Through his rifle scope, Jimenez glasses the throngs of Chits crowding outside the security wall surrounding the spaceport. They peer through the gaps in the gates and watch the evacuation shuttles ascend every hour, knowing that soon the last one will leave, pressing against the bars in that universal posture of desperation; arms extending through openings, fingers outstretched, reaching for something they know they cannot secure. From the tempo and pitch of their clicks and hisses, Jimenez knows they are pleading with the soldiers to take them from the hellscape their planet has become. The air in the watchtower is