Morag

"I said move along!" The guard punted her side with his baton.

She winced and stood up. "Please, I just need to leave. I have the permit. Look. I'm not here to reach the ninth quadrant."

"You're from sector 8. We all know about the asteroid exposure. You're not leaving until after the post-exposure check. Now move!" He shoved her again. She grabbed her side and picked up the heavy bag, which squelched gently as she squeezed it.

She pulled herself up and made her way around the dusty street. A droid shuffled past, its lights scanning her and the rest of the crowd up and down. She clutched her bag closer and squeezed past, holding her breath.

Daylight was dimming through the fog. Morag knew she didn't have much time to get out. She grabbed her wrist and looked at the now smudged route.

Turn crossing, 9.5
Hatch end - code 33-78-90
Ask for Sandro

She could smell something grilling, even above the pungent stench of her bag. She couldn't remember the last time she had eaten, but hunger felt like a distant memory; it wasn't important now. She pushed on up the roads as the crowds thinned. Between her shoulder blades, she could feel it move, nuzzling her through the old fabric sack.

A street seller waved his wares as the remaining stragglers shuffled by. "Fern blades! Fern! Real fern from Coventry. Make the purest oxygen we know! You, miss?" He jabbed a few stalks her way. They looked fresh, green.

She caught herself. "No, no, thanks." She grabbed her bag and walked faster.

"Don't be like that! Look miss, best you can find, pure air, palm of your hand!" He stepped after her, grabbing the strap gruffly.

"They're fresh out of Coven- puuuar!!" He grabbed his nose and recoiled as a seam of dark brown liquid gushed from the backpack.

"Stop! Please." She grabbed the bag back, eyes wide. The spot where the guard hit her now throbbed painfully with the motion.

"Blimey! What 'ave you got there? Taking out the trash, are we?" he guffawed and let her go, stumbling back to stand, holding the ferns beneath his nose.

Morag ran to the end of the street and leaned against the wall, catching her breath. Her knees shook with exhaustion. The cut on her knuckles stung beneath the wet gloves. She could feel every wound and weather on her body, all at once. How much more of this did she have to take? She rubbed her nose and stood up.

Street 9.5

She breathed a sigh of relief and kept on. There was nobody here now, and her pace softened. The hatches had been used to ferry supplies through double doors; now they were where the gangs hung out, controlling the flow between sectors. Gangs or guards, as far as the people could tell, it made no difference. The smaller the sectors became, the more viciously they fought for control. This hatch was quiet. She didn't imagine there being much activity in the quadrant anyway; there just weren't enough people anymore.

The hatch door was yellow and flaking, two handles protruding from either side of the hexagonal steel plate. She loved the design of these things and could even remember this one when it shone proudly on the day it was installed with Dad. Summoning her strength, she pulled the handles up, revealing the keypad below.

She pulled up her wrist and went to write—33 (tap tap)—78 (tap tap)—9 (tap nothing). The last digit didn't go in. She looked down again and stopped. She pressed it again. Not a sound; the keypad didn't register either. Not now. A tear spilled onto her cheek; she hadn't even realized they were flowing. Choking them back, she pressed again and again, thumped the keypad. Delete. She retyped the code, but the zero still stuck at the last moment. She screamed into her palm as the bag slumped wetly against her back, pulling tight on her shoulder. She kicked the hatch and yelled.