“I’m in all the way, for true,” Kip declared, voice firm. “I’ve seen what’s outside the Mega. I seen a sky full of stars and heard stories to crack your mind. There’s so much we gotta do. Can’t just hide here like tube paste.”

  “True-spark words,” TimBob said. “The rest of you … in or out?”

  A chorus of affirmations followed, though Offante detected reluctance in some voices.

  “More details get flowed tomorrow night,” TimBob concluded. “Same time, different crash space. Scar will drop the codes. Now scatter. And remember, keep your processors shut.”

  The meeting broke up, voices fading as the Pikers dispersed. Offante removed the receiver from his ear, his mind racing. Timing would be crucial. If Torque could sync up with another distraction, the crazy fringing plan had a shot.

  Offante paced the small room, weighing options. None were clean, and all carried significant risks.

  The wild card in this business remained with his reluctant former muscleman. He wasn’t sure Ven Rowen could seal the deal. He’d only known Arliss a few days.

  No. Better that Arliss hear the strongest plea from the man who watched after the Dubais for five years.

  That opportunity arrived urns later, when the shop door chimed.

  “Mr. Ruhl!” Pixel called. “Someone here to make a trade.”

  Offante composed himself. Make a trade was code from the old days. He stepped out to find Arliss standing at the counter, a two-unit-long flange belt hanging over his shoulder.

  Excellent. You came disguised for proper business.

  “Prime fabric,” Arliss said. “Wife sent me. Hoping we’d square a deal.”

  Offante’s mask almost slipped.

  “Of course, old friend,” he replied, gesturing toward the back room. “What a wonderful piece. In the mood for a healthy barter?”

  Offante gestured Arliss toward the cramped office, his mind already recalibrating strategies as he secured the door behind them. Perfect timing couldn’t be engineered better than this.

  “Praxis treating you well?” Offante asked, clearing components from a spare stool. “You look like you’ve been elbow-deep in engine grease all day.”

  “Made quota.” Arliss dropped the belt onto the bench and himself onto a stool. “Lost focus cleaning number six. Kept thinking about my son.”

  Offante nodded, studying his friend’s face. The prison years carved new lines around his eyes.

  “The boy giving you trouble?”

  “We set up a system. He checks in on his tagger every two urns.” Arliss leaned forward, voice dropping. “So far, so good. But something feels off. He’s operating in spaces that lead to trouble.”

  “Most kids his age hide something,” Offante offered, ignoring the belt. “Especially Patchies. They’ve got more to prove.”

  “This isn’t normal teenage rebellion. I need to know what the Pikers are planning. What TimBob has my son involved in.”

  OK. Straight to it. The boy has loose lips.

  “TimBob? My TimBob?”

  Arliss rolled his eyes.

  “Not a common name, Offante. I know Kip is heavily into these Pikers. You’re the one who steered me in their direction.”

  “A small offering, because I care about your family.”

  “Tell me where they meet. I didn’t see TimBob when I came in.”

  “He’s not due in today.” Offante debated how to proceed. “You needn’t worry, old friend. TimBob is ... complicated. An orphan with too much charisma and not enough oversight. He tells me little about his club, but he thinks of those children as his brothers and sisters.” Offante paused. “A family to replace the one he lost.”

  “I suppose that’s your way of saying he’d never put them in danger.”

  Offante knew where this was headed, so he went there first.

  “Yes. The heist. Perhaps a touch ambitious, but I’m sure TimBob will moderate his ambitions. I’ll talk to him. Actually, I’d like to discuss your status regarding Torque. I understand you’re uncommitted.”

  “Ven drop a word in your bucket?”

  “He did. I thought perhaps we could revisit the parameters of the job and allay your concerns for …”

  Arliss grabbed Offante’s arm, never a good sign.

  “If you want to allay anything, old friend, arrange for me to speak with TimBob.”

  Offante hated when others tried to control the dialogue. Worse? Changing the subject. Still, he found an interesting confluence worth pursuing.

  “That can be arranged,” Offante said, surprised to hear those words. “But TimBob won’t appreciate parental interference.”

  “I don’t give a dresh what he appreciates. This is my son.”

  Offante nodded, decision made.

  Yes, this might work. Insane idea. TimBob will hate it.

  Oh, how he loved when counterintuitive ideas became solutions.

  “They’ll have a gathering tomorrow night. I can direct you there, but what happens next is on you.”

  “That’s all I need.” Arliss stood. “Just tell me when and where.”

  “I’ll send code to your comm.” Offante rose, placing a hand on Arliss’s shoulder. “Careful, friend. These children found a home with each other. Their loyalty is fierce, and they are more cunning than you’d imagine.”

  “From what I’ve seen of Kip, I have no doubt.” Arliss’s expression softened. “I won’t let him become collateral damage in another’s fight.”

  “Naturally. Now, if we might speak about …”

  Arliss started for the front, leaving the belt behind.

  “I’m due home. Maybe tomorrow, Offante.”

  He sighed and studied the useless flange.

  “Straight to the fire with you.”

  This news would not go over well with TimBob, but Offante knew how to shmooze the boy. He knew the touch.

