Chapter 3.2

Linden drew up alongside them, breathing heavily. Even the air on Prime was too heavy for him. The Primers were slowly herding the tall youth towards the eastern most line, intended for new volunteers, as the League referred to them; though with so few other jobs, particularly for Luners, volunteering and starving were the only two options.

Lewis drew ahead of Linden and Marek, facing the disturbance. His voice carried over his shoulder. "Linden. On my left. Marek. My right. Follow my lead." Lewis had been the leader of the group ever since the events on E-day. He was calm and composed under pressure. You could hold a laser rifle up to his face and he'd finish his drink before he even acknowledged you.

As they approached the group, one of the Primers glanced up, a stout box-shaped ape of a man with a ruinous face covered in scars and dominated by a large hooked-nose. He furrowed his heavy brow, scrunched his nose, and bared his teeth. He inclined his head towards the slim Primer to his right, particularly well-kempt but for a thick and wild beard. "Deefas. Looners. Dree of'em."

The Luner youth, no more than 6 cycles in age, jerked up his head, panic in his swollen eyes as they darted across the other Luners, finally focusing on Marek. Blood from his nose mingled with that from his lip, recently split, as he silently mouthed one word: Help.

The bearded one, Deefas, nudged the third Primer, unremarkable but for a streak of white hair on the left side of the otherwise characteristic black mop of Prime, and nodded slightly towards the youth. Streak violently shoved the boy, knocking him to the ground.

Marek started, rearing to rush forward, but was quickly stopped by an arm from Lewis. "Wait", he breathed. Deefas smoothed the sleeves of his jacket, and adjusted his lapel, all the while examining the three Luners. The other two Primers, Streak and Scars, stepped up just ahead of Deefas, flanking him, and putting themselves between the others and the youth.

Deefas' gaze came to rest on Linden. He bared a vicious toothy grin and inclined his head towards Scars. "No, Cheefal. Dads wrong. Dere's only doo of'em. One, 'ees der ped. Dads nud a man. See, 'ees a moon dug." He winked at Linden. "Dads all. Lyg dis one, see." Deefas motioned to the youth, now on his hands and knees, droplets of blood slowly raining down from his face to pool on the hard pavement.

Linden looked away, lowering his eyes to the ground. Marek clenched his fists and ground his teeth. And Lewis remained calm.

They were Sudders. Primers from the Southern continent. The name was a play on their speech. The South was dominated by mines; metal refineries; untold factories; and low hanging clouds of particulate metals and silicates, among other industrial byproducts. The air could leave a bitter taste on the tongue and a deadly layer of dust on the lungs. Nasal air filters, or NAFs, kept people breathing, but Sudders quite literally learned to keep their mouths shut. And when they did speak, they spoke with their teeth pressed closely together, dropping their h's, blunting their t's and k's, and giving their speech a menacing quality.

Deefas continued, "Loog ad'im. Dis dug knows 'oosen jarge. 'Ee wund e'en loog ad me." Scars, the one Deefas called Cheefal, bared his teeth and laughed deep from his chest, producing sounds akin to grunting.

"Leave him alone you filthy apes!" Marek stared at Deefas, his fists clenched, his body leaning forward, and the veins in his neck straining.

Deefas laughed. "Loogs lyg 'ees nod jusd a ped. Lofers maybe? Does dis dug fedge 'is bone?" The three Primers burst into grunts of laughter. Marek hissed in Lewis' ear. "I'm gonna kill him. This primate piece of sh--".

"ENOUGH!" Lewis' voice boomed across the courtyard. The lines of predominantly Luners flanking them glanced nervously in their direction before returning to stare at their feet. It was best to mind your own business on Prime. The three Sudders stopped in mid-grunt,momentarily disconcerted. Lewis had that effect on others.

Lewis proceeded calmly. "Let the kid go. He's too young. The minimum age is 10 cycles. He's no more than 7. They won't take him. Least of all under force." They all knew better though. The fleet was always hungry for pilots. They would take the kid. He'd be no better than a fighter pilot though. Meat. A death sentence.

Deefas quickly recovered his swagger. He pointed towards a full bag of food rations, spilling out onto the courtyard a few feet away. "Noooo. If 'ees old enuf do ead lyg a man, 'ees old enuf do die lyg one." He drew his finger back around to point at the boy. "Loog 'ow big 'ees grown. Doo mudge mead for dis one. Andjoo know whad dey say. You are whadjoo ead. 'Ees jusd mead, lyg d'resd'of you."

Marek cursed. "Dirty primates! Filthy apes! This world is full of your crap. In the air. On the ground. All you are is waste. You weren't born. Your mother passed you right into the sewer!"

Rage contorted Deefas' face. "Shud haf lefdjoo dere do die. All you looners're good fer's dyin'."

Marek lunged forward towards Deefas. Almost simultaneously, Lewis launched into Streak, landing a right cross to his jaw. Deefas jumped back, while Scars stepped in, shouldering Marek off balance. As Scars drew back his fist, Linden's shrill cry rang out, "Marek!"; he dived at the legs of Scars, deflecting the apes' punch. Marek felt a burst of pressure on his cheek and saw a flash of white.

White. White armor. He was back on Ur. A shattered building in the background. The armor was streaked with red. Red gloves. It seemed... almost... human. There were long slender arms at the feet of the armor. Moving slowly. And suddenly he was behind the armor. With a slab of something in his hands. A wall? He brought it down swiftly on the head of the armor. It fell. He leaped on its back. And reached for a beam of wood. From something familiar. A crib? It was broken at its tip. Sharp. He drove it down into the neck of the armor. Of the Ghost. And the white armor became red. Red hands. His hands.

There was a strange pressure on his cheek. And his back. His eyes cleared. Marek was on the ground. Staring at pavement on the horizon and at feet, limping away. "Looner. Dad one. 'Ees grazy. Loog wad 'ee did do me!" The pressure on his cheek relaxed and Marek turned his face towards the voice. Deefas was pointing an arm at him, the sleeve torn off, his jacket ripped, his face a mess of blood, and his beard a dripping red rag. "Gedjoo bag, mead. Jusd you waid, mead." Deefas began limping away, escorted by ARC security, the same security still holding him down. Marek's eyes came back to rest on his hand. His red hand. Deefas called back to Marek. "Yer dead. Jusd da walging dead."