“Forgetting the Seventh Meditation,” the man interrupted. “Which reminds us that ‘true purity begins with speech that elevates rather than diminishes.’’ His gaze swept over the teenagers, settling finally on Roe. “I feel certain your father expects exemplary adherence to doctrine. I would hate to report otherwise.”

  The threat, though veiled, was unmistakable. Roe’s face flushed.

  “We meant no disrespect to the teachings,” he muttered, glancing at his friends for support.

  “Then perhaps you might demonstrate charity,” the legate suggested, his tone making it clear this was not a request. “The Second Wind Reading instructs us that ‘those blessed with abundance show their worthiness through kindness to the disadvantaged.’’

  Arliss bristled at being characterized as “disadvantaged,” but kept his expression flat. The legate was defusing the situation, even if his methods reinforced the very hierarchy that created it.

  Roe hesitated, then nodded.

  “Of course, Legate. We were just leaving.”

  Roe gestured to his companions, who followed him toward the cafe, throwing final glances of resentment over their shoulders.

  The legate turned to Arliss’s family, his expression unreadable.

  “The Gardens should be a place of reflection for all who seek harmony,” he said, though whether he included Blends in all remained ambiguous.

  “Thank you, Legate Steath,” Meera answered. “For your words and your timing.”

  “I would apologize on their behalf for their ungainly behavior, but their attitudes are bred deep into their blood. Even now, they mock you and will no doubt have unkind words to share about my intrusion.”

  Arliss had not spoken to a temple representative in a decade. They didn’t bother to proselytize in the Servo District before he left, and their presence would certainly not be welcomed now.

  “Many thanks,” he told the legate.

  “You may not believe this, Mr. Dubai, but most of our faithful are moderates still. We haven’t forgotten the past or Blend sacrifices. I can’t speak to how long we will remain the majority, but our charity is genuine.”

  Legate Steath extended his left hand over Arliss’s head in a gesture of the faith’s goodwill and followed suit with Kip. Then he cupped hands with Meera. For a moment, Arliss wondered if Steath privately invited his wife to reconsider the temple. But she showed only unease. Then the legate sauntered away, robes whispering against the polished floor.

  Arliss released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The danger had passed, but the humiliation lingered like a foul taste. He looked at Kip, whose furious eyes followed the Pure Breathers.

  “Let it go, Son,” he whispered, placing a protective arm around his boy. “Home.”

  ***

  An urn later, the sulfurous odor of what Blends called discard hit Arliss as he stepped through the doorway of Praxis Load, his new employer. After the confrontation at the Sky Gardens, the cramped workshop felt almost comforting, a place where purpose trumped prejudice, where a Blend’s skilled hands mattered more than blue or freckled skin.

  “On time. Good.” A burly Blend nodded approval. “Name’s Burr Hagen. I run the shop when Teak’s away, which is most days.”

  The workshop sprawled across what had once been three separate units, walls knocked through to create a labyrinthine space filled with workbenches, diagnostic equipment, and parts in various states of disrepair. Three other Blends hunched over their stations, not bothering to look up as Hagen led Arliss through the maze.

  “Offante says you’ve got excellent hands,” Hagen continued, gesturing toward an empty bench near the back. “We’ll start you on slop chargers. Nothing fancy. Basic cleanse. Most come from L40 and below, so they’re filthy and neglected.”

  Arliss nodded, taking in the stack of crescent-shaped units piled beside the workstation.

  “I can handle that.”

  “Pay’s by unit, not by urn,” Hagen added, tossing him a grease-stained manual which Arliss would not need. “Quota’s five per day minimum. Exceed it, you get bonuses. Fall short, you’re out. Hit your five early, you can jag off home, if you care.”

  The terms were harsh but fair, standard for Blend operations that survived on thin margins and volume work. Arliss settled onto the stool, already assessing the components scattered across the bench.

