If one looks at the Eastern Forest from space, it is a beautiful planet. The blue waters of the oceans, endless green plains, and pale, breathtaking quarries illuminated by starlight piercing through the atmosphere create an indescribably beautiful picture, resembling an ancient oil painting covered in the dust of centuries.
However, for the residents and orphans of the Eastern Forest district, this planet is merely a rock. Even the green plains, in the eyes hardened by years of deprivation, appear only as a thin layer of turf covering a history of wealth and glory. Their gaze is accustomed to penetrating through this grass, rushing toward what the residents of the Eastern Forest crave most—the mineral veins.
From an administrative point of view, the Eastern Forest is a second-level district, just like the three shining planets of the Capital Star Cluster and the Western Forest district. But in the hearts of the Federation's citizens, the distant Eastern Forest is a forgotten corner. Its name is remembered only during the celebration of the Federation's six-hundredth anniversary. For those living in a rich and developed society, the Eastern Forest practically does not exist.
The Eastern Forest district consists of only one planet—the planet Eastern Forest. This may seem obvious, but the very name of the district comes from the name of the planet. This speaks to the significance that this solitary planet on the edge of the Triangular Galaxy once held for all of humanity in the distant past.
However, since all types of ore in the Eastern Forest district were exhausted, the planet began to gradually empty. Only rocks remained here, no ore, only rocks.
Those who could leave the Eastern Forest had already done so. Thanks to professional skills and accumulated funds, as well as the sponsorship of relatives from the Capital Star Cluster or the Western Forest district, they obtained permission to relocate and, taking advantage of one of the increasingly rare flights due to energy shortages, left this fading place.
But there were few such lucky ones. The half-ruined planet still sustained the lives of many people. In a relatively developed society, the problem of hunger had long ceased to be relevant. The residents of the Eastern Forest continued to live calmly; social assistance played an important role, money was still in circulation. Companies still existed here, an airport, food factories, mech maintenance stations, computer network connection centers, and even a military base.
Everything that should be there, everything that could be there, was present in the Eastern Forest district. Yet this place still emanated an air of stagnation, an air of dying, seeping from every street, every building, from the faces of people who sat idly in cafes, sipping coffee and watching television.
For millennia, ore mining had supplied the Federation with resources, like a river nourishing the plain. But when that river dried up and turned into a stinking trickle, the Federation's aid proved insufficient. After all, for human happiness, more is needed than mere survival.
Over their centuries-long history, the residents of the Eastern Forest had developed resilience and diligence. Even the constant mine accidents in ancient times had not broken their spirit. However, the current state of affairs filled them with deep sadness and hopelessness. The absence of work, the absence of the opportunity to mine ore—from a certain point of view, life without the risk of a mining disaster was not at all what the residents of the Eastern Forest wanted.
The hardworking residents of the Eastern Forest were called "the stones of the Eastern Forest" in the Federation. Now they had become even more silent and cold stones, turning into statues frozen in their usual armchairs and home sofas, as if forever.
"Life is enough for fools with TV series," Bao Nuntao, deputy chief of the second police station of Hesi Province, thought to himself as he walked along the wind-swept Kolokolnaya Street, looking at the residents with empty faces drinking in the bar on the corner.
Deputy Chief Bao was also one of the "stones of the Eastern Forest." His face, like a stone, was devoid of emotion. He instilled fear in the local gangs operating on Kolokolnaya Street. When he patrolled the street, the smugglers of contraband beef scattered at cosmic speed. His formidable appearance in black uniform, along with the seven subordinates behind him, made an impressive impression.
Suddenly, Bao Nuntao remembered that today he was accompanied by three journalists. His heart skipped a beat. He mechanically straightened his collar and, trying to move calmly, turned to the journalist with the microphone, forcing a smile that looked worse than a cry, as if a stone had suddenly cracked.
