Chapter 2 Neela
~Two years earlier. ~
I make my way to the small bathroom. Like everything else here, it’s simple and efficient. I slip off my nightshirt and step into the shower, which won’t last more than three minutes—water is precious and wasting it is forbidden.
After my shower, I brush my teeth, comb my long black hair, and braid it into a basic plait. A quick glance in the mirror tells me I’m good to go.
Back in my bedroom, I pull on thermal pants, a thick sweater, and waterproof socks—the most important item of all!
When you live on the northern edge of Cydonia, like I do, snow is practically permanent.
And if your feet get wet, you can get sick fast. That’s why I never go out without my waterproof socks.
Kiran says I’m delicate, but he conveniently forgets all the times I had to nurse him back to health because he didn’t bundle up enough before heading outside.
I move from my room into my living space.
It has a small kitchen—basic but functional—and a sitting area with a couch, a table, and four chairs.
Kiran and Meghan, my best friend, have the same layout in their unit, even though there are two of them living there.
The policy in Cydonia is strict: no waste allowed.
You get the space you need—no more, no less.
I also have a hydroponic greenhouse wrapped around three sides of my house, forming a bright, plant-filled corridor. It lines the east, north, and west walls and is where we grow small-scale produce for daily use. For anything else—mainly processed products—you have to go to the market.
Before heading out, I make myself an herbal infusion and nibble on a nutrient biscuit.
My bracelet tells me I’ve consumed 167 calories: 14 grams of carbs, 8 grams of fat, 1 gram of fiber, and 10 grams of protein.
The infusion added 11 ounces of water to my intake.
Throughout the day, it’ll track everything I eat and drink, making sure my nutrition is balanced, sufficient, and—above all—not excessive.
After years of this routine, you hardly notice anymore.
Finished with my snack, I slip on a heavy jacket and snow boots. I dematerialize the front door and step out confidently.
A sharp chill hits me instantly, triggering a reflex tear response to protect my corneas.
Nothing serious. I notice a thick blanket of powdery snow fell overnight, but the solar panels on the house and the shelter over my vehicle are equipped with auto-defrost. No risk of a mid-trip breakdown.
I lower my visor and climb onto my snowbike parked just a few steps away.
Off to downtown Cydonia!
The ride is smooth. I even spot two elk and a snow fox on the way.
With an easterly wind below 10 mph, I’d call the weather fairly mild this morning.
When you’re caught in those swirling squalls with barely any visibility, that’s a whole different story.
And of course, patients calling in emergencies couldn’t care less about the conditions.
Take Giselle, for example—my closest neighbor, a full five minutes away by snowbike. She’s a chronic hypochondriac. Nine times out of ten, I show up for nothing. Then again, not really “nothing”—at least I ease her mind. She’s not young anymore, so I let it slide.
But I’m getting sidetracked!
As I near the heart of the village, I pass my work unit—the one I staff every other week to care for folks with minor ailments. For major procedures, people have to go to the Central Medical Facility in the capital.
The market I’m headed to is just a few hundred yards beyond that.
I drive up the main road, passing all sorts of living units—different sizes, depending on family structure. Most people choose to stay close together here in the valley. I guess it reassures them.
Me? I opted for a more isolated unit up in the mountains.
Kiran and Meghan did too, along with a handful of others scattered along the foothills. But the majority are right here, in central Cydonia.
I park my snowbike at the market, pushing it under the energy-charging station. Two others are already docked.
I step up to the entrance, and a motion sensor instantly dematerializes the door to let me in.
Inside, the walls have been mostly cleared to let in as much sunlight as possible.
In the back, I can see the massive production farm—really just a giant, fully robotic hydroponic warehouse linked to a processing unit.
We only have access to the front area, where ripe, ready-to-eat produce is sorted into bins.
I spot Marjorie and Gorka—close associates of Vassili Porkoff—at the far end of the console, near the berry section. My lips purse with irritation before I can stop myself.
Vassili is the “Regent” of Cydonia. Apparently, he was originally appointed manager, replacing the previous one who died of a heart attack.
The manager’s role is to ensure that the Pact is upheld and that everyone integrates smoothly into our colony on this planet.
The story goes that someone accidentally called him “Regent” instead of “Manager” and the name stuck—some say because he liked the sound of it better.
To my dismay, I quickly realize Marjorie and Gorka are cleaning out the entire berry stock. The very berries I was counting on for the charlotte I wanted to make for Kiran’s birthday!
“Good morning, Marjorie. Morning, Gorka,” I say, nodding as I approach the Regent’s advisors. “I hope everything’s well at the Palace!”
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—not the 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.
I head back to my snowbike and strap the bag to the back.
I gaze down the long road snaking through Cydonia, winding its way peacefully toward the Palace and beyond.
Living units line both sides of the path.
Down here, the climate is milder thanks to geothermal wells that channel magma heat to the surface.
These wells warm the atmosphere and spare us from deadly temperatures.
They power the greenhouses of Cydonia Mensae, Cydonia Colles, and Cydonia Labyrintus—as well as the more distant ones in Acidalia Pranitia and Arabia Terra.
They also provide hot water to private homes and to the public centers for sports, education, and healthcare. Bottom line: no geothermal wells, no colony.