  “Tools are communal,” Hagen pointed to a wall of neatly organized implements. “Break something, replace it. Steal something, don’t come back.”

  “Understood.”

  Hagen studied him a moment longer, eyes narrowing.

  “Heard you did time on Rogue 19.”

  Arliss kept his sigh within.

  How long will that be a conversation starter?

  “Five years.”

  “Don’t care what for. Just keep it outside.” Hagen turned to leave, then paused. “One more thing: We get inspected regular. Enforcement Q likes to make sure we’re not modifying beyond our license parameters. Keep your bench clean, documentation complete.”

  As Hagen moved away, Arliss released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The job was menial, the chee barely sufficient, but it was work: Honest work that wouldn’t draw attention and would more than make up for Meera’s pay cut.

  He pulled the first charger toward him, fingers searching for the access panel through the thin black film. The unit was indeed filthy, clogged with the distinctive dust that plagued the lower levels. But beneath the grime, Arliss recognized quality components: Suntec manufacture, pre-Collapse engineering. Worth salvaging.

  As he worked, his mind drifted back to the Sky Gardens. Kip’s face. The shame. The anger. The way his son had shifted stance, ready to fight despite the consequences.

  He’s more like me than I wanted him to be.

  He’d yet to tell Meera about the pact he made with Kip. The thought of that conversation twisted his stomach. If she refused to go along with it, he’d have no choice but to exert his role as designated head of the family. Arliss rarely played that card, but what kind of father would back out now? How could Kip ever trust his dad again?

  The charger came apart in his hands, each component finding its proper place on the workbench. This, at least, made sense. Mechanical problems had solutions … clean, replace, reconnect. Not like the tangled mess of raising a son in a world determined to break him.

  “New guy,” called a voice from across the shop. A lean Blend with striking silver streaks on his neck approached, carrying a circuit tester. “I’m Ven. Done this sort of thing before?”

  “Long time ago,” Arliss admitted. “But some things you don’t forget.”

  Ven nodded, watching Arliss’s methodical disassembly.

  “Not bad. Most new hires take twice as long.” He leaned closer, voice dropping. “Word is you’re Offante’s friend. That true?”

  Arliss paused his hands.

  “Known him since we were kids.”

  For better and worse.

  “Thought so.” Ven’s expression remained neutral. “If you need anything, just ask. We take care of our own here.”

  Before he could respond, a commotion erupted near the front workbenches. Three Blends left their stations in a rush, moving toward the windows that looked out on the wide crossway.

  “What’s happening?”

  Arliss heard shouts and the whine of Enforcement Q runners, a compact vehicle only allowed on the widest avenues.

  Ven’s face hardened as he moved toward the door.

  “Raid,” he hissed. “Level sweep.”

  Oh, for all the holla. I’ve been here ten minups.

  He followed the other workers, who filled the window panels.

  “Second day in a row,” Ven said.

  “What are they looking for?”

  As soon as Arliss asked the question, he knew the answer. Ven provided it nonetheless.

  “You haven’t heard? It’s been all over the stream. Five enforcers up and vanished. Not a trace. They’re trying to pin it on us.”

  Through the grimy windows, Arliss caught glimpses of uniformed officers in tactical gear herding Blends into the center of the crossway. Not criminals, not troublemakers: Ordinary workers, shopkeepers, even children.

  “Them?” Arliss asked, keeping his voice low.

  “They’re sending a message.” Hagen appeared beside them, face grim. “Random compliance checks, they call it.”

  Outside, an officer shoved an elderly Blend to his knees. Another scanned credcards, barking orders.

  Arliss watched a young mother clutching her blue-skinned child as officers circled her like predators.

  “Since when does EQ have authority for this kind of abuse?”

  “Since they stopped caring about appearances,” Ven replied.

  “Not all that different from Rogue 19,” Hagen said. “Is it?”

  Arliss felt something shift inside him, the careful wall he’d built between past and present crumbling. The last five years taught him to keep his head down, to become invisible.

