Future Changes — Chapter 5 part 6

Gene's Room

The night in Ceres fell like a veil of glass, translucent but cold. Through the enormous windows of the collective dormitory, the distant lights of the city painted the darkness in shades of white and gold. The streets were already empty; curfew had sounded more than an hour ago.

Gene was sitting on the edge of his bed, still wearing his gray school uniform, staring at his open hands resting on his lap. Almost the entire dormitory was already asleep. The only sounds were the heavy breathing of the other boys in the room, the hum of the emergency lights, and the faint metallic groan of the pipes in the ceiling.

He couldn't sleep.

The teacher's words spun through his mind like rusted gears. Kat's expression, first curious, then stern, still weighed on his eyes. And that damn smile of Turk's still burned in his pride.

"Do you want that for your son? Freedom to starve?"

Gene took a deep breath. He knew the teacher was right — from a certain point of view. But why, then, when they showed that photograph, did his heart break not only for the starving child... but also for the freedom that child still had, even on the brink of death?

He slowly got up, trying not to wake anyone. He walked to the window, pressed his forehead against the cold glass, and looked outside.

The fields stretched into the distance like a geometric sea. The illuminated irrigation towers and the low mist made everything look... perfect. Impeccable. A living, pulsing organism without flaws.

Gene hated how perfect everything was.

— This can't be everything... — he whispered to himself.

He lowered his eyes toward the courtyard below and, for a second, thought he saw someone walking alone, outside of schedule, a hurried shadow disappearing into one of the service galleries. A chill ran down his spine.

"What if I went outside? Just to see. Just to... feel."

A whirlwind stirred inside him — anger, fear, doubt, hope. He didn't know what it was yet. He only knew he could no longer go back to being the same Gene he had been before. The mantra still echoed through the school corridors, but this time he would not repeat it with them.

"Mother Ceres, who feeds us, who educates us, who devours us."

Gene smiled, an almost bitter smile.

And he murmured, alone, to the glass:

— But not everything you devour... dies.

He stayed there, fists clenched, staring at the perfect lights of a city he was already beginning to hate — and love at the same time.

In the cafeteria, morning woke with a light buzz, almost a competition of voices and laughter. Everyone sat at the breakfast table, each with their own plate — simple, functional, but enough.

Daime, with that provocative smile, nudged Gene:

— Freedom? Freedom is my eggs! — he blurted out, pausing dramatically while everyone laughed.

Cora, quick on the draw, added:

— Libertarians get left out to dry in the sun. They only eat when Vanks gives them a hand.

Vanks, with his practical manner, muttered:

— When they manage to put together a decent meal, of course.

Ana shook her head, serious:

— You can't eat freedom, you can't wear it, and it doesn't work as decoration either.

Dark, in the corner, remained silent, buried in his own indifference.

Daime, still joking, lifted himself slightly from his chair and, with a theatrical air, said:

— Since I'm free, how about we go around singing a beautiful song in the flower fields? I could even do it in Cora's field here in Ceres!

Cora, already on the defensive, shot back:

— Get out of my flower field!

Daime burst out laughing, mocking her:

— What is this? The field isn't yours, you proletarian of flowers!

Theo, stepping in to calm things down, said:

— Leave Cora alone. She takes better care of dogs and cats than she does your stinking diapers.

Daime crossed his arms, pretending to be offended:

— Respect me. I used to own the team, and you were my immediate substitute. Warm the bench!

Dark stood up, disgusted by that “happy family” first thing in the morning, and silently walked away.

The atmosphere was a mixture of teasing, rough affection, and that raw kind of coexistence that only the harsh routine of Ceres could provide.

The Court Jester

In the middle of breakfast, Cors started needling Gene again with a sharp smile:

— Gene, how are you going to raise your son in a place where there's freedom, but no plate of food or place to sleep? Are you going to live on air?

Vank didn't waste any time and added, in that firm voice of his:

— He's not going to eat plaster off the walls. The dogs around here eat better than plenty of libertarians out there.

Daime, with that mocking tone, joined in:

— A libertarian is so skinny you can look through the keyhole with both eyes!

At that moment, even Ceres, always serious and cold, couldn't resist — she swallowed a piece of cereal, choked, and let out a dry laugh.

The room exploded with laughter, and Gene, visibly irritated, stood up and stormed out while the buzz continued throughout the cafeteria.

Daime: slowly raises his hand.

— Gene, wait, wait!

Gene stops, curious.

Daime remains silent, smiles mischievously, stands perfectly still as if he were about to deliver the most important sentence of his life, then says, completely deadpan:

— Never mind. You can go!

The room explodes in laughter, even louder than Ceres's own laughter, who can barely hold back her smile. Theo looks at her, they exchange a knowing glance, and the two end up laughing together, as if it were a shared secret.

