Scene 09-3 – Water at a High Price
Location: Niajin’s native village.
Time: 01.08.29 – 09:30:00 UTC-5
Setting: Entire alien site structure. Water tanker truck approaching the native village.
Damian Gutierrez had been working in the Ministry of Transport for many years. High taxes and little profit margin. But this time it was different. He could already feel the electronic credit from the WOB (World Order Bank) flowing into his international account. A golden card. They had given him one, along with the tanker filled with water — clean, crystal clear. He had never seen water like that before.
“Eh,” he thought to himself, “how much can I make from this load?”
1,000 WOU. No — 10,000. 100,000. I have 5,000 liters of water. I owe the government exactly 500 WOU for the entire load — a ridiculous price for water like this. That’s how it was arranged.
Thirty-five per gallon. Ten if they can only afford a liter. That’s fifty thousand WOU. From five hundred.
Why should I keep the price low? Who am I? I’m not here to lose money. Either they pay, or they go without. There are plenty of villages around. If one doesn’t pay, another will.
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And so Damian, jolting over potholes, entered the village and stopped in the main square, a slightly wider patch of dirt surrounded by crumbling brick and sheet-metal houses.
The loudspeaker of the tanker truck blared:
“Water, ladies and gentlemen, water! Plenty of water — perfectly clear and clean — for washing, for drinking, for cooking, even for bathing if you wish! 35 WOU per gallon — or 10 WOU per liter!”
A woman who had stopped in front of the truck replied:
“35 WOU per gallon? 10 WOU per liter? And where do you think we’re supposed to get that? We’re dying of thirst and hunger. With a government subsidy of 30 WOU per month, how do you expect us to buy your water?”
“This is the only water. There is no other. If you want it, you pay. If not, I leave.”
People were now gathering from across the village: children, women, men, elders. Hungry, malnourished, thirsty. Nearly two hundred people surrounded the truck. Everyone carried something — a bottle, a cup, an aluminum container — but very few had any money.
A woman stepped forward and removed an earring.
“Here,” she said. “How much is this worth? It’s gold.”
“Gold… well, something can be done with gold. Even if it’s forbidden. I can give you ten liters — 100 WOU.”
“It’s worth at least 100 WOU.”
“You know gold is risky. Trading in it is forbidden. Take it or leave it.”
“It’s precious to me — not just because it’s gold. But I can’t go on. I need water.”
“Fine. Give me the bottles.”
She had three with her but borrowed more. Soon several containers were filled with water, until they reached three gallons. The water was clear the way rivers once were.
“Anyone else who can pay?”
No one moved.
“Come on. Don’t tell me water like this isn’t worth the price.”
“Thief,” a child’s voice said from somewhere behind the crowd.
“Thief? Me? Who said that?”
No one answered.
A few minutes passed. Slowly, one by one — in one way or another, emptying their last coins or surrendering small valuables — the villagers began to give in to the extortion.
