Chapter 9: Solidarity

The sound of the doors slamming against the walls brings the room to silence again, and everyone looks over to see what’s going on.

Imani, dressed in her white kitchen uniform, strides through the doors. A crowd of employees filters through behind her. Without saying a word, they spread out across the dining room until the entire place is surrounded. In total, there’s over a hundred workers here, a few feet between each of them. They’re carrying different items—knives, heavy wrenches, sharpened broom handles—all held like the weapons they are.

The guests seem terrified, and Booker looks absolutely furious that this is happening on his watch, but Smith just seems oddly entertained, like he’s simply curious what will happen next. Once the workers have settled into their spots, Imani steps forward. A young woman with obsidian skin follows her, standing at her side.

Imani begins to sign, and the woman interprets. The room is hushed silent, so quiet it feels like I can hear Imani’s hands cutting through the air.

“Alistair Smith,” the woman begins. Her voice is loud and contains a slight Nigerian accent. She’s watching Imani closely, who has her steely eyes fixed on Smith. “We know what you’ve done. We know about the workers in the sublevel.” Smith looks around at the room with a smile, his hands splayed outward.

“We’ve already been over that,” he interrupts, but the woman continues before he can say more.

“You’ve kept these workers—our brothers, our sisters, our family and friends—down there with no escape. You’ve taken advantage of whatever sickness they have and used them to pad your own pockets.

“We know you wouldn’t have kept them on board unless you have a treatment. So, in solidarity with them, we demand you release our colleagues and friends and give them treatment to become healthy again.”

The moment Imani signs it and the woman says it, I know it’s true. Smith may have said they’re working on a treatment, but he wouldn’t have risked this entire operation, his reputation, without some sort of failsafe.

I look at Smith, and his charming smile falters for only a second. Imani is right—he has a cure to whatever disease the workers have. Whatever disease Sanjeet has.

Fury boils over in me, and I clench my firsts so hard I draw blood in my palm. The bastard has had a cure this whole time and instead of distributing it, he’s been holding onto it, no doubt realizing that it can save him quite a bit of money to turn his zombie employees into non-stop laborers.

I think back to the workers I saw, their contorted faces, their ragged clothes, their mindless shuffling as they moved from one task to the next. Whatever’s happened to them, Smith has found a way to make it profitable for himself.

I want to charge at Smith, smash his head into the ground until it’s a bloody pulp, but his voice draws me back to reality.

“That’s quite the imagination you have there,” he says, chuckling to downplay the accusation. The woman signs this to Imani, who never fully takes her eyes off Smith. “How about you let these guests go, and we can have a civilized discussion in private.” Imani waits a moment, then looks at the woman and gives an almost imperceptible nod.

“The guests are free to leave if they wish,” the woman says to Smith, clearly following whatever instructions Imani had given beforehand. “They can stand with us or leave.” She lets the words hang in the air, then the guests slowly begin to thaw. Some crawl out from under the tables and others stand up hesitantly, as if thinking this may be a trap. I hope some stay, but within minutes, every single one has left, no doubt wanting to get as far away from this confrontation as possible.

As they filter through the exits, I notice workers on the other sides of the doors holding guns, the ones issued to the security team. Booker sees it too, and his jaw clenches in anger. It’s clear by now that Imani and the others have planned a coup, taking out enough of the guards to steal their weapons and take over the ship.

“The guests may not have stayed,” the woman says, unfazed, “but Cress and Chen will be joining us.”

A set of side doors slowly opens, and Angela and David walk through them slowly, escorted by two workers who each carry a gun. Angela immediately surveys the room, taking in every detail. David’s eyes are wide, as if he can’t fully comprehend what he’s seeing. The workers walk the two government agents to Imani, who nods at them.

Their presence obviously bothers Smith, who is trying his best to look calm, but a small vein has begun to bulge in his neck, the slightest shade of red peeking out from underneath his collar.

“What’s going on here?” Angela says coolly.

“Smith and his company have been exploiting workers,” Imani’s interpreter says, not breaking eye contact with Smith, “and we’re demanding he end it.”

Angela’s eyes fall on the TV, and they widen momentarily before finding me and narrowing into an accusing glare.

“Okay,” Angela says, “how about we put the weapons down and talk this out.”

“Not possible,” the interpreter says, finally looking at Angela. “You’ve seen the workers in the sublevel. Smith has the cure for their disease, and he refuses to give it to them. The only way we’ll be able to help them is if we force Smith to distribute the cure.”

“And how do you know he has a cure?” Angela asks. Now it’s Imani’s turn to look at the agent. Imani’s lips are pursed tightly, and I see pain in her eyes, watery but fierce. I realize she must have been planning this coup for quite some time, slowly building up a network of workers who would stand with her, who would put their jobs and lives on the line to save the workers in the sublevel.

Imani signs, and the woman interprets.

“We know,” she says. “Smith has the cure behind lock and key in the sublevel, in a vault only he and Booker can access.”

