Hamad's eyes were on the outer perimeter
The crowd was pushing against the fence of the outer perimeter. Their anger had found its way to the batteries and now the lethal dose of electricity imbued in the steel beams was no more. Just like the endless blackouts in the city, one layer of the port’s exceptional status stripped away.
Hamad’s hands unconsciously went over the automatic weapon hanging at his waist. The outer perimeter was quite far off, but from the watchtower he could see the density of the desperate mass swell up to the fence.
“It’s going to be a crush,” sergeant said in his earpiece.
The voice was dry and monotonous.
“We wait until they’re at the trench, then you fire.”
Hamad nodded in silence. The trench was fifteen meters wide and five deep. Well within range of his weapon, it was the only feature between the wall beneath his watchtower and the guard posts at the outer perimeter. No luck for the men there. He wondered if anyone he knew had been posted there today. Soon, the first shots of the day would ring out, much harder to overlook than the inevitable electrocution of the fence.
“Flight control is saying forty minutes,” sergeant said.
Forty minutes to salvation. Although Hamad could not predict what the people would do if they saw the final rocketslaunch. They were working under the assumption that the desperate anger would turn into anguished despair, a transformation that might calm them down, and mean seeing another day tomorrow. Of course, witnessing first-hand the last lucky few escape Judgement Day might incite them to an insatiable anger that would target the collaborators first and foremost. People like Hamad. He was just doing his job, he thought. But he had made up his mind a while ago and would not blame others for condemning him, or going even further than that. Being a veteran of the Republic of Dubai’s Public Security Forces made of him a mass murderer. It was the only way to feed a family for a man with his talents, but he was not a hypocrite and knew he would receive his comeuppance one day.
Hamad did not think of himself as sentimental. That meant that he would not lament the loss his younger colleagues, they had all pulled that trigger at least once by now. But the rockets behind him needed more than just protection. Other than the security forces, there were hundreds of ground crew: those loading the little private cargo passengers were allowed to bring, those in the flight control tower, those driving the fuel carriages loaded up with the preciously scarce rocket fuel needed to get them into orbit. For them, just doing their job was not a euphemism, and Hamad prayed for their sake that the people would run out of steam once the rockets finally took off.
The people behind him were the last batch of world’s best and brightest, if you could believe the propaganda. Soon, unless the crowd got to them first, they would be launched to the Āyāt, a massive generation ship, the last of its kind. Where it would go, Hamad had no idea, but at least two of the nine that had departed before had delivered their passengers to worlds that had, according to the old stories, been like a paradise. It pays to have smart, brave, and morally upright people onboard when you are building a society inside a generation ship, that in however many years it takes to travel needs to rebuild a just human society on another world. You also want good engineers to keep the ship from falling apart. But at least half the tickets for this ship, if not more, had been sold in a terrible auction not far from the port itself.
As Dubai was falling apart around the port, the fact that more than a century ago too much capital had been sunk into the construction of the Āyāt meant that the local elites kept campuses afloat supported by what remained of the rest of the world’s wealthy. In exchange for helping complete the ship, they had secured for themselves a ticket, but with prices soaring, many had done what Hamad had thought to be the wisest course of action: they had sold their ticket for a fortune, enough to live out the last of their days in one of the few safe and stable enclaves left. Why stuff yourself into a cramped spaceship when you will not even live to see the destination? Having no children of his own, he realised, probably made that hypothetical decision a lot easier for him.
Hamad jolted up from his thoughts as a burst of gunfire rang out from the outer perimeter. He now saw people forcing their way underneath and over the fence, and security forces firing at the climbers. Soon, he knew, they would start firing indiscriminately. Once the mass had decided to go forward, the fence was going to come down, and there would be no stopping them.
If anything, there were relatively few locals in the crowd. Of course, a good number of locals was either working at the port or related to one of the workers, and they had mostly avoided the fatalistic allure of the crowd. However, even the ticket auction had drawn people from all over the world, many with no chance to afford a ride, who still came in the faintest hope that maybe they would have a lucky break and obtain access to the ship. Even more had travelled here driven by the more grim but no less fantastical idea of fighting their way aboard a rocket. It was not as if the authorities aboard the Āyāt were above sending stowaways back down, they had done it before. Perhaps people, no matter where they came from, just wanted to be there the day that their fate, alongside everyone else still left on Earth, was finally sealed. To be able to admit to yourself: “this is the last one. We’ve really gone and messed it all up now.”
Without the shade and the ventilation that the watchtower provided, Hamad knew he would not last these hours under the full sun. People had brushed against the fence before the power went on, people were crushed by others, and now the security forces were firing their guns, but at the end of the day he wagered that the sun’s heat would have taken just as many. For as long as he could remember, Dubai had been a bold challenge to the climate, but with temperatures not dropping below 35 degrees year round, demonstrations and riots were always on a timer. The heat incensed the people, but it also killed them without remorse.
When tomorrow the port would close forever, the city had nothing left beside the desalination plants, which would keep running until an essential part broke without a way to restore it. As the last riches of Dubai went to space, there would be nobody organising the expensive food imports, repairing the solar farms, or manufacturing the air conditioners. With his wages, Hamad had bought a carriage from one of the departing families, as much fuel as he could afford, and water. Tomorrow, his family would start driving north, with or without him. The camps in Hellas, if they could reach it, offered better prospects than the desert.
The people were now pushing down the fence with their weight. It started to sag, then sections began to fall over. Some of the crowd ignored the guard posts, which lit up red with automatic gunfire, and ran directly towards the trench. Others rushed the security forces at the outer perimeter, their bodies the shields of those behind them. The anxiety among the last of the passengers in line was palpable.
There were children there, twice-damned. Brought into a dying world and now carried aboard a metal prison where they would spend the rest of their lives. Hamad had no children. His parents were in the minority in Dubai. The world population had been in a steady decline following a prolonged period of stagnation. Famine, war, heat, and pandemics all took their toll, but many people were not having children any more. Those who could afford the pharmaceuticals, anyway.
Exhausted, a group of people had made it to the trench. It had been built to stop vehicles, but it proved a real challenge to climb during the middle of the day. Their numbers grew and grew. Reluctantly, Hamad reached for his rifle. He aimed at first, shooting those who showed initiative. But they could not be stopped. People came crawling across the trench along a wide line, so he switched to automatic and continued working. His head was empty.
The masses droned up against the wall below the watchtower. He could now hear their cries. Some were begging, others uttered prayers. He caught an angry slogan of someone who opposed leaving Earth entirely. An ideology a thousand years out of date. He fired for ten seconds, reloaded, count to ten, reloaded, count to then. They had no ladders but they pushed on top of each other and Hamad knew that with their combined weight they could topple the wall. It sagged, gave way, and people were in the tower. Hamad fired for ten seconds, reloaded, and realised that everything had gone silent.
All eyes were aimed at the rockets. The launch pads were deserted but for the lone rioter who had made it to the closest rocket. She banged on the massive exhaust. Then, with a deafening roar, twelve engines burned to life and they took off. And aboard were the last people who would leave Earth alive.
