As soon as the door to the shop opens, I hear a ragged voice declare, “Go away. We’re closed for repairs—Wait, that door’s supposed to be locked.”
“Fritz! You’re okay?” I call out, entering the shop.
There’s a startled clatter and a thump from the backroom, and then a disheveled Fritz practically stumbles into the showroom, an untucked T-shirt hanging loosely over jeans. “Mariah!?” He raises a hand self-consciously to the thick fluffy hair not currently topped with stylish hat. At a loss for words, he stammers out, “I… I’m sorry, I…”
I abandon the trunk and my cane just inside the doorway and rush across the shattered room to him. He seems so unsteady. I stay back a step from him, my hands on his upper arms, and look him over with concern. “Are you okay?” His eyes are red and puffy with dark smudges under them as though he hasn’t slept much lately.
Fritz throws his hands over his face. “Gah! I wasn’t expecting you. Ah! S-sorry, don’t look at me. Don’t look at me!” My hands fly away from him, and I back up a few steps, giving him space. He turns away, facing the door he entered by. With his back to me, he lets out a long, shuddering breath.
Completely thrown by this reception, I dart my eyes around the room, looking for someplace safe to settle that won’t upset him further. They alight upon a spent syringe sitting on the counter here at the back of the showroom. My mind immediately leaps to how jittery Marina and Arx are, with their respective addictions to miasma medications, and for a moment I fear that’s what I’m experiencing here with Fritz. But no, there’s fine print on the vial, complete with a doctor’s name and a prescription number. The drug name is vaguely familiar, a hormonal supplement that I remember reading about back on Earth… in something about athletes, I think. So not an addiction thing—that’s a relief.
“I’m sorry for breaking in,” I tell him. “Um, we can come back at another time if you want.”
“No, no, no, it’s—No! No, I want you to stay, but…” He turns back around, shoulders curled in, arms folded protectively across his chest. With one hand, he gestures at the room. Then, noticing where my eyes have settled, he snatches up the needle.
“What’s going on?” Cleve asks from the shop entrance. He’s closed the door and locked it behind us, and while I’ve been focused on Fritz, he’s been taking in the wreckage. I do now, too. I can imagine how splendid it would have looked, had I been here a month ago—before the window was smashed and bleach sprayed across everything on display up front. Some sections of clothes are in tatters, hit by the broken glass. “¡Ay, no!” I murmur, taking in now how much Fritz’s livelihood has been disrupted. And every article of clothes, a ruined work of art! I pick my way over to a stand with a bleach-stained jacket—my blazer. It is out on the main floor to show off Fritz’s delicate stitchwork, but there’s a tag marking it as sold so that people know it’s just a display piece.
The splattered bleach, no, it’s not great, but I’m not worried about that. This blazer has been redyed before, after Corazon sprayed fungicide all over it. I take the left sleeve in hand, running my fingers over the design wrapped around the sleeve. The craftwork here is exquisite. Sure, the jacket is asymmetric now, but it’s built into the embroidered design, which extends beyond the sleeve, across the left chest, and to the lapel. What Fritz has done here is amazing. No one would look at this jacket and think that a siege worm had snapped my arm in half through it. This must have been a challenge, though; Fritz has never worked with material like this before. Everything here is locally produced, even if it is from imported Earth plants.
With me paying such close attention to the blazer, Fritz struggles to get words out, eventually managing, “No, it’s ruined! Don’t—It was dumb, anyway.” His voice cracks, and I hear him choke back a sob, then growl in frustration. “You should probably just go,” he finally says, sounding defeated. At that, I look over at him, not sure if he means it. He lets out another long breath and wipes at his eyes. “I’m sorry, Mariah. I’m complicated, too.”
I’m not sure what to do with that. He said before that he didn’t mind complicated, when I was warning him about myself. This reciprocal notice is certainly not enough to make me give up on him. But he’s now said he wants us to leave. Indecision is written across my face, and Cleve steps into the gap. “What happened here?” he asks more firmly from his position squarely in front of the door. He’s clearly not ready to leave. Coming here is the “mission” as far as he’s concerned.
“The…,” Fritz pauses, clears his throat, and starts again. “The propaganda went too well. My shop was bleach-bombed by… by people who I’m trying to help! But… I run a fancy clothes store, so I’m a target, too.” Cleve has given Fritz something concrete to focus on, and though I can still hear frustration in his voice, he sounds less overwhelmed by the situation the more he goes on, at least as long as he’s focused on simply recounting events. “It wasn’t Louisa. There are other groups out there now that we’ve reached, and they’re starting to take action on their own. Some people are going a little too far.” He lets out another long breath, steadying himself. “Louisa’s a little restrained, but she doesn’t control them all. I’ve been a target, and now other people, especially planetfallers, are pushing back against the dissidents. I’m not talking repo squads—just random citizens in the dome. And so tensions are really, really high. That’s what’s happening. So I need to close for a while. I need to get inventory back; I need to put the windows back in place. And, you know, try to—” His voice wobbles, and he catches himself. “Try to run this revolution.”
Fritz takes another deep breath and then announces, “I can get you a meeting with Leyland Campos.”
“So your cover’s still intact?” Cleve asks.
“As far as I know, yes. If anything, this helps.” A thin silver lining, that.