SKY HARVEST

Every morning starts at the same desk. Sweep the sky for a satellite that still holds light. Break its code, line it up, and pull: a few seconds of sunlight down a line that wants to burn out. Then split what you pulled between the quarters, the industry, the market and the infirmary. It is never enough.

Under the ice, more than a thousand people live in a city carved into rock. Every volt you give or hold back shows up there. Districts flicker. Lights go out. The radio starts ringing: floor reps, doctors, workers. Every answer costs something.

At night you file the return. The Commission wants numbers. You can give them the real ones. Or you can raise the harvest, drop the incident, sign your name, and hope no one checks the satellite record.

Someone always checks. An inspector sits across your desk with every page you ever filed. Tell the truth. Call it a misread. Say nothing. Every answer goes in the file.

When the shift ends, the tunnels open. Sell volt on the exchange. Repair the harvester in the workshop. Send crews to the surface for parts. Borrow from a man who never forgets a due date. Or gamble what is left.