Have I mentioned that while everyone else gets a living unit proportional to their family size, the Regent assigned himself a sprawling place he calls “The Palace”? His excuse? People travel from far away to seek his wise counsel and it’s more practical for them to stay overnight rather than return home late.
Following that logic, his aides keep the Palace stocked with an abundance of food—because heaven forbid any guest go hungry. In truth, the setup is vague enough that the Regent’s inner circle routinely exceeds the rations everyone else has to stick to.
“Hello, Neela. Are you on medical duty in Cydonia today?” Marjorie asks.
“No, I just came to pick up some groceries for a birthday dinner. It’s my brother’s special day.”
“Oh, how’s dear Kiran doing? Isn’t it his week working at the Palace?”
“He was there last week,” I correct her, surprised. “He’s on rest cycle now.”
“Haha! Maybe our schedules didn’t line up this month,” she giggles. “You know how busy things are at the Palace…”
Her condescending tone grates on me.
She doesn’t seem to realize that most folks in Cydonia are getting more and more fed up with the Palace crew bending the Pact whenever it suits them.
The Pact is what humanity signed to earn the right to survive. It was the condition for the Intergalactic Confederation to build a colony here.
It’s about living cleanly, in harmony with the environment that shelters us. A personal and collective commitment not to disrupt the fragile balance we’ve established. Everyone’s granted their basic needs: food, shelter, access to culture and sports. In return, we follow the Pact’s directives: one week of work out of two, in the field of your choice; no overconsumption beyond what the ecosystem can provide; respect for all life; and no venturing outside the designated boundaries for our population.
Sure, I’ve watched old Earth movies and series.
I know our “freedoms” have been reined in compared to what they used to be. But honestly—after seeing where unchecked freedom got humanity—can we really complain?
Still, the “Palace” residents—notthe staff like my brother—routinely carve out little exceptions for themselves.
The Regent’s oversized house is just the start.
There’s also the questionable nature of the tasks they do… and the sheer amount of food they consume.
Like now, judging by the mountain of berries in Marjorie’s translucent tote bag.
“Any blueberries left?” I ask, peering into the now-empty bin.
“Probably,” she answers unconvincingly, tugging Gorka toward the exit. “And happy birthday to Kiran!” she adds before vanishing outside.
Frustrated, I watch them disappear with the very fruit I’d hoped for. In theory, there should still be some on the hydroponic racks. Fruit is harvested gradually, based on ripeness and demand. No need to pick anything too early.
Hopefully, I’ll get lucky.
I tap the touchscreen and select three units of blueberries.
The result is instant—and disappointing. Not even a single ripe berry left.
The system suggests I check back in three or four days. Too late—Kiran’s birthday is today.
I try again with raspberries, strawberries, blackberries, currants—nothing. Looks like the Palace people cleaned everything out without a second thought.
I can’t believe it. If I hadn’t run into them this morning, I’d have no idea this massive shortage was their doing.
Annoyed and disheartened, I settle on three pears.
They’ll do for what I have in mind. Besides, I have to think of the people coming after me.
I grab some soy milk, sugar, flour, fresh pasta, and sunflower oil. I already have the rest of what I need at home.
A quick check on my bracelet confirms my haul is within the authorized limits—even with the extra portions.
