The walk to the Transport Docks took four hours of steady movement through the industrial veins of the Rust Rim. Han kept his pace measured. He avoided the main thoroughfares where the panic was most concentrated. In the narrow maintenance corridors, the air was thicker with the smell of lubricating oil and hot copper, but it was safer than the open plazas where desperate men were starting to kill for a few extra minutes of oxygen.
As he approached the border of the Exhaustion District, the scenery began to change. The jagged mountains of scrap gave way to massive, reinforced concrete walls. These were the foundations of the Inner Rim. Colossal pipes ran along the ceiling like the exposed veins of a titan, carrying refined fluids and high-pressure steam to the Upper Districts.
The Transport Docks were a hive of mechanical activity. From a distance, the crane-ships looked like giant insects clinging to the edge of the platform. Their landing legs were locked into magnetic rails, and their massive cargo holds were being loaded with crates of refined ore. These ships were the only things capable of navigating the vertical shafts between platforms. Without them, the fall into the void was certain death.
A line of thousands of refugees snaked around the perimeter of the docking bay. They were mostly laborers and minor technicians who had managed to save a few credits. At the front of the line stood a row of Iron Grade mercenaries. They wore the crest of House Vane on their chest plates.
The mercenaries were a terrifying sight to a Flesh Grade human. Their skin had the dull, heavy sheen of cast iron. When they moved, their joints made a low grinding sound that spoke of immense power and weight. They stood with their arms crossed, watching the crowd with an indifference that was more chilling than outright hostility. To them, the thousands of screaming people were just an obstacle to the loading schedule.
Han took his place at the end of the line. The timer on the district screens was down to sixty-eight hours. Every few minutes, a mercenary would bark an order and a small group of people would be allowed to approach the ticket window. Most were turned away within seconds.
The air here was supposedly filtered, but it still felt thin. Han checked his Lung Meter. He had thirty-two minutes left. He reached into his pouch and felt the three shards of copper and the small bag of refined mineral dust. It was the sum total of his five years of labor. In the Exhaustion District, this was a fortune. Here, it felt like nothing.
Hours passed. The sun-lamps in the ceiling dimmed to signify the start of the sleep cycle, but no one slept. The fear was a physical presence in the air. When Han finally reached the front of the line, his legs were trembling from the strain of standing.
He stepped up to a reinforced glass window. Behind it sat a minor official with a pinched face and a uniform that was slightly too large for his frame. The man didn't even look up as Han approached.
"Identification," the official muttered.
Han pressed his forearm against the scanner. A red light blinked twice.
"Han. Sector 4. Scrap-Collector. Flesh Grade. Zero percent integrity," the official read from his screen. He finally looked up, his eyes filled with a mixture of boredom and contempt. "You are in the wrong line, scavenger. The worker freighters left three hours ago. These are private vessels."
"I have minerals," Han said. His voice was raspy from the dry air. "I can pay for a seat in the steerage hold. I don't need a cabin."
He emptied his pouch onto the small metal tray. The three copper shards rattled against the surface. He added the small bag of mineral dust, carefully pouring it out so the official could see the purity.
The official looked at the pile for a moment. He picked up one of the copper shards with a pair of tweezers and held it up to the light. Then he let it drop back onto the tray with a dismissive clatter.
"This is trash," the man said. "This wouldn't even pay for the fuel required to lift your body weight. Do you have any idea what the demand is right now? People are offering Iron Grade bars for a single spot on the deck. Your dust is worthless here."
"It's refined," Han insisted. He leaned toward the glass. "It took me years to collect that much. It's enough for forty hours of air at a communal kiosk. Please. I just need to get to the next platform."
The official leaned back and let out a short, dry laugh. He gestured toward the massive ships behind him.
"Forty hours of air? You think that matters to House Vane? We own the air on the next three platforms. We don't need your table scraps. Move along before I have the guards remove you for obstructing the window."
Han didn't move. He stared at his life savings sitting on the tray. He felt a surge of cold fury, but he kept his face neutral. He knew that if he showed even a hint of aggression, the Iron Grade mercenaries would crush his skull before he could take a breath.
A sudden commotion at the side entrance drew the attention of the crowd. A group of men in white and gold robes marched onto the docking floor. They were led by a young man who looked to be no older than twenty. He moved with a terrifying fluidness that made the mercenaries look clumsy by comparison. His skin didn't just have a sheen. It looked like polished chrome.
"Make way for the Third Heir of House Vane," a herald shouted.
The mercenaries immediately snapped to attention. They didn't just step aside. they used the butts of their rifles to shove the refugees back. One mercenary slammed his elbow into Han's chest to clear the path.
The force of the blow sent Han sprawling into the dirt. He felt his ribs groan under the pressure. If his bones hadn't been naturally dense from years of carrying scrap, they would have shattered instantly. He gasped for air, his Lung Meter beeping a warning as his heart rate spiked.
The noble heir walked past without even glancing at the dirt. He was talking to an advisor about the mineral yields of the lower strata. To him, the thousands of people being abandoned to the void were invisible. They were not even a tragedy. They were simply part of the background of the platform.
The official at the window was suddenly standing and bowing. He ignored Han entirely, his face now twisted into a desperate, servile smile as he waited for the heir to pass.
Han picked himself up from the ground. He reached out and swept his copper shards and his dust back into his pouch. His hands were shaking. He looked at the heir's retreating back and then at the mercenaries.
The realization hit him with more force than the guard's strike. The system was not broken. It was functioning exactly as intended. The Material Grades were not just a measure of strength. They were a measure of humanity. Because he was Flesh Grade, he was not considered a person who needed saving. He was just part of the reclamation project.
He turned away from the docks and began the walk back toward the Exhaustion District. He didn't look back at the ships. He knew now that there was no seat for him on any vessel. The High Council had designed the world to let him die, and the Great Houses were happy to facilitate the process.
He checked his meter. Eighteen minutes.
He didn't head for the air kiosk. He headed for the border of the Dead Zone. If the world of the light had no place for him, he would have to find his future in the places where no one else dared to look. He would gamble everything on the scavengers' legends of a hidden cache in the toxic ruins, or he would die in the dark. Either way, he was done asking for permission to live.