  That did not, however, mean he was any closer to bringing Arliss fully into the fold, and time was short. Offante took a chance.

  Maybe they’ll answer some questions this time, he thought.

  Offante tapped a spot on his neck over his carotid and waited for a pulse inside his mind to hum. He sent a message to the off-worlders without moving his lips.

  “I’m not sure you’re right about Arliss. Convince me. We don’t have much time.”

  12

  MEERA

  MEERA DUBAI CHECKED her tagger; Arliss messaged he'd be working extra time at Praxis Load, adding bonus chee for exceeding quota. Dresh! Why didn't he tell her his plan before he left the flat?

  As if Meera had a right to complain; she didn’t level with him, either. What would Arliss have said if he had known where she was headed? Either way, it gave their son an opening. Meera knew that the instant she slipped out the door, Kip would follow suit. Where he’d venture from there …

  No place good. Why did I agree to this pact?

  She knew why, of course. Arliss needed to feel like a loving parent again, a man who appreciated his child’s needs – even if that meant allowing too much leash early on.

  She slipped the tagger into her pocket and zipped up her work jacket, a simple gray coverall that wouldn’t draw attention. Her heart thumped against her chest as she pulled her hair back and secured it with a clip.

  What am I doing? The thought echoed as she approached the door. Thirteen years without a word, and now I’m sneaking across the city to see him.

  “Son?”

  He appeared with a half-constructed device in his greasy hands.

  “Going out, Mom? Thought you were working the fourth shift.”

  Above all things, Meera hated lying to her son. He deserved better – though he often proved himself to be a consummate liar.

  “Last minup. I won’t be more than two or three urns. Your father might beat me home. I, uh …”

  She saw the emerging twinkle in those mischievous eyes. He was already plotting his escape.

  “Stay here and work on your projects. Can you do that?”

  To his credit, Kip made no promises. Instead, he shrugged.

  “Later, Mom.”

  He might as well have said, “Hold the door.”

  Trust him. Kip can take care of himself.

  Those words stayed with Meera to the levtrain platform on L101. She kept her head down and avoided exchanging glances with acquaintances who might have stopped to talk. Most passengers were Tetonians, of course. Only a few hundred Blends had any sort of business outside Sinquin these days.

  All her fellow pale-skins knew her, if only by reputation. Meera was one of ten Vandressi Tetonians to have born a child with a Blend. While many of her kind had engaged in clandestine relations with blue-skins over the generations, they avoided exposure to scandal.

  How many would watch to see where the former Meera Keet stepped off the train? Certain worlds were not meant to intersect. She’d chosen love and never regretted it.

  Still, these people posed a problem: Wagging tongues may prove dangerous.

  The plan accounted for this issue. Meere exited at the Trequin port, following Legate Steath’s careful instructions. He gave her coordinates to a changing pod inside the transit station.

  Meera located the public changing facilities and entered a code into pod twelve. She locked the door behind her. Inside, a mourner’s garment hung from a hook. It was gray with blue threading, the colors of respect for the dissolved, and contained a hood.

  Her fingers trembled as she slipped the garment over her coveralls. The fabric felt supple yet unfamiliar after years away from Tetonian customs. She pulled the hood forward, creating shadows that obscured her features.

  How many times did I watch Mother dress for temple?

  The memory caught her unprepared.

  Ten years since Mother died. Ten years since she was not permitted to attend the dissolve.

  In the small mirror, a stranger looked back at her: A proper Tetonian woman, head bowed in grief. The perfect disguise. Mourners earned privacy, others averting their eyes out of respect. No one would recognize her.

  Meera stepped from the pod and returned to the transit platform until the next levtrain arrived. She took a seat in the rear cabin; no one inquired.

  The train slowed at Unquin, and Meera stepped out into the bustling terminal. Tetonians in fine clothing brushed past her, their faces reflecting the privilege of life in the city’s original Mega. Yet she felt no sense of nostalgia; anger rose when she remembered her father’s words after announcing her intention to marry Arliss and bear his child.

  She kept her eyes down with shoulders hunched, steps measured, hands clasped before her – the proper posture for grief.

  The Temple of Currents loomed a hundred units ahead, its spiraling architecture meant to mimic the wind patterns of Teton. At one time, this place – like the Central Temple – had been a second home; her father administered many dissolves.

  Now she approached like an intruder.

  She paused at the temple entrance. Somewhere inside, the man who disowned her, who had never inquired about his only grandson, now sought reconciliation. Or so said Legate Steath.

  It was just as likely a trap.

  Still, Meera took a deep breath and stepped forward. Whatever awaited her inside, she would face it for her family’s sake. Some risks were worth taking.

  ***

  The Temple of Currents embraced Meera in respectful silence as she crossed the threshold. Soft blue light filtered through translucent ceiling panels, designed to mimic the atmosphere’s layers. The air carried the distinct scent of mineral offerings: Salt compounds that created swirling colored smoke when heated. She hadn’t smelled that combination in fifteen years, yet her body remembered, tensing with the muscle memory of childhood devotion.

