the side. No escort, no protocol. The system was breaking down.
“They keep burning them?” asked a man, whose HUD was held together with copper wire. Kael didn’t answer. The man chuckled. “My ex-wife’s probably in there…. I just hope she was dead already when the drones got her… They don’t always wait.”
The Geneva Cradle loomed to the southeast. A fractured silhouette, buried in smoke. It used to anchor the elevator, but the upper tether fell into France. A drone passed overhead, spraying heatmist. It stung on contact. People flinched but didn’t move, nobody wanted to lose their place in line. A child began coughing—wet, irregular. People shifted nervously away. Another drone, trailing green vapor.
The checkpoint lights pulsed.
Up ahead, his mother was speaking with a Solari. Her voice was calm, but her posture wasn’t. “We had three tags,” she said. “One adult, two minors. He’s still dependent.” “He was,” the officer replied. “Until now. They just flagged him. Command logs his father as KIA Compact South. That triggers eligibility. You’re still greenlit. The younger boy too.”
“He’s seventeen.”
“Exactly.”
His father was dead? Kael stepped forward. His mother turned. Silas clutched her coat. Eight years old. Pale. “You’ll be with her,” Kael said. “They’ll route you to Titan or Ceres.”
“You promise?”
Kael nodded. “Yeah.”
The gate split. Civilians left. Conscripts right. A drone scanned his ID and assigned a shuttle. A placard stated: NO REENTRY.
The harness dripped condensation.
There were no seats on the shuttle. Just straps and tubes. Kael latched in. A tech passed, injecting him with something cold. A girl three racks down screamed and wiped blood from her ear. “Neural sync initializing. Inertial dampening active. Prepare for override.” Kael’s vision fractured. His body went slack. He didn’t feel the launch. As he awoke, meds were pushing her weightless body down the aisle.
The Argent hung in orbit—pitted, scorched, its original nameplate barely visible under Solari paint. It had been meant for colony runs. Now it held the detritus of a dying planet. Kael was tagged Batch 27-E, Cube 7. His bunkmate was already there, staring blankly at the ceiling. Their eyes never met. He unpacked. One thermal sheet. Two ration tabs. A warning was carved into the bulkhead: DON’T BECOME A TAG.
Orientation was held on Deck D. Cold lights and hanging exos. Fifteen suits. Most damaged, one dripping. A Sergeant glared at them, his left arm replaced by a grey prosthetic. “You’re here because everybody else is dead… not because you earned it.” No one responded. “You pass sync, you get a rig. You fail, you get reassigned. Simple like that.”
After another twelve hours of being screamed at, Kael floated up to Deck G. The observation blister was open. Earth turned below—grey, not blue. Something glowed in the Indian Basin. He placed a hand against the glass. It was cold, even through his gloves. “I’ll see you again,” he said. Neither a vow, nor a hope.
Just goodbye.