For whatever reason, this last statement is what pushes Smith over the edge. Up until now, he’d been fairly calm, waiting to see how this all played out. But Imani’s knowledge of where the cure is located has infuriated him, shattered his facade.

“That’s absurd,” he shouts. “This woman doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She’s clearly deranged.”

“Is she?” Angela asks, a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “Because it makes plenty of sense to me. Your security team still hasn’t taken us to the sublevel, despite our numerous requests. Seems like a great place to hide things.”

“We already told you,” Booker says through gritted teeth, “we have to secure all proprietary company information before allowing anyone in the sublevel.” He knows his lie is flimsy, especially now with the image of the workers still frozen on the screen.

“Really? Is that the story you want to stick to?” Angela’s obvious condescension maddens

Booker, whose pale face has now turned completely red.

“What we need,” Smith begins, his composure now returned, “is to have a civil conversation. We can talk without all the theatrics,” he says as he waves his hands around at the armed workers, “and figure something out.”

Angela, clearly thinking this is a good idea, looks to Imani, who shakes her head before signing.

“We’ve dealt with Smith’s kind before,” the interpreter says, “we’ll resolve this now. This isn’t a negotiation. We demand he free and cure our colleagues.”

“This is not a democracy,” Smith suddenly shouts, outraged that someone like Imani dare make demands of him. “I am in charge, and we will not have this discussion right now.” Not being in control has quickly derailed Smith. His calm demeanor has cracked, revealing his true self beneath.

Imani gives a sad smile, as if expecting this reaction. She then looks around the room at the other workers before nodding deeply. In unison, every worker reaches into their pocket and pulls something out. Each of them holds one of the nutrition bars, the silvery wrappers reflecting in the light.

“We thought you’d say that,” the woman interprets, holding a bar in her own hand.

Smith blanches at the sight of the bars, all the color suddenly drained from his face.

And then I realize—the bars are what’s turning the workers into the zombies. And Smith, the bastard, knows it too.

This whole time he’s known what’s making the workers sick, and he hasn’t done a damn thing about it. Worse, it seems he’s made sure just enough workers get sick so he can use them for whatever labor he needs done in the sublevel.

Fuming, I march to Imani, wedging myself between her and the armed worker who’d brought Angela and David in. As if she knows why I’m here, Imani reaches into her pocket and produces a bar, which I take in my hand. I stare daggers at Smith as he calculates what to do next.

“We know these are the contaminated bars making our comrades sick,” the woman interprets, “just like we know you have an emergency stash of the medicine locked away in your vault.” It seems impossible, but Smith turns even paler, clearly shocked by how much information Imani has uncovered. But in an instance, his slack expression disappears and is replaced with a look of pure rage. The vein in his neck now fully protrudes, and his pale complexion darkens with the red creeping up from his chest.

Smith is a man used to being in charge, a man who does the extorting, not the one being extorted. But he knows he’s backed into a corner. He knows that if we eat these bars, he and his guests will be left adrift in space with virtually no crew. No chefs to prepare the food, no engineers to tend to the ship, no technicians to make sure the oxygen or gravity or lighting remains functional. You can’t have a luxury space cruise without the workers keeping it all together. We, the workers, run this ship, not Smith. And he’s furious we dare take that illusion away from him.

He knows, if he refuses, there won’t be enough people to keep this ship running. Yes, he and the other guests may be able to survive until they return to Earth, but they’ll be onboard with over a hundred sick, diseased workers—plus the armed workers, who I’ve noticed don’t have bars in their hands. If I know Imani, she has a plan to make sure this is as hellish as possible for Smith and his guests. Not to mention all the negative press Smith will get. With Angela and David here, it’s only a matter of time before all this comes crashing down on Smith’s head.

He seems to be contemplating all of this, his eyes darting between Imani and the other workers. His body suddenly begins to shake, only barely, but I can tell he’s about to explode.

This is a man who’s not used to losing. And cornered animals never make good decisions.

He swallows and his features settle into place calmly. “Bullshit,” he says, his voice low. “You won’t eat the bars. Here’s what you’re going to do: you’re going to stop this ridiculous posturing, and we’ll discuss this behind closed doors. We’ll figure something out so that everyone is happy.”

Imani, her face stony, stares at Smith. Then, not breaking eye contact, she rips open the wrapper and bites into the bar, making a show of chewing and swallowing the food.

In response, the other workers open their bars, the sound of the tearing plastic spreading across the room. They shove the bars into their mouths, eating every piece. Without hesitation, I do the same.

This man has tried to call our bluff, but it wasn’t a bluff. This is why we’re here, in this room with all the power. We have nothing to lose, and we would hope our colleagues in the sublevel would have done the same to save us. I know Sanjeet would have done this for me.

