68

Under those domes, she still felt screams.

The long, plaintive cries of people who have lost faith in the future. They darted between the locked airlock bulkheads, torn by the fear of being trampled and the desire to trample someone.

The staccato, furious cries of commands. Assault brigades of peacekeepers in black armored cabin suits did not have time to reload rebreathers, therefore, spitting on safety instructions, they breathed the same air with their flock and quarreled with each other in the same way, directly, bypassing encrypted channels.

The deafening screams of unfed birds that were bred in domes for the amusement of the privileged corporate class, but left unattended with the onset of the Blockade. And now they rush, stupefied from low oxygen and terrible hunger, under the very heavens and scream, scream, scream.

And they drop dead.

Those screams could drive you crazy. And many went.

The mile-long promenade that had once been the pride of the southern slopes of Amundsen Cra
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