I walked through the narrow corridors of the space train, the hum of the engines vibrating faintly under my feet. People leaned against walls, some dozing, others staring at floating screens, but my eyes searched for someone who could actually make a difference. The unfair food I saw in the car gnawed at me. I was just a kid and I couldn't confront the guards but maybe someone with influence could.
I pushed open the door to a private cabin, gold-tinted lights reflecting off polished surfaces. A man sat at a desk, sipping a dark liquid from a glass. His suit was immaculate, his watch glimmering with some technology I didn't recognize. Rich, powerful, he was exactly the kind of person who could fix the problem. My stomach tightened. This was scary.
"Excuse me," I said, voice shaking a little. "Sir… I need your help."
The man looked up slowly, one eyebrow raised. "And why, exactly, should I listen to a child?" His tone was sharp but not unkind—more curious than angry.
"I saw… I saw the food distribution. Some people barely got anything, and others… others got too much. It's not fair. Some people are sick or too weak to get their share, and… and if someone doesn't do something, they might go hungry or worse."
The man leaned back, swirling the drink. "You understand nothing of logistics, boy. Supplies are limited. We can't give everyone equal portions, or we risk running out before the train reaches Proxima Centauri b. Balance is more important than fairness."
"Balance?" I repeated, frowning. "But how is starving someone a balance? How can it be fair for one person to get extra just because they're stronger or faster? Balance is meaningless if people suffer unnecessarily. Everyone should get enough to survive."
The man chuckled softly. "Do you think I don't know that? Survival isn't about fairness, kid. It's about efficiency. I can't just hand out resources based on what feels right. Chaos follows if people think they're owed something they haven't earned—or worse, if they're weaker than others."
"But—" I tried, then swallowed. My hands felt clammy. "It's not about feeling, it's about justice. The weak, the sick, the children, they can't fight for themselves. Someone has to make sure they're not ignored. Isn't that what… what makes us human?"
He regarded me for a long moment, lips pressed thin. "Humanity? You sound like a philosopher. I'm a businessman. I deal with numbers, outcomes, consequences. You are a child who does not understand scarcity or risk. And yet…" He paused, as if weighing something. "You have courage to speak. I'll grant you that. But courage without understanding is dangerous."
"I—I do understand!" I said, a little louder than I intended. "If the sick don't get food, if children are denied rations… then people won't trust anyone in charge. They'll fight, panic, maybe even hurt each other. And if they fight, the strong will take more than they need anyway. If you fix it now, it prevents bigger problems later."
"Hmm…" He stroked his chin. "You have thought this through more than most adults, I'll give you that. But even if I agree, what guarantee do I have that your solution will work? You are a child. How can you convince me?"
"I… I can explain," I said, trying to steady my voice. "We can rearrange distribution. Prioritize those who need it most, sick, elderly, children, and everyone else gets what's left. We make small adjustments instead of giving extra to those who don't need it. It won't cost more, and it won't slow anything down. But people won't suffer unfairly."
He leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "And you think it's that simple? You'd redistribute food among adults who have already taken rations? Some might resist. Some might get angry."
"Yes!" I insisted. "Some will be angry, maybe, but they will see that it's fair. Fairness makes people follow rules. It keeps the peace. Without fairness, people lose trust, they fight. If everyone does their part, the train stays calm, and nobody starves. You want efficiency, right? Then fairness is the most efficient choice."
"Hmm," he murmured, tapping a finger against his desk. "I admit… you make a strong point. Fairness can be efficient, I'll give you that. But it still requires leadership to enforce it. A child cannot enforce anything. Why should I take advice from you?"
I hesitated, biting my lip. "Because… because I saw it. I noticed it. Most adults are too busy or too afraid. If someone doesn't speak up, then no one will. I can't fix it alone, but I can guide you. You can make it right. I just… I just want to help people survive. Please."
The man studied me again, eyes narrowing slightly. And then his gaze drifted down to my arm. The tattoo, the mark on my skin that glowed faintly in the cabin's lights it caught his attention. He didn't say anything, but I saw the flicker of recognition in his eyes. Blessed… he thought. The kind of mark only a few could bear, the kind that could hold power beyond what I could imagine myself.
He leaned back, hands resting on the desk. "You have… resolve. And apparently, hidden strength I had not expected from a child. Very well. I will take your suggestion seriously. Convince me fully, and I'll make sure the food is distributed fairly. No one will go hungry unnecessarily."
I blinked, shocked. The weight of the moment made my chest tighten. "R-really?" I stammered.
He waved a hand. "Really. But you must make your case clear. Show me that this will work, without creating chaos or inefficiency. I will listen because you are… convincing. And because, perhaps, the universe has a way of choosing those who notice what others ignore."
I nodded quickly, swallowing the lump in my throat. "I—I will do my best!"
The man didn't smile, didn't say more. He simply leaned back in his chair, as if he already knew I could be trusted. The sight of my tattoo had told him enough: that I was not just a child, that there was something more at play, and that perhaps he could rely on me to point out what others could not see.
I turned to leave the cabin, heart pounding, my mind spinning with possibilities. Outside, the hum of the train continued, the stars stretching endlessly past the windows. I had taken the first step. The food problem wasn't solved yet, but at least someone with the power to act was listening.
As I rejoined the other children, hiding behind a seat and peeking around the aisle, I felt a strange mix of fear and excitement. The train moved forward, carrying us all through the void, and for the first time since the journey began, I felt that maybe, just maybe, I could make a difference.