The bell echoed through the corridors. The cafeteria slowly emptied, trays rattling, voices fading, hurried footsteps.

Tycho remained there, oblivious to everything, earphones shoved into his ears, slowly chewing what was left on his plate. Only when he saw, from the corner of his eye, figures hurrying past with heavy boxes in their hands did he raise his head. Men from the storeroom crossed the hall, carrying supplies: sacks of cereal, boxes of canned goods, fresh vegetables still smelling of earth.

One of them stumbled — the box in his arms gave way, and a can rolled across the floor, spinning and spinning until it stopped right at Tycho's feet.

He looked around. No one seemed to have noticed. Not even a glance.

He slowly bent down, picked up the cold can with his fingertips, and read the label:

COCOA POWDER.

He felt his heart beat faster.

Chocolate. In powder form.

It was like finding a piece of legend buried in concrete.

Discreetly, he shoved the can into the bottom of his backpack and left without looking back.

Outside, in the usual corner of the courtyard, was Dru.

Leaning against the wall, one foot propped up, rolling a cigarette, surrounded by her small clientele. On top of the spread-out cloth, odds and ends fought for space: homemade lipsticks, little bottles of nail polish, cassette tapes, cheap jewelry, watered-down perfumes, eyeshadow cases, cheap trinkets. She smiled at one person, mocked another, exchanged quick words, commanding the chaos naturally.

When she saw Tycho approaching, she raised an eyebrow.

— Look who showed up... — she said lazily. — What do you want?

Tycho swallowed hard.

— Some tapes. For my brother...

She nodded, starting to rummage through a box of tapes.

— And what did you bring? I only have what you give me in exchange, kid.

He rummaged through his backpack, taking out a few useless things first — blunt pocketknives, a broken brush, a cracked mirror. Dru merely looked at them and snorted.

— Seriously? That's it?

Then he took out the can.

The metallic shine beneath the grayish light made her eyes widen. The cigarette slipped from her fingers without her noticing.

— ...where did you get this? — she asked in a low voice, almost a whisper.

— It fell. In the cafeteria. From the storeroom. Nobody saw... there were so many boxes...

Dru couldn't take her eyes off the can.

— Rarer than gold... — she murmured.

Then she smiled.

— You have no idea what you just brought me, kid.

Tycho stepped back half a pace.

— I... want ten credits.

She burst out laughing, throwing her head back.

— Ten? I'll give you three.

— Eight — he insisted nervously.

— Four. And I'm being generous. Your brother's number isn't going to work on me, sweetheart.

— Five.

She closed her hand around the can, and for a moment her smile disappeared. She stared at Tycho seriously and said, very slowly:

— Deal. But there's only one way you can be sure I won't screw you over.

Tycho raised his eyebrows.

— And what's that?

Dru pulled the collar of her own shirt down and showed the red embroidery:

MOTHER CERES

The letters seemed to pulse beneath the weak light, stitched with thick, firm, inescapable threads.

— You trust Mother Ceres — she said coldly — and you trust me.

There was silence. Tycho felt a shiver run down his spine — fear or respect, he couldn't say.

Finally, he nodded.

— Okay... deal.

Dru smiled again, now with a victorious air, and tucked the can behind the backpack and the makeshift cloth.

Tycho left Dru's corner with the tapes hidden inside the inner pocket of his jacket.

The courtyard was already almost empty. A cold wind lifted dust and dry leaves, lashing against the gray walls of Ceres. He walked quickly, without looking at anyone, but he could still feel her presence carved into his back.

Dru's voice echoed in his head:

You trust Mother Ceres. And you trust me.

He clenched his fists inside his pockets.

It was just a can. Just a handful of brown powder in a world that allowed no color.

And yet, it seemed to have opened a door he didn't know whether he wanted to walk through.

He reached the dormitory. The corridors were deserted; the bell had rung minutes ago. He slowly pushed the door open, trying not to draw attention, and slipped into the lower bunk.

Only when he sat there, in the heavy silence of the dormitory, did he dare take the tapes out of his pocket.

There were three: one with a smudged label that read Love Songs, another with the name of a band he had never heard of — The Clash — and the last one, with only a yellow sticker reading Mixtape — Side A.

He stared at the tapes for a long time. He could swear he could still smell the chocolate clinging to his hands, sweet, almost forbidden.

Suddenly, a pang crossed his chest.

It wasn't fear. It wasn't guilt. It was something else, harder to name.

— How much is this going to cost me?

The question hung in the air, unanswered, like a muffled echo.

Outside, the sound of the loudspeakers invaded the dormitory, cold and impersonal:

“Remember: survival above freedom. Trust Mother Ceres.”

Tycho closed his eyes and lay down, the tapes resting on his chest, feeling, for the first time, part of something he still didn't understand.

And, in the shadow of the room, a faint smile escaped the corner of his mouth.

