Adum gathered up his trade tools and began the long walk home. The biting chill of encroaching winter seared his aching bones, and the threadbare jacket he wore did little to help. He sidestepped a trash pile, then almost tripped on a thin leg that extended from it. The trash pile shuddered, and a head peeked out from beneath a tattered newspaper. A string of expletives sputtered from a mouth full of jagged black points that were once teeth. Adum only grunted and continued his trudge through the muck and mire, muttering to himself about drugged-out waste-oids.

He passed a boarded-up shop that had once been a grocery. He thought of how convenient it would be to go to such a place and purchase anything one might need, instead of haggling with the Mendraga overseers at the dispensary for items not on the approved necessity list. He imagined well-lit rows of goods with colorful labels, up for grabs for anyone with the credit. Like he had seen in a picture book once.

In front of the store’s entrance was a pile of mutant carcasses that someone had lit on fire. He thought about stepping toward the flames to warm himself, but damn did those things stink to high hell when you burned them. They were coming up through the sewer system more and more often, only to be put down by the Mendraga overseers. He had no idea why they came. Maybe they were hungry; seems like everyone was these days. Lots of mouths to feed, and not a whole lot of industrial food paste to go around.

As he continued his walk he passed a group of fellow tradesmen and a few Tarsi on a street corner. He issued a curt wave, but hoped to hurry past them. They nodded and beckoned him over. One of them had smarts, like him; Adum could tell because he used so many words. The way the man’s voice rose and fell from soft thunder to tumult mesmerized Adum, and against his better judgement he felt himself turning toward the gathering of workers.

The talking man was cleaner and better dressed than the men around him. His features were softer, yet still pronounced and hard-carved like his comrades’ in the working caste. It was his eyes that were different, striking. To Adum, they seemed to shine like polished metal. He wondered why he had not met this man before, who seemed so much like himself.

Adum knew that gatherings of more than a few people were forbidden, but still he could not turn away. A cheer was rising up from the Tarsi and the hammerheads. They were raising their fists in the air, pumping them in unison. Adum looked down at his own fists, the backs crested with coarse black hair, and found that they were clenched. He raised his own fist in the air and began to shout. The working men began to stomp and clap their hands together.

Then a low-pitched roar pierced the air, and the men froze. Their eyes rolled in fear and all display of bravado dissipated; in some cases it ran down their legs and puddled at their feet.

“Mendraga!”

Three roaring hoverbikes spun around the corner of the block, bearing down on the gathering of workers. Riding these great chrome and steel beasts were Mendraga overseers.

The overseers began to shout in their slippery, quick-tongued speak. The leader of the three dismounted and sauntered over to the gathering of terrified souls, brandishing one of the weapons that spit fire. He spoke to the smart one, and once again Adum found himself frustrated by his inability to understand all of the words they said.

But he knew that the overseer was berating the smart man. Impressively, the man who was standing his ground, giving as much as he was receiving. Adum looked over at the other two overseers. They were laughing; one was showing the other something on the little televisions they carried in their hands, completely oblivious to the kinetic crackle that was rising in the air.

The overseers and the smart man that was so like Adum continued to argue. Then, without warning, the overseer raised his metal stick and blew the smart man’s head off.

Immediately, a change came over the workers. The fear slipped from their eyes, and was replaced with rage—the kind that allowed a person to forget the idea of self enough to perform mighty feats in the name of his fellow man. The deferential downward tilt of their brows was gone as well; in its place they presented forward-jutting chins and set jaws. Adum saw one of the men in the back pick up a fist-sized rock from the ground.

Adum was slow, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew what was happening, and he found himself reaching into his pocket and pulling out the fire shooter that the sleepers had given him. He fired it; and his aim was true. The fire shooter did not recoil against the rigid strength of his arm. The overseer who had killed the smart man fell. The bullet had pierced his left eye, and it blew most of his brains out the back of his head and onto the other overseers.

The rock-wielder’s arm reared back and let loose. Adum saw the rock speed past him, and time seemed to dilate. The rock struck another overseer’s gauntleted hand, causing his fire shooter to fly from his hands. it pinwheeled through the air and skittered across the concrete, landing at a hammerhead’s feet. He recoiled back from it, thrusting his hands on front of him in a gesture that said “Not my fault!”

Suddenly the struck overseer blurred, unstuck from time as he shot across the expanse between himself and the rock hurler. He bowled through the thick swath of gathered workers like they were mere blades of grass, parting them like a scythe. Then he raised the rock hurler over his head and brought him crashing to the concrete with a sickening thud. The sight of the man’s head being reduced to pulp caused Adum’s gorge to rise.

One of the other hammerheads clamored for the fire shooter. Years of snatching circuit boards off assembly lines and soldering tiny transistors and data chips to them had given his limbs a deft quickness that was now an unexpected boon. Before any of the Mendraga could react, he had the weapon in his hands.

The fire shooter issued its thunderous report, and the back of the second Mendraga’s head exploded in a black mist. Adum didn’t hesitate; he lined up his sights and fired again, killing the last remaining overseer.

The working men cheered and clapped each other on the backs. Some were crying.

One of the Tarsi stood up on the hoverbikes: Bayorn. And around him stood several of the biggest Tarsi Adum had ever seen. Like Bayorn, their claws glimmered in the moonlight, and their teeth were as sharp as knives.

Bayorn issued a gravelly roar that caused Adum’s blood to reach a feverous boil. He found himself returning the war cry. Then Bayorn walked over to him and extended his hand. Adum cocked his head. He felt stupid, ashamed, as all eyes fell on him.

“It’s okay,” the Tarsi said, extending his hand again. Adum extended his own, and the Tarsi grasped it, pumping it up and down.

“It is time to fight, Adum. Are your people ready?”

“Yes. The sleepers gave me the fire shooter,” Adum said. “They told me that the fight was coming. And they gave me this.” Adum held out the access card that would open up a cache full of fire shooters.

“Is this what I think it is?” Bayorn asked.

Adum nodded.

“Excellent!” Bayorn shouted. “Let’s go. We must make haste.”

“But, Bayorn, who will lead my people?” Adum asked.

“It seems as though they follow you,” Bayorn replied. He gestured to the crowd. “See how they look at you.”

Adum swelled with pride and thought of his son. He wished that the boy could see his father now.

He raised his hand and began to speak slowly so that they could all understand. “Go to your homes. A fight is coming. Tarsi and workers will fight together, when the time is right.”

The men nodded to one another and began to exchange the odd hand-shaking gesture that Bayorn had demonstrated. Then they disappeared into the oncoming night like shadows, leaving the bodies of the Mendraga in the street.