  Circular stone benches arranged in concentric rings filled the main chapel, each ring representing a different stage of life. The innermost circle was reserved for Wind Readers and those in mourning. Three cloaked figures occupied this sacred space, heads bowed in meditation. The outer rings held scattered worshippers, some reading from small tablets, others sitting in contemplation.

  Meera moved along the perimeter, her footsteps whisper-still on the polished stone floor. Atmospheric charts covered the curved walls, intricate patterns tracking centuries of Teton’s weather shifts. As a child, she’d spent urns studying those patterns while her father led ceremonies.

  “The wind speaks truth to those patient enough to listen.”

  Her mother’s voice, so clear in memory it startled her. Ayla Keet had been a devoted follower of the Breath, yet never with her husband’s rigidity. She taught Meera to find beauty in the doctrine rather than mere obligation.

  A small alcove opened to her right, where a spiral staircase led to the private meditation chambers. Steath indicated she’d find her father here, away from public eyes, in chambers reserved for Wind Readers and their families.

  As she approached the staircase, Meera paused before the Memorial Wall. Thousands of names etched in flowing script, those who had returned to the Sacred Cycle and dissolved in this temple. Her fingers reached out of their own accord, until they found her mother’s name.

  Ayla Remman Keet. Final Breath Received with Honor.

  The memory struck without warning: Her mother’s hands, cool and steady, braiding Meera’s hair before temple.

  “Remember, little wind, your thoughts should rise like proper offerings. Clean and purposeful.”

  The gentle tug as Mother secured the braid. A scent of juniper oil on her wrists. Quiet humming of old atmospheric hymns.

  Grief crashed through Meera’s rigid composure. Not just for her mother, but for the life he forced his daughter to abandon. For the final moments he denied her. For Kip, who never knew his grandmother’s gentle wisdom.

  A tear slipped down her cheek, but she wiped it away. Mourners were expected to maintain dignity, even in sorrow. Especially in the Temple of Currents, where emotions were to flow like channeled winds: Controlled and directed.

  She took a steadying breath and climbed the spiral staircase, each step bringing her closer to a moment thirteen years in the making. The private chambers above were more austere than the main chapel. No decorative elements, only smooth walls painted in gradients from deep blue at the floor to pale gray at the ceiling. Small cushions arranged in circles provided the only seating.

  In the farthest chamber, a solitary figure stood with his back to the door, hands clasped behind him. Meera recognized her father’s posture: Rigid, controlled, as unyielding as his beliefs. He wore the formal robes of a Regional Wind Reader, deep blue fabric embroidered with silver atmospheric patterns along the sleeves.

  When Wind Reader Galen Keet turned as Meera entered, his weathered face revealed no hint of emotion.

  Meera hesitated at the threshold. Her father’s face remained impassive, the perfect mask of a Wind Reader trained to control every emotion. The lines around his eyes had deepened, his hair silver in crescents, the top of his scalp bald.

  “Please enter, daughter of the winds,” he said, his voice formal and distant. “The Temple welcomes those in mourning.”

  He spoke as if to a stranger, maintaining the pretense for any who might pass by. Meera played along, lowering her head in the traditional gesture of respect.

  “May the winds favor you.”

  “And you.”

  Galen gestured toward a doorway behind him.

  “The Circle of Disquiet awaits. Your grief deserves proper space.”

  She followed him into a smaller chamber beyond the meditation room. Inside, a perfect circle had been etched into the stone floor, filled with fine white sand. Seven small cushions rested along its perimeter. The air felt thicker, heavy with mineral scents.

  “Sit,” he instructed, lowering himself onto one of the cushions.

  Meera took the cushion across from him. The circle between them seemed vast and unbridgeable, no matter what came next.

  They sat in silence, the only sound their measured breathing. Tradition dictated that grief required stillness before expression. Meera remembered the lessons from childhood, how emotions must settle like atmospheric particles before they can be channeled.

  Galen broke the silence first, his voice softer than before.

  “I visit her daily,” he said. “I bring mineral offerings, the purple salts she favored. I tell her about the changing weather patterns.” He traced a spiral in the sand. “She would have appreciated the southern auroras this past cycle.”

  Rage flashed through Meera, hot and sudden. The practiced control she’d maintained crumbled.

  “This is my first time,” she said, her words sharp as glass. “My first time seeing her name on that wall. My first time mourning my mother properly.”

  She watched his finger halt mid-pattern.

  “You denied me that right. Her own daughter, forbidden from her Final Breath ceremony.” Meera’s voice didn’t rise, but intensity pulsed through each word. “Do you tell her that when you visit? Do you explain to my mother why her only child hasn’t said goodbye?”

  The silence that followed felt charged, dangerous, like the gathering currents before an electrical storm.

  Galen’s fingers curled into fists against his knees. His mask of Wind Reader serenity cracked, revealing a flash of raw emotion.

  “Your mother waited for you,” he said, voice composed. “Every Festival of Winds, she prepared your favorite dishes. Set a place at our table. Convinced herself you would return.” He drew a harsh breath. “Even as her body failed, she looked to the door. Expecting her daughter.”

  “You banned me from your home.” Meera leaned forward. “You threatened to have Arliss arrested if I tