We exist in an era of paranoia. It is only inevitable—when you squeeze people beyond their limits, when you drive them to the depths of desperation, when you seek to exploit every crevice of their lives and pinch every penny from their pockets, there is no telling how any given person on the street may act. When the great smoke-belching furnace of your society is fueled by the bodies of the downtrodden, you know in your heart of hearts that you are incurring a kind of debt of violence, which could be repaid at any moment, to anyone. International media machines fuel the fire to their own ends, playing on people's deepest fears and anxieties, telling them to call the cops on their neighbours and to regard everyone they meet as an agent of some malicious conspiracy. The alienation of modern life makes everyone a stranger, to be regarded with distrust and fear.
To a certain kind of person, overly plugged-in and easily filled with propaganda, it must seem as if there's a killer around every corner. It must seem as if there's a killer in every room. And yes, as you noted, I was on the maintenance deck when the salvage crew was reported missing. I promise that I have nothing to do with them, or with the gestation sacs in the vents above the hydroponics lab. I can tell you everything I know. Just untie me from this chair, please.