  Was that even a practical plan anymore?

  “We should do something,” he heard himself say.

  Hagen shot him a warning look.

  “Like what? They’re looking for excuses.”

  “So, we just watch?”

  “We survive,” Hagen corrected.

  “Not today,” Ven added. “Maybe tomorrow we do more.”

  Arliss thought of Kip and Meera waiting at home, of the promise he’d made to himself to keep his head down, to avoid trouble. But trouble had found them anyway, and it would not let up. EQ would never find those five men.

  He made his choice: Return to his bench, complete his work, and go home to his family. But tomorrow would be different.

  Kip had wanted to fight Pure Breathers, but he was too small and unprepared for the response. Yet he tried to stand up when his own father allowed those four arrogant pricks off easy.

  Tomorrow, Arliss would find Offante and ask what could be done.

  7

  MEERA

  THIRTEEN YEARS EARLIER, Meera Keet's hands shook as she faced her father in his study. Wind Reader Galen Keet sat rigid in his high-backed chair, blue vestments draped across his shoulders in perfect folds. The room smelled of incense and old books. Behind him, the family's ancestral Wind Medallion gleamed on the wall, catching the afternoon light.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  Sixteen-year-old Meera had rehearsed this moment for days, but nothing prepared her for the silence that followed. Her father’s face remained impassive, only his eyes betraying the storm beneath. At the very least, she had expected a furious temper.

  “The father?” His voice was cold, clinical.

  “Arliss Dubai.”

  Galen closed his eyes.

  “The Blend boy you claimed to have taken under your wing.”

  “He’s more than that. He’s my world.”

  Galen stood, his vestments rustling as he moved to their west-facing picture window. The view from Level 135 of the Trequin Mega presented a spectacular view of the weather shields. They were invisible most of the time, but the right collection of sunlight against distant electrical storms resulted in a shimmer effect created by the shields’ energy dispersal. At any other time, the phenomenon would have entranced her. Instead, Meera felt a chill creep up her spine; the room turned arctic.

  “You understand what this means,” her father said.

  Meera lifted her chin.

  “I love him.”

  “Love?” Galen turned, his face carved from stone. “You’ve contaminated our bloodline. Generations of Wind Readers, sixteen direct descendants who served as vessels for the planet’s voice. And you chose ... this.”

  “I didn’t choose to become pregnant.”

  “But you chose him.” Galen’s voice dropped to a whisper. “A manufactured person. Do you have any idea what you’ve done? What your child will be?”

  Heat rose in Meera’s cheeks.

  “My child will be loved. Just as Arliss’s parents loved him before they sacrificed their lives for this city.”

  “Your child will be a Patchwork. Neither one thing nor another. Rejected by both worlds.”

  Meera sensed her baby move, a flutter no bigger than a moth’s wing. She placed her hand over her belly.

  “Then I’ll build a new world.”

  Galen’s laugh held no humor.

  “The Breath does not accommodate other worlds, Meera. There are consequences.”

  “What will you do?” She hated how small her voice sounded.

  “The question is what you will do.” He crossed the room, towering over her. “You have a choice. Return to the fold, submit to purification, and we can arrange for the ... issue to disappear. Or leave this house forever.”

  Meera matched his stance.

  “That’s no choice at all.”

  “No,” he agreed, his eyes cold. “It isn’t.”

  Her first life ended by sunset.

  Arliss showed her a new one. Harder, grimier, exhausting – and perfect. Now, thirteen years later, they had a second chance at renewal. He found a job, albeit no better than when they brought Kip into the world, when chee was always near zero, and they shared a stack-bed with four strangers.

  Yet on this day, after an almost-successful visit to the Sky Gardens, Meera sat alone in her bedroom numb. She entered a data cube into her vox reader.

  Legate Steath slipped the cube into her hands as he bid her family farewell. What she first thought to be a remarkable coincidence – Steath arriving in time to silence those asinine Pure Breathers – must have been the product of careful surveillance.

