A Need to Breathe

The small circular pod approached, and as Gallus stepped in, the vehicle read the information from the digital assistant on his wrist and automatically set off to his place of employment. For a few minutes, all he saw was row after row of houses as his vehicle rapidly accelerated to what must have been a few hundred kilometers an hour. The one track he was on soon split into multiple, as the large suburban sprawl disgorged hundreds of thousands of transport pods, each holding one or two of New Brookyln's workers. The city itself was a dull red clump of large skyscrapers, piercing into the sky like a wall of steel. Despite the terraforming efforts of centuries prior, Mars still had plenty of red dust blowing around, and even the newest buildings were not untainted by this faint crimson color.

After about fifteen minutes, Gallus reached the city, the buildings blurring by as his pod burst between buildings at high speed. Eventually, he reached his own workplace, and the pod dove underground into a large, well lit basement. It stopped abruptly, it's doors opening impatiently, and Gallus stepped out into the dank underbelly of the building. As soon as he stepped out, the pod raced away, and he marched in procession with his co-workers to the massive elevator in the center of the room.

He sullenly took his long ride to the fortieth floor, looking around every so often for one of his co-workers. The throng of people entering was so massive that he rarely spotted any, but when he did, the conversation was generally quite welcome. After some time he reached his floor, and frowned at the unpleasant interior decoration. A few decades ago, designers saw it fit to try and "blend" building architecture with the traditional look of the Martian world.

This resulted in dirty looking, rusty hues and flat, rectangular furniture. It looked like modernist design was left to rot in the sun for a millenia or two. But Mars wasn't known for its beauty, and Gallus had grown used to the rather dismal sights of home. Gallus sauntered down the long, wide hallway, and the crowd grew thinner and thinner. Soon he was alone in the long hallway, and could walk at his comfortable pace, which was quite fast.

He entered into his office, little more than a dusty closet at the end of the hallway. The bioscanner quickly read his vital signs, and the room erupted to life and light. Panels on the walls lit with statistics on the production and distribution of oxygen and water throughout his district. His office chair rose out of the ground, and a semicircular computer screen lit up in the air around it.

He only had a moment or so to get his bearings when an alert flashed on his main screen. This wasn't a surprise; the resource administrators met every week to discuss the state of New Brooklyn's infrastructure. Gallus sighed deeply, as he generally dreaded these meetings. There was rarely good news to be had, and he often had to be aggressive in defending his district's interest.

By nature he was mild-mannered, and this confrontation stressed him greatly. But like any good Martian, he dutifully accepted his fate, and walked down the hall to the meeting room. Most had already settled into their seats when Gallus arrived. They gave him cold stares, mostly disinterested in him. Each of the seats around the rectangular table had a little microphone and computer screen.

Gallus sat down at the one with his name on it and prepared his mind as best he could. Usually the room was a buzz with small talk and gossip, but today an eerie silence protruded the space. That was a bad omen. After a moment, their boss sauntered into the room. Head of Resource Allocation, Franklyn Grotto, an ancient 150 year old being. Thanks to rejuvenation pills, he didn't look ghastly old, in fact he had the spry step of a healthy older man.

"No point in dancing around it, I have some shit news for you all. Regional supply says we need to cut back 10% on our supplemental oxygen usage. Outer planets are getting squeezed and we need the electricity to get more rocks off this planet." Gallus sighed and buried his head in his hands. His co-workers whispered around him with excitement and irritation. A 10% O2 cut meant that he was going to have to start gouging people extremely hard.

This wasn't the first cut either; there had been several in the past. Two percent here, four percent there, slowly adding up to a vastly reduced supply. But this was the largest and most blatant Gallus had ever seen. People were going to be living very uncomfortably for a while; even hospitals and nurseries might get shorted a little bit.

After a moment, Grotto called for silence, and his underlings began to barrage him with questions. "How long will we have to operate like this sir?" "Assume indefinitely." He replied gruffly. "Are we going to have an associated rate hike?" "Yes, 5% immediately, and if that doesn't discourage usage enough, we start active rationing."

Gallus squirmed in his seat. The commodification of oxygen had been a problem on Mars for a while. The outdoor atmosphere was breathable, and people became acclimated to it after some time, but it was uncomfortably low and caused severe health problems for some. And, like most things on Mars, it came down to money. Those with the solar tokens to afford the increased rate would be the least effected. Even if they rationed to make it fair, Gallus was sure wealthy neighborhoods and political donors would be spared the depravity of labored breath.

Grotto turned and set his intense gaze on Gallus. "Mr. Sacro, do you have anything to add? You're usually quite vocal about resource cuts." Gallus shook his head curtly, struggling to contain his frustration. "Nothing I say can change the circumstance. Might as well save my breath." Grotto smiled a long and sinister grin. "That's more like it Gallus. Pragmatic and realistic, like a true Martian." Gallus ignored the obvious snub at his half Terran ancestry and returned a cold nod instead.

The rest of the work day went by quickly, as Gallus struggled to see where and how he could best reduce the air supply without causing extra suffering. Keep the flow going to the children's hospital, take a little out of some of the more understaffed office buildings, etc. After a few hours of straining oxygen systems, Gallus stepped back from his work station with a sigh. He was generally a man of moderation, but he knew one thing for certain; he was going to get wasted tonight.