“I gave you freedom!” I shout, then remember to use my wi-com. Before I can, though, Bartie overrides me.

“He may say he’s given you freedom, but think about how much he still controls. He makes all the decisions. He controls who eats, and how much. He controls who gets what meds—and he is the one who let the poison Phydus back on this ship. That was his decision, his choice, and you paid for it.”

I remember that day I found him in the Recorder Hall. Technical Instruction on Communication Systems. And a history of the French Revolution. He was probably the one who hacked into the floppy system—but I wonder, if I had handled things differently, would his rebellion have stopped there rather than escalating into a mob gathered around Fridrick’s dead body?

“What about the food?” someone calls from near the back.

Bartie pushes back the doors of the Food Distro. “Take what you can,” he shouts. “There’s little left.”

And that does it.

The people stampede into the Food Distro. The windows in the front are smashed open and people start running through them. The mob swarms forward in a surge so fast that Bartie has to dive out of the way. People fight their way out of the building, rolling barrels or hefting heavy sacks of food on their backs. Others start fighting them, ripping open the sacks and brawling over the contents. In the rush, Fridrick’s body flops out of its tenuous hold on the banner, crashing into the ground. The mob swells back, then washes over where he landed, ignoring the body in the rush for food.

Fighting breaks out. It starts out as shoving as people wrestle their way to the front of the crowd, closer to the food stores. Shoves turn into punches, punches turn into brawls. Food is forgotten as two men turn on each other. The larger man punches the smaller one in the mouth, and an arc of blood sprays out over the crowd. The smaller man’s friends leap into the fight, and soon there are so many punching and kicking and shouting that I can’t even find the original two fighters amid the fists and blood, the sound of flesh hitting flesh.

I’ve seen the chaos of Sol-Earth from vids and pics on the floppy network. But this is different. I’m in it here.

A woman shouts, “Get out of the frexing way!” as a barrel of milk rolls down the street. She chases after it, screaming at anyone who gets too close to it.

“The Greenhouses!” a man roars, leading a group of twenty or so off the main road toward the produce section. Shite. They’re going to kill every crop we have.

I try to do another all-call. No one even notices.