A man shoves a woman out of his way; the woman crashes to the ground. Another man leaps to her defense, slamming his fist into the first man. Before I can even respond, two more men enter the fray. The woman scrambles out of the way as the fight grows. The bag of produce the man had been carrying crashes to the ground, spilling its contents—tomatoes and peppers—out onto the street. Some of the others pick up the smashed vegetables and start hurtling them at the fighters. The circle of fighting grows and grows.

And then one of them turns to me. I had lingered at the back of the crowd, away from the surging masses, when I should have run away.

“It’s Elder!” he roars. “Get him!”

They turn as one, a multi-headed monster ready to strike.

“Fire!” someone screams. A trail of smoke rises through the windows, snaking out around the Follow the leader sign.

In the distraction, I run for it. As I turn down a side street, I press my wi-com.

“Amy,” I say as soon as she answers. “Get to your room. Lock your door.” I disconnect before she has a chance to respond.

I head straight to the grav tube. As I go, I see others running too, hiding, going for their homes or the fields, racing, like me, to some kind of shelter. A man pulls a woman behind him into the butcher’s block. He grabs a cleaver and stands in the doorway, daring anyone to attack. Another woman collapses on the steps leading to her home, clutching her stomach and screaming.

As the grav tube sucks me up, I see the chaos spread out before me. The Food Distro is truly in flames now, the smoke heavy and black, already making the painted sky above it gray.

My eyes adjust slowly on the Shipper Level. It seems dark compared to the brightness of the solar lamp on the Feeder Level. And quieter. While the Feeder Level was all boiling action, the tension here feels like a dense fog.

Shelby rushes to me; she’d clearly been waiting for my arrival.

“What do we do?” she asks.

The entire level seems to come to a standstill as everyone waits for me to answer.

“Get the first-level Shippers—meet me at the door to the Bridge,” I say.

“But sir—what about the Feeder Level?”

“That’s an order,” I say. “Immediately.”

I stare her down. I try to assume the cold, impassive face that Eldest wore so well, the look that demanded obedience. I don’t know if I can make that face work, even though Eldest and I share the same DNA. I should be able to arrange my features—the same as his—into an identical look of power and command, but the more I think of it, the more I feel like a little kid trying on Daddy’s shoes.