‘Don’t know. We pulled up here and now they want us to get out,’ Meade said. Marshan’s eyes grew wide. Now most of the children had been herded from the van, an attendant was walking down the aisle towards them. Meade stood full height. He was tall as his father, would possibly become taller. The attendant backed away, and one of the black-suited men stepped forward. Meade’s shoulders hunched. He edged out from the cover of the seats, not looking at the others. Layla took his hand and together the three of them left the van.

It was hot outside, windy. Red dust swirled at their feet. The sides of the transport were missing, and there was a stepladder that led to the darkness inside. Layla refused to look into the impassive masks of the soldiers either side of the ladder, staring only at Meade’s back, her right hand clasping his fingers, her left tight around Marshan’s. None of the soldiers spoke. It was obvious where they had to go. They climbed up the steps, into the transport.

At the top, they found their fellow passengers from the van and others, men, women and children, shoulders pressed against shoulders. There was the Cosmogramma girl band who sang on Saturday night holo shows. The weighty opera singer her mother loved. The man who opened the Planetary Games, bringing colour and shapes tumbling over the heads of a stadium filled with thousands. Even a baby who wailed as the block 375y7 children entered, the air above her crackling with infant rage.

The transport doors closed, one diometer at a time. Someone began to yell in that direction, and soon, as Layla watched, they were all doing the same, as the light from the broad window narrowed to a small beam, to a sliver, and was gone. The transport shuddered, began to move. Meade’s voice cracked beside her, repeating words she could hardly hear. Their shouts echoed in the darkness, amplified by metal walls. Layla found herself standing, feeling her own spit against her lips, realising somehow she could see. The others were leaning forward, hurling curses into growing light. She looked up. A thunderstorm of colours raged like boiling water, one churning into another, clashing, rebounding, and she stopped her screaming to watch them merge as a strange vibration hummed from the transport floor.