A PM member with an elegant walk showed Yeung-Sung to his seat.

The general room was decked out for a feast. He licked his lips as platters of hot food drifted past him; Roast, honeyed ham with cabbage; Stuffed turkey with great dollops of mint sauce; Smoked, cured salmon rolled up into tall curls. But despite his hunger, he was too wary of Luke to take any of it. The speaker for PM stared at him from the opposite end of the refectory table with grey pockets under his eyes.

Looks like he got less sleep than I did.

All around him were tight-backed, sneering coloners that snubbed him, yet were paying attention to every syllable that came out of Luke. Making awkward smiles to the ambivalent faces, he searched the tables that stretched through ‘General’, but was unable to find where they seated Shirley.

“Eat,” sad a coloner to his right.

His squashed-cherry head wobbled atop his stem of a neck. “Ee-yat,” he said again, and dropped a plate of salmon in front of Yeung-Sung. A side of coleslaw spread in a half-moon around it. Bowing, he forced down a few morsels as he wondered if all this was bought in his store.

Did Woo-Yi sell this to them, or did they take it?

Is she safe? He stopped chewing, pretending that he had caught a bone.

There’s nothing I can do about it now. Nothing, except making sure that this Gauntlet run ends in a victory. He’s so certain of it that he’s spent all night preparing the celebrations. If we lose -Well, if Luke doesn’t have the luxury of even thinking about that, then I shouldn’t either.

Still, he found it difficult to pay much attention to the meal, or the coloners around him.

Will my plan work?

Though they didn’t talk to him, the seated coloners were definitely talking about him. It was clear that because of his antics earlier; proclaiming that he will save the colony, disrupting their brainstorming session; that he had acquired a particular reputation.

Tonguing his teeth, he found flakes of salmon flesh. I expected a juicy mouthful, but it was dry. Bitter.

He turned to his side to comment on it as he might have done in The Wick, but the cherry-headed coloner had long ignored him. Annoyed, Yeung-Sung pushed aside his plate only to be met by Luke across the table, his teeth clean and bared like a husband to his newly wed wife, a wife deeply questioning her commitment.

Tugging his eyes down was the mauve t-shirt that they had given him trapped inside the seam of his seat cushion. Snapping it out, he noticed how overly long it was; descending down almost to his knees. Yeung-Sung shuffled his feet together and stared back up at Luke.

Is it time? Will you finally let me fight, or is there more to this ceremony?

Luke, spreading his fingers down, thudded them into the table like a row of spikes. Coloners that were leaning into the PM speaker crept into the backs of their chairs and now stared in unison at Yeung-Sung. A whorl of motion then occurred simultaneously focusing on both sides of the table.

Announcing the reason for the gathering today, Luke cracked his neck to other side of his flared collar which made him look reptilian. He described the events up till now; the riots where Yeung-Sung claimed himself superior to Jordan, the assault inside PM yesterday and that, regardless of this that he will be given this one chance to redeem himself and defeat the gauntlet, as a gift for The Players Market.

But Yeung-Sung wasn’t paying attention to the speech; It may as well have been a wordless act. Rather, it was a document that was changed hands down to his side, a document that slid from Luke’s hand earlier, that was on his mind. The cherry-headed coloner bobbed his head approvingly as he slapped it in front of Yeung-Sung.

What does he want me to sign?

Scooping it up, Yeung-Sung waited for an explanation.

“Such is this boy’s ego,” Luke proclaimed, “That he insists upon being gauntlet runner despite having no prior record of his competence. He didn’t even pledge membership to the Market for this honour.” He separated his arms wide in a blameless gesture. “My generosity has its limits. In order for us to commit our resources to you for this, you’ll need to sign this contract.”

Yeung-Sung read down past the legal jargon and found a line as Luke quoted it;

“Should you fail, you will never be allowed to try again, acting only as an advisor for PM. And if you veer from your duties will be punished by -well, by whatever method we see fit.”

“GLI won’t accept a contract like that!” shouted Shirley.

He is here, thank goodness!

Reading through further legalese, Yeung-Sung heard the rumblings of a chant, accompanied by the clattering of cutlery.

“Sign it! Sign it!

Sign and start!

Sign and start!

Fight and die!”

At the end of the contract lay a long list of signatures, witnesses from the table no doubt, and immediately above where he was to sign his own name was Jordan’s.

“So I’m a slave, then,” Yeung-Sung asked.

For a futuristic society, their concept of ethics is pretty backwards.

“If you don’t sign, we won’t allow you any of our resources for your attempt,” Luke explained.

A cry was muffled behind him. The officiators all around nodded sharply, like a falling axe. Yeung-Sung looked back, but now the dinner gusts had picked up on each other and chanted even louder. “SIGN IT! SIGN IT!”

The hot smells lodged in his stomach like a twisted root. Should I sign, or run the Gauntlet alone?

Practically, he was given no pen, and even if it meant he was considering signing the contract, he wanted to be able to deliberate with it, twirl it around in his hand as he came to his decision.

“How can I sign without a pen?”

Luke pointed. “With your finger. It’s touch-sensitive, Yeung-Sung.”

“Remarkable,” Yeung-Sung mumbled, bowing slightly in thanks and laying the graphene sheet flat. Now that he knew it wasn’t paper, he noticed its unnatural sheen and the ever so slight flickering of its letters. Whereas he before he simply wasn’t hungry, now he felt sick.

Even the paper is fake, I can’t possibly sign this. I can’t possibly take such a risk on an idea I’ve never tested.

He found himself looking at all the ‘officials’ lining his table, seeing if he could’ve picked out those he met it in the private chat. He recognised Kelly-Ann up at the top -she had tied back her hair and donned glasses. The table held several different Chinese members, any of them might’ve been Amber Moon. The rest may have been there, but the way they all stared at him, Yeung-Sung wished they weren’t.

I thought they might have at least respected me from our conversation, but it seems I was wrong. Regardless of my choice, I am alone.

Luke cleared his throat. “We’re waiting,”.

I need more time, you bastard.

The chanting seemed to blare further, as if triggering off his indecision. He felt like hibiscus, being drowned in its pot because it wasn’t quick enough to show signs of blooming.

“SIGN IT! SIGN IT! SIGN IT!”

What if I don’t? What if I run now, find some others that I can actually trust? But who would have the raw time accrued from PM’s numbers, who would have this wide berth of resources? How long would I have to stay in hiding, waiting in a room, watching each agonising progress bar?

No. It won’t be fast enough?

Yeung-Sung closed his eyes and lay a hand gently by the wad of contact ‘paper. The chanting dissolved.

“I don’t want to do it,” he stated, “But I won’t get another chance, will I?”

Dancing his fingers across the page, he traced his name in his mind’s eye, afterwards looking ahead at the satisfied Luke. The PM speaker sat back comfortably. He believed he had full control of the situation, of Yeung-Sung, of his name echoing strongly after this whole ordeal.

He really believes that what I said during the riots was out of arrogance. Withdrawing his phone, Yeung-Sung tapped it awake. That’s lucky for me.

“Gather the officials,” he demanded, flicking through Airgead menus, “The ones I was talking with before. I want to get started straight away.”

Then, as all the PM members around him audibly recoiled, he found that, actually, he could eat, serving himself helpings of rice, ham and plenty of vegetables.