Two blocks from the testing center they heard the shouting. “Mead...shirger!” Marek shared a glance with Lewis and Linden. “Looner!” Marek took off at a sprint in the direction of the commotion. Lewis took up a measured pace behind him. And Linden lurched his way forward, quickly falling behind the other two.
“Cun’d fighd fer yer colony! Cun’d e'en fighd fer yer food! Yer jusd mead, y'shirgin' looner!” Marek burst out from between the row of buildings and came to a stop in front of the dilapidated Solar System model that marked the entrance to grounds of the former spaceport and current Aerospace Recruitment Center, or ARC. Marek noted with disgust that the globe depicting the moon, Ur, was still streaked with brown. Up ahead, beyond the poorly manicured courtyard, two lines had formed at opposite ends of ARC, the large dome-like glass structure that fronted on an extended runway. The city had grown too large, and the runway could only accommodate interstellar ships and older model frigates, of the sort used in ARC training missions. “Gedden line, mead! All yer good fer's dyin'!”
Marek spun towards the shouting. At the far end of the courtyard, near the central ARC entrance, three Primers were shoving at a thin and hunched boy who nonetheless stood nearly a foot taller than his adversaries. There was no mistaking his origin, even from the distance. Marek’s face contorted into a snarl. He stepped in their direction, clenching and unclenching his fists. He took another step, building himself up for a charge when a hand clamped itself around his wrist. Marek quickly pivoted and drew back his free hand, curled into a fist, only to see Lewis looking back at him.
“Wait.” It was more a command than a request. When Lewis spoke, people listened. Marek lowered his fist. “We do this together.”
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