"On Kolokolnaya Street, there is always order..." Bao Nuntao began, trying not to seem frivolous to the journalist. This was an assignment from the head of Hesi Province, and the deputy chief could not treat it carelessly.
Seeing the chief's awkwardness, the public relations department staff immediately took the initiative and began communicating with the journalists. Bao Nuntao sighed and shook his head.
He had worked in the Eastern Forest district for thirteen years. Seven more years remained until the end of the aid program term for the Eastern Forest. But he could no longer endure this dead atmosphere. Would he, like the unemployed miners, have to while away his days watching television?
However, federal rules were strict. Although promotion in the Eastern Forest district was fast, a certain length of service was required for transfer to the Capital Star Cluster or the Western Forest district. Bao Nuntao was acquainted with several people from the circles of influential families, but asking them for help for such a minor official as himself was pointless.
All that remained was to achieve success in work. That was exactly why today Deputy Chief Bao had personally brought the journalists to Kolokolnaya Street.
Bao Nuntao's pensiveness quickly turned to astonishment.
He did not even hear the journalist's question. His gaze, full of anger, swept past her shoulder and stopped at the exit from the four alleys leading onto Kolokolnaya Street.
The journalists also noticed the strange behavior of the deputy chief. His face turned deathly pale, like a stone covered with years of moss, ready at any moment to turn into a terrifying monster.
The journalists followed Bao Nuntao's gaze and also gasped in surprise. The female journalist even instinctively covered her mouth with her hand.
In the silence of Kolokolnaya Street, a multitude of hurried footsteps suddenly rang out. They were not synchronized, not resembling drumrolls, but there were so many that it seemed as if an entire crowd had appeared.
In the next instant, those to whom these footsteps belonged emerged onto Kolokolnaya Street. From the four alleys at once poured a mass of people, quickly filling the sidewalks and a large part of the street. This sight stunned not only the passersby, the police, and the journalists, but also the residents of the Eastern Forest, who looked out in surprise from the windows of cafes and bars.
To be precise, teenagers came out of the alleys. The oldest among them was no more than sixteen, and some, with dirty faces, looked no older than ten.
They were dressed in whatever they could find, but one detail united them all, causing alarm: they were all in black—black jackets, black T-shirts, black shirts. One boy, apparently unable to find anything black at home, had put on a work overall faded from washing and covered in coal dust.
More than a hundred teenagers dressed in black, with a comical yet still frightening appearance, stepped out into the middle of Kolokolnaya Street and stopped in front of Deputy Chief Bao and the journalists.
Bao Nuntao involuntarily took a step forward, glaring angrily at the teenager standing at the very front. He recognized him.
The female journalist instinctively stepped back, glancing warily at the teenagers. She didn't understand why they were here or whether she would be safe.
"What are you doing here in broad daylight instead of being in school?!" Bao Nuntao shouted menacingly. Usually his shout sent the local gang leaders scattering in terror. But today the teenagers only sneered contemptuously, paying him no attention.
The leader of the teenagers, possessing a seriousness beyond his years, looked straight into Bao Nuntao's eyes and said: "We have the right to petition!"
"Petition?" The journalist, who had been hiding behind Bao Nuntao's back, immediately perked up. She poked out her carefully made-up face and asked in a trembling voice, "For what purpose?"
The leader did not answer immediately. He raised a clenched fist, and from the crowd of teenagers several placards rose up, painted in bright colors with slogans: "Down with regional protectionism!" "Down with television censorship!" "We want to watch the twenty-third federal channel!" "We want to watch Jian Shui'er!"
The smallest boy wiped the dirt from his face and shrilly shouted the slogans. But his voice was too thin, and his face too childish, so it looked rather cute and amusing.
The journalist, who had been hoping for a sensation, was stunned when she saw these slogans. She looked at Deputy Chief Bao in bewilderment and asked: "This… this… who are these children?"
Bao Nuntao, barely restraining his fury, tore his gaze away from the ridiculous placards, clenched his teeth, and hissed: "Damn orphans!"