Beth Revis - A Million Suns

And there’s the tension back again.

“Ah, here comes Elder’s latest idea — the police force ,” Bartie sneers, his voice raised again. “Here to make sure we work like good little boys and girls or else .”

“It’s not like that,” I say — to both him and Marae.

“Can’t anybody see what’s going on?” A new voice cuts through the mass of people surrounding us. It’s Luthor. Of course it is. He always has been one to revel in a fight, even years ago, when we were living in the Ward. Only now he doesn’t bother to hide it. “He’s scared . Our Elder is scared . He’s scared of you! You! You have the power. He can’t control all of us!”

“We can do what we want!” another voice from the crowd shouts.

“We can lead ourselves!” Bartie calls back.

The call becomes a cheer. Lead ourselves! Lead ourselves! Lead ourselves!

Marae and the other Shippers try to drown out the chant with their own shouted orders for silence. Expletives mingle with the chant — sneers and threats. The Shippers respond in kind. Their threats lead to action. Marae shoves a man twice her size back as he draws too close to us; another man takes a swing at Shelby.

I slam my hand against my wi-com. “Communicate area: within fifty feet of my location,” I order. As soon as the wi-com beeps that the connection has been made with every other wi-com in the area, I say, “Everyone, calm down. There’s no need for this.”

A few people stop; they’re listening to their wi-coms, I can tell. But not enough. “EVERYONE STOP,” I shout, and my voice echoes in all of their ears. “Look around you!” I order, and most of them do. “These are your friends, your family. You’re fighting each other . And there’s no need for that. Stop. Fighting. Now.”

I take a deep breath. For the most part, the crowd has stilled.

“And what about Food Distro?” Luthor roars through the quiet.

“What?” My head whips around to Marae. “What’s going on at Food Distro?”

“Don’t you know?” Bartie says, disgust in his voice. “How can you call yourself a leader if you don’t even know that food distribution stopped?”

I turn again to Marae. “We were aware of the problem,” she says apologetically. “We were just about to com you.”

I don’t bother waiting for another answer. I take off down the street toward Food Distro. The crowd around us is surprised — they weren’t expecting me to suddenly start running straight for them. A few don’t get out of my way fast enough, and I bump into them but don’t stop. I can hear their voices and the thudding of their feet on the pavement following me, but I’m so frexing angry that I can barely think straight. I do not need Food Distro, of all things, added to my problems.

Frex. Frex, frex, frex.

The Food Distro is a giant warehouse so far on the edge of the City that it butts against the steel walls that encase the Feeder Level. Food distribution is automatic — or it’s supposed to be. When I get to the huge steel-and-brick building, the manager, Fridrick, has chained the doors shut. He stands in front of them, arms crossed, eyes trained on me, waiting for a fight.

Everything in me tenses — my fists, my teeth, my eyes.

“What’s going on?” I growl. The crowd that had gathered around Bartie and me now presses against me and Fridrick — and it is even bigger than before. Marae and the Shippers try to move around the edges, urging people to leave and let us take care of the problems, but they’re not listening. Instead, the crowd is growing.

“I’ll distribute food manually,” Fridrick says. “I’ll make sure everyone gets their fair share.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He’s keeping the food for himself!” a woman shouts.

“It’s not right!”

“Let’s break down the doors!”

“Calm the frex down!” I bellow, spinning on my heel and glaring at the crowd. They don’t calm — but at least they quit shouting. “Now,” I say, turning back to Fridrick, who’s been in charge of Food Distro since before I was born. “What’s the problem with food distribution?”

“No problem,” Fridrick says. “Once everyone leaves, I’ll begin distributing the food.”

I cast a doubtful look at the chain on the doors.

“He’s only going to give food to some of us!” a deep male voice calls out from the crowd.

“For the ones who deserve it!” comes another voice.

I risk another glance behind me. Marae and the Shippers are all directly behind me, keeping the crowd from surging forward. There’s at least two hundred people here, maybe more. They move in waves, not as individuals, and the waves are pressing closer to Fridrick and me.

“You don’t own the food,” I say to Fridrick. Now I speak loudly on purpose, intending everyone to hear.

“I do.” He glares at me.

“You can’t dictate who gets to eat and who doesn’t,” I shoot back.

“The storage levels are low.”

I know they are.

“So what do I do?” Fridrick demands in a mocking tone. “Give everyone less? Or do what should be done — just distribute food to the ones who’ve earned it?”

Angry shouts, cheers of agreement, curses and screams erupt around us.

“There’s enough for regular distro for several more weeks. After that, we can discuss rationing.”

Fridrick narrows his eyes. “I ain’t feeding the ones who won’t work.”

“Everyone works!” I shout, exasperated.

This was not the right thing to say. Fridrick doesn’t answer — the crowd answers for him. They shout names: the names of their neighbors, their family, their enemies, their friends. People who aren’t working. The weavers, who only went back to the looms because I mandated their strike to end but who continue to work at a slower pace. The greenhouse producers, who have been caught more than once hoarding produce for themselves. And individuals — specific people who have just decided to not work, either because they’re lazy or because of depression, like Evie and Harley’s mother, Lil.

Rising above it all is a new chant: No work? No food! No work? No food!

“And what about the Hospital?” a shrill voice rises above the chant.

“I work!” a voice near the back of the crowd shouts back. My eyes skim over the people and I see Doc, looking nervous and anxious to hear his precious Hospital called into question.

“What about all them at the Ward?” Fridrick says. What he doesn’t say is, “What about Amy?”

Shite.

“You’re right.” Bartie shoulders his way past Marae — who looks very much as if she’d like to punch him right in the neck. “I’m going to apply myself to productive work from this point on,” he says loudly.

Silence falls. Every eye is on him. I stare in wonder: how did he do it? How did he command everyone’s attention so absolutely? While everyone quieted down to hear Fridrick and me, they weren’t respectful. They were waiting for one of us to slip up; they were searching for ammunition to throw back at us. But every single person is focused on Bartie now, waiting for his next words.

He doesn’t speak. Instead, he raises his guitar high over his head and stretches the neck of it toward Fridrick. “Consider this payment for this week’s food,” Bartie says. “And, as there is no longer a Recorder at the Hall, I will take that job.”

Fridrick takes the guitar and stares at it, unsure of what to do. Finally he nods, once. He will accept this payment.

“And,” I add in as loud a voice as I can muster, “we will continue food distro for everyone.”