The tears of children make ponds in the dirt. A child sniffles more than the others. His stream carves the dust and dried spittle of his face, and his face reflects the interiors of a thousand, including those his elder—but there is stillness. He doesn't move—no collapse to beggary upon the ground, no prostration, nor is any snot expelled; but his knees buckle; he rubs grit between his fingerprints; he clenches his fists around his soiled tunic.

A hand coils his wrists. His chin is tilted to the sky by two fingers with gentleness. Before he drops, someone not much taller catches him under his shoulders, but he doesn't see or turn to them. "Sensitive child," someone says. He releases the fabric, and a hand presses a thumb inside the fist, unballing the frustration. Words are shared between the two, amongst the many, but those words are not captured by the unblinking camera or its microphone.

The livestream viewership drops. The recorder-drone bobs in the air, hovering on a wide-shot.

"For many of you," Alice continues, preaching, "this is your one chance off Earth."

Her lips quiver. The center of the crowd's toes tip over the gangway's incline, but they never cross the threshold.

"If we don't abduct—if we don't recruit you now, you will be separated from humanity's glory for the rest of your lives; please don't prove our registrar's acceptance of you wrong by acting out."

The wind moves, and the crowd lets the breeze pass.

"Do not act out," she tells them. Her eye twitches. A comment drifts across her visor, displaying over the crowd: "I thought they would react more. Useless reward redemption." The view count drops again.

"But," Alice shouts, "Ulysses Corp and Ownings are the pinnacle of human ingenuity and care, ensuring your future among the stars! There are no worries to be had, so please put some smiles on those faces and be proud of your new employers!"

This time the number, marking her earned currency for this livestream, her merit, drops. One donor leaves the stream. She points to the corners of her curled lips, elbows out, a cutout of service and presentation for the drone. She waits. They don't follow.

A woman with toes over the strip separating the dirt and metal presses a finger to one nostril. She blows snot out the other. "So are we coming aboard or not?"

"So long as you all behave—"

"We ain't moving out of order," she says. "Those who can do so read the pamphlets, and they read the data to us who can't. We know the little laws and protocols within them; for the past few months, they have been our only literature and our primary orature. Understand, what you see on our face is not rage." She pauses and spits at the ground. "I say all this with respect to you and the organization, Chief."

The number, marking her merit, in the top-left of her visor, drops into the negatives. She points to the end of her lips. She waits.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

The woman in front of her chuckles. The smirk is not a smile. "We stand at the thresh," she says. "We await an order upon your precipice, Chief."

Alice sighs. "Do you have a name?"

"Regard," she says.

"Regard," she says. The visor pulls her information from a satellite and displays a portrait along with information deemed notable by a registrar. "Due to overbookings, we will be directing some of your people to the crew quarters. All cabins are first come first serve, so if they see a cabin, they may claim it—we would prefer your assistance in identifying the best among you to be housed with the crew quarters."

"That's what you would prefer?"

"That's what I would prefer," she says. She cups her hands which re-enables the megaphone. "If you will all just walk by me in an orderly fashion and take a medicine container, Regard and I will—"

Regard walks up the gangway. Alice drops her hands. The view count rises. Each step makes the metal clang against itself, and she stops and adjusts her prosthetic, alone on the incline. Someone steps to assist; she waves them back. The rail is warm in her grip. She limps, and when she reaches Alice, she leans into the visor, she leans into her ear. "They ain't mine no more." She places a hand on the chief's lapel and pats twice, leaving a stain on the cotton and a puff of dust in the air. "I'm yours," she announces, and she walks past and isn't stopped. There are signs to the right and left, leading to the crew quarters and passenger quarters; she makes a left to the passenger quarters.

Alice exhales, and her eyes widen. The drone zooms in as she waves the rest up. They walk the gangway in a file, forced by its narrowness. Some hold the rail, others hold each other, looking down with their peripheral.

"Good enough," Alice mutters. The drone captures the shivers and the emigrants throwing their heads over the railing as they vomit. "There it is," she says, "get those merits up for me."

She hands the medicine container to the first in line. "Go to the crew quarters—"

The man taps her shoulder twice, takes the medicine, and walks to the crew quarters. The sun is still too bright to scan. She doesn't ask his name.

The second in line takes the medicine.

"Go to the passenger—"

She stains the uniform as well, shaking her hand and dragging a blackened substance down a seam. And this continues for a time, in view of the camera; the recruits walk by, soil her uniform, and move on, following whichever direction she tells them to go.

Few make eye contact with her. Some smile with joy, thanking her, shaking her hand and gripping the sleeves with a tightness that makes her sweat.

By the half-point, she braces herself whenever one walks past. And by the end, she is alone; the pockets of her uniform hang outside their holds, her collar is flipped, and her tie is undone. She looks to the right; her cart is missing another wheel.

The drone pans up her body, then flies off. It will be back. But now, she is alone.

"Thirty." She crouches, then lies on the ground. She shuts her eyes. "A thirty second break."

Her right hand slips between the buttons at her waist. The left brushes up the tie and its fibers before reaching the helm over her head. She puts a finger between the strap and her neck and the chin-latch snaps free; the metal thuds, and she nestles inside the lining. Salt sits on her lips.

A draft exhales over her sweated shape; the coolness caresses her nape, and the strap's indentation reddens, relieved, blushing along her hairline, and along her hairline the dampened hair coils.