Later, when the lights were already going out, Tycho waited for the heavy snoring of his classmates to fill the dormitory. With his heart pounding, he took the old Walkman from its hiding place in the drawer of his backpack, along with a pair of headphones patched together with electrical tape.

He chose the tape Mixtape — Side A.

He inserted it, turned the volume wheel down very low, and pressed play.

For a moment, nothing happened. Only the faint hiss of the tape running across the magnetic heads.

Then, little by little, the music was born — soft, with simple chords, and a woman's voice singing in English something he didn't understand, but felt.

It was sweet.

It was free.

It was as if someone out there, in another world, were saying:

“I felt what you're feeling now, too.”

He closed his eyes and let the notes fill the dark spaces of his mind.

Images came: green fields, an open sky without bars, hands holding his in a strange dance.

For long minutes, Tycho forgot where he was.

And for long minutes, he believed freedom could have a sound.

When the music ended and the hiss took over again, he took a deep breath, still with his eyes closed.

Only then did he remember the deal with Dru.

He pulled the chocolate can from his backpack and turned it over in his hands. There was a small number printed on the side, next to the storage seal:

30 credits.

Thirty.

And she took it for... five.

For a moment, Tycho stared at the numbers, feeling a bitter taste in his mouth.

He had been ripped off. Humiliated.

What was almost everything to him... had been just another score for her.

He put the can back into his backpack with a heavy sigh.

The Walkman still hissed softly beside the bed.

He closed his eyes and forced himself to smile, a sad smile.

At least now I know the price of a dream in Ceres, he thought.

Thirty credits. And counting.

He fell asleep with the music still echoing in his memory, no longer even knowing whether it was worth it or not.

Tycho walked slowly through the corridors, the can inside his backpack weighing like a brick. He stopped in a corner, opened the zipper, looked at the brown-and-gold label reading Cocoa Powder, and almost managed to smell its sweetness.

But the joy had already turned into a bitter taste.

30 credits.

He heard another student's voice, laughing behind his back:

“When a fool meets a smart man...”

He slowly closed the backpack.

And thought:

“So that's it. That's how the game is played here. Fine, Dru... today I lost. But one day I'll learn. One day I'll be the smart one. And you'd better watch yourself.”

In the distance, already leaving through the courtyard, Dru looked over her shoulder. Her eyes gleamed with that cynical laugh only she had, and her lips moved, soundlessly:

“Welcome to Ceres, Tycho.”

Tycho stayed in the courtyard for a while, just watching. Dru was no longer there, but he watched every student who approached her, every hand that handed something over and every hand that left with some little trinket hidden in a pocket.

He began to understand. It wasn't the things themselves that had value — it was the opportunities. People wanted to feel like they had won, even when paying dearly. They wanted the feeling of getting the better of someone.

His stomach turned when he saw a boy receive a nearly empty bottle of blue nail polish from her for 15 credits.

“15... for that?!” he thought.

That was it. Whoever knew how to tell a story about the object, whoever created the illusion of scarcity, whoever measured the other person's greed... won.

He thought about the next time he ran into a distracted cafeteria delivery worker.

“Next time... I won't just take it. I already know who to sell it to. And for how much.”

As he returned to the classroom, a half-smile appeared on his face for the first time since the mockery at breakfast.

“When a fool meets a smart man... they do business. But nobody stays a fool forever.”

And at the end of the corridor, Dru spotted him for a second. Without him seeing, she tilted her head, almost satisfied.

“Very good, Tycho... very good.”

The First Payback

Tycho already knew Dru had ripped him off. The next day, he saw her in the same corner of the courtyard, selling the same can of chocolate to another boy... for 28 credits. He felt a knot in his stomach and, for the first time, it wasn't just hunger.

It was anger, disguised as laughter.

Then he smiled.

During break, he walked past Dru, who was arranging the odds and ends on a makeshift cloth. She greeted him with the same air of superiority.

— Good business yesterday, kid — she said, without even looking at him.

Tycho merely raised his eyebrows. He tossed a small broken mirror onto her cloth, one he'd picked up in maintenance class.

— How much will you give me for this? — he asked loudly, so everyone could hear.

Dru looked at it, looked at him, then at the mirror, and laughed.

— That thing isn't worth even the weight of my fingernail.

He then said:

— Yeah. Yesterday I thought the same thing about the chocolate.

The nearby group laughed, and Dru was momentarily speechless, staring at the boy with a mixture of surprise and respect. She picked up the mirror, turned it over in her hands as if it were gold, and replied, maintaining her composure:

— You're learning, huh? May Mother bless you.

Tycho didn't answer. He simply turned his back and walked away, leaving Dru with a crooked smile on her face.

On the way, he thought to himself:

“In Ceres, even learning costs dearly. But every credit is worth it.”

And this time, he laughed to himself.

He really laughed.