  But why now? Why Steath?

  She only knew the man by reputation. A moderate voice in the temple, yes, but not someone who approached Meera even once after the schism with her father. To her recollection, they never made eye contact.

  Her fingers trembled as she activated the device. Why would a high-ranking legate – forty years of devotion – take the risk? Her father’s order was good as law: Representatives of the temple were never to contact a banished soul.

  The reader’s small display flickered to life, bathing her cramped bedroom in a green glow that cast long shadows across the worn furniture and made the cracking wall sealant look almost decorative in the faint light.

  “What did you give me, Steath?”

  The display solidified, showing atmospheric datasets from the High Temple, an analysis generated by the temple’s well-regarded science division. Meera’s breath caught.

  By the Breath’s standards, this leak was blasphemy. She recognized the numbers from her childhood education, when her father had groomed her as the future wife of a Wind Reader.

  Her fingers trembled as she manipulated the display, expanding sections that showed toxicity levels across Vandress. The official readings reported to the government had shown dangerous spikes in the Servo District, data used to justify a correlation between Blends and general atmospheric degradation.

  However, these raw numbers told a different story. The readings showed air quality hovering at steady rates across all districts and in the surrounding countryside.

  “They’re falsifying the datasets,” she murmured.

  Meera’s stomach clenched.

  Calculated propaganda.

  The next file loaded without her input: A text document with precise coordinates, a time, and detailed instructions. Legate Steath wanted a meeting in a place that would draw no attention. He told her to wear a service uniform with her hair tucked under a helmet. The message emphasized she should come alone and tell no one, not even Arliss.

  “You owe this to your family,” he concluded. “Wipe the cube after memorizing these details.”

  Meera’s fingers hovered over the display. Steath was risking everything to help her. But why? And what would she find when she arrived?

  A trap? No, that made no sense.

  She heard Kip’s footsteps before he called out to her. Meera ejected the cube and slipped it into her pocket.

  This is not fair.

  But what was worse? Ignoring the gravity of the message and pretending a legate of the temple had not sent her manipulated, classified datasets.

  She found Kip flopped on the worn couch, spinning a cyclon toy she bought him years ago and to which he’d added flashing lights.

  “Feeling better?”

  He shrugged, keeping his eyes on the toy. Kip had retreated to his bedroom soon after returning home, saying little about the run-in with the Pure Breathers.

  “I have to go out soon,” she said, keeping her voice casual. “Two urns. I know I promised to work on a project with you but …”

  Kip perked up, no evidence of disappointment.

  “Really? And Dad’s still at work for a few urns, too?”

  She studied her son’s face, noting a sudden jolt of optimism.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Can I have some freedom then?” Kip sat up straighter, his freckled hands fidgeting with a seam in his bodysuit. “Dad told you about our deal. Yeah?”

  Meera frowned.

  “What deal?”

  “We made a pact while you were ordering a new shelf for the garden.” Kip’s eyes darted away from hers. “He said I could hang out with friends sometimes if I kept up with my studies. When you two weren’t home.”

  “He mentioned nothing to me.” A familiar irritation flared. Had Arliss returned to old habits, making decisions without consulting her, just like before prison? Or maybe Kip saw a chance to play her.

  The boy shrugged.

  “He probably forgot. But we shook on it, for true.”

  “What exactly did you agree to?” She crossed her arms, suspicious of the convenient timing.

  “Just that I could have some space sometimes.” He looked up, his expression earnest. “Please, I won’t get in trouble. I’ll just meet with friends in the Market Strip. Two urns, same as you.”

  Meera hesitated. The thought of Kip wandering alone made her stomach turn, but after the humiliation he suffered from those Pure Breather slags, maybe some time with friends would help.

  Just this once. Until Arliss comes clean.

  “These friends … they’re from the EdBank?”