Chaos was not confined to Meera's community.
It was a planetary seizure. From the cramped Yellow Zones to the sprawling Orange slums, people were collapsing in the streets. The only pockets of silence were Silicon Canyon and the other fortified districts of the elites and their corporations.
While millions died, Meera's community had fared better. They had Desmond, a doctor who recognized the symptoms, and Meera, who claimed to know the cause.
Fear proved a stronger motivator than curiosity. People refused to cluster in Desmond's Room. Following Desmond's advice, they agreed that Meera should broadcast what she knew. But when she tried to upload a video to her neighbours' B-Waxes, it was instantly rejected.
In the privacy of Desmond's room, she told him the truth.
"We don't upload. We go live," Desmond decided, his mind working like a strategist's. He modified one of his old, trusted online forums and gave her access under a new profile: Meera.
He went door-to-door, announcing the account. "Join Meera's livestream. She knows what this is."
Some ignored him, desperately trying to call emergency services. But the lines were dead. Their online pleas for help were erased moments after posting. With every other avenue sealed, they had no choice. They logged on.
Meera's face appeared on the screens of her neighbour's B.Wax. She explained the encrypted message, the corporate-wide gag order, and the silenced internet. The pieces clicked into a horrifying whole.
The conclusion was inescapable: the Caliphates had engineered this virus to cull the "useless" population. It explained why Meera, her colleagues, and Desmond—all employed—remained untouched despite their exposure.
The movement found its artist. A billboard painter, his hands stained with pigment, resurrected a shuddering antique printer. It became their press, churning out banners that smelled of ozone and revolt.
Desmond drove the rovers. Meera's colleagues became her distribution network, spreading the physical banners across districts and Zones while she remained perpetually live, a steady voice in the storm, instituting a curfew and advising masks and blindfolds. The death rate plummeted.
They continued this cycle day by day for a week, then Meera became a symbol. A beacon. She was moved to a secure, hidden flat for her safety. The people, armed with knowledge, rallied. They flooded the digital channels of the Universal Bureau of Investigations (UBI), demanding action. Others were less diplomatic, their grief curdling into fury—calling for the overthrow of the Caliphates, branding them cold-blooded murderers.
The UBI was Mars's second-most-powerful security force; Elara's influence was insufficient to cajole them into silence. They didn't even receive the message that Tekkin's Telecommunications sent.
The tidal wave of tags finally drew the UBI's gaze. Their investigation led them to a single, persistent source of information: Meera's livestream. They scheduled an interview to get the facts.
But the tags drew another, darker attention.
***********
"The people are turning against us," Elara's voice was tight over the secure line. "We should terminate the virus before this spirals further. What is the death toll?"
"The target was forty-five percent of the non-productive class," the General grunted, his face a thundercloud. "Thanks to that girl, Meera, they contained the spread. We've only achieved twenty-one percent. The mission is far from complete."
"I was about to brief you on the girl. I see you're already aware."
"Aware?" The General's frown deepened into something predatory. "I have already initiated her termination. The people are clever; they've hidden her well. But a UBI agent is meeting her tomorrow. My spies have placed a tracking device on him."
A slow, venomous smile spread across Elara's face. "Excellent."
The General leaned close to the receiver, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper.
"Tomorrow, we assassinate her."