The bar is gritty against my teeth, but I force myself to swallow. Within minutes, the room is quiet again, a shower of silver wraps strewn across the floor. Smith stares forward, his jaw slightly agape, as if he doesn’t believe what he’s just seen. He didn't believe we’d do it. But men like Smith can’t understand doing anything that doesn’t directly benefit them. He thought we wouldn’t do it because he wouldn’t have done it.

“Now you have no choice,” the woman interprets, her fingers still smudged with leftovers from the bar. “As you know, it’s only a matter of hours before we begin showing symptoms. So you can either deal with diseased employees wandering the halls of this ship while the rest remain armed, or you can distribute the cure. It’s your choice.”

Smith’s entire face has turned red now, like a petulant child about to throw a tantrum.

“No!” he screams, the full force of his anger finally cracking through the surface. “I will not be extorted, not by the likes of you people.” Spittle flies from his mouth as he speaks. “I will not be told what to do. This is my ship, and I demand respect. I demand to be listen—”

Suddenly, his rant is interrupted by a crack of gunfire. Workers scream and duck to the ground, their hands over their heads to protect themselves from a stray bullet.

But I remain standing.

My hands are outstretched, a smoking gun clenched between them. It’s aimed at Smith, who now has a single bullet wound just above his left eye.

The worker at my side, whose gun I’d stolen, stares up at me in disbelief. However, Imani, who is still standing, gently brings her hand up and places it on my shoulder. She doesn’t try to lower my arm; she just squeezes, letting me know she’s by my side. Her presence gives me strength as I turn the gun on Booker, who’s hunched over with his hands cradling his head.

The sound of Smith’s body thumping against the ground snaps Booker back to reality. He looks at me, his wild eyes reflecting only fear.

I cock the gun.

“Now Booker,” I say, “You also have access to the vault, correct?”

* * *

Booker may have talked a big game about protecting Smith and the other rich assholes onboard, but the moment he saw Smith’s body hit the floor, I knew we had him. He didn’t want to die, which meant he would do exactly what we wanted. Besides, now that Smith was dead, Booker technically didn’t have a job: corpses don’t really need personal security.

Once Booker knew we were willing to use the gun, things had gone smoothly from there. Amazing how just a little show of force can accomplish something that seemed so impossible moments before.

As our armed escort led Booker to the medicine vault, Imani had checked in with me. She’d been hoping to avoid bloodshed, but she also knew that was a possible outcome, hence overthrowing security and taking their weapons. She’d hoped, however, that she would have been the one to bear that burden. But I had gotten to the gun first, had been the first to realize Smith was never going to give us what we wanted no matter how much we demanded. The only thing men like Smith listen to is money and violence, and, in the moment, violence had been the only solution.

In less than an hour, Booker had accessed the vault and the workers had begun distributing the cure. Initially, none of us knew how long it would take for the disease to reverse course, but upon further investigation in Smith’s vault, we found a comprehensive medical record that outlined the cure’s various trials. Not only had Smith been lying about not having a cure, he’d done his research to ensure it was safe and effective, if he ever needed it. The bastard.

Within a few hours, the sick workers in the sublevel had already begun to show signs of improvement. Most of them had finally gone to sleep, resting limbs that were surely exhausted from nonstop work. They still had the bumps, but their skin was already starting to return to normal.

So far, I hadn’t felt any effects from eating the contaminated bars. None of the workers that had been in the dining room seemed to be getting sick, and with the medicine in every employee’s system, we hoped we wouldn’t have any issues.

It’s early in the morning by the time I can finally take a break. A significant portion of us have gathered in the largest conference room, and as I rest I begin to think about what’s going to happen next. I know I killed a man, but I also know if I hadn’t, we wouldn’t have gotten the cure. Angela and David wanted to place me under arrest, but Imani had refused. She’d told them I could be dealt with later, and seeing as she had all the guns on the ship, Angela and David didn’t have much of a say in the matter.

I’m resting at Imani’s side, my head bobbing up and down as I slowly descend into sleep, when I’m suddenly awoken by the sound of the door slamming open and hurried footsteps making their way toward us. Imani, who had also been resting, has bolted to her feet, staring at the worker making his way toward us.

He stops a few feet from her and begins to talk. Tara, Imani’s interpreter, begins to sign what he’s saying.

“We’ve just received a distress call from a nearby ship,” the man says, slightly winded.

“What kind of ship?” Tara interprets.

“Another luxury cruiser,” the man says.

“What does the message say?”

He pauses for a moment before continuing.

“It says employees aboard their ship are going missing.”

A tingle shoots down my spine. I’d been so concerned about Sanjeet and our own ship that I hadn’t even begun to think about other ships. If the New Unity had found a way to exploit whatever sickness the bars had caused, then surely other companies, other ships, were doing the same.

Imani glances at me, and we both nod at one another. She looks at Tara, who repeats the gesture.

Imani signs something, and Tara smiles as she interprets.

“Get their coordinates,” Tara says. “And tell them help is on the way.”

The End