She’s fired up now. She’d almost scold me for not sharing her rigid mindset.
“Everything is a matter of perspective. There’s no such thing as universal truth. And the Confed, for all its power, doesn’t have all the answers,” I counter.
“You say that, but you wear their clothes too!” she shoots back.
I glance down—bare chest, towel still slung low on my hips. I flash her a cheeky grin.
“Pfft—I meant the ones drying in the garden!” she says, voice strained. “I recognized the thermoregulated fabric.”
I chuckle at her obvious discomfort.
“Sure, their clothes are practical. But a beautiful woman in a stunning dress? That’s something the Confed doesn’t know how to make.”
She chuckles, and for a second her face lights up in shared mischief. For all her loyalty to her benefactors, she knows I’ve got a point.
Then she gets serious again.
“The Pact says water is precious. That’s why showers are limited to three minutes. You removed that setting, which is going to mess up the whole balance of the house. Prax, you need to put it back the way it was.”
She looks genuinely annoyed now. I stifle a grin and pick my next words carefully.
“Neela, surely you’ve noticed—you live in a snowy region. And snow is just frozen water. You’re not lacking it.”
“But the Polarians said—”
“The Polarians gave those guidelines when your colony first launched, years ago. Like on every terraformed world, water was scarce. But once balance is restored—like here, with plenty of snow and a huge lake nearby—you can ease the restrictions. I’m not saying waste it. But you could double, even triple this home’s consumption without an issue.”
“But the Pact says we must live with what was given!”
I sigh inwardly. Great—I’ve landed in the home of a rule-stickler. Me, a former Coalition operative turned Confed Sentinel. I’ve broken so many laws I lost count. And I can already tell I’ll need to keep that little detail under wraps—she’d probably faint.
Right now, she’s not budging.
“Your Pact was made under specific conditions. Those may no longer apply here. And we’re two people now—at least until my team picks me up. Plus, I’m Sadjim. I need to wash at least twice a day. Hygiene is crucial for my kind.”
“What? Others like you are coming here?” she asks, now focused only on that part.
“When I entered your atmosphere, I got shot by a Coalition ship. If you don’t know who they are—they’re enemies of the Confed. One of them hit my craft, I crashed, you found me. But before I blacked out, I sent an alert. How long till someone hears it and sends help? No idea. But yes, someone’s coming.”
“You’re saying more from the Confed are coming—you’re sure?”
She doesn’t look scared—just laser-focused. Strange.
“Pretty sure,” I say cautiously. “Ideally I’d send another signal, but your comms are disabled. I checked.”
She looks disappointed, frowning, biting her lip.
“You won’t be able to send a new message. In old Earth movies, people had fancy comm systems and satellites. Mars wasn’t allowed any of that. The Confed gave us CCCs—Cydonia Colony Communication. An old Earth tech—shortwave radios. No need for atmospheric relays. We use them for emergencies mostly.”
I’m speechless. After seeing images of their trashed oceans, I didn’t think they could pollute their skies too. These humans really wrecked their planet top to bottom. Maybe that’s why the Confed treats them like kids?
Still, the punishment feels harsh. Who wants to live their whole life micromanaged and treated like a child?
And the Confed could’ve given them safe tech. Why didn’t they?
“These CCCs you mentioned—I don’t know what they are.”
“Used to be called CB radios. Ours are stationary. Mine’s in the kitchen. Not many channels—one for announcements, one for gossip, and I stay tuned to channel 3: emergencies. Even when it’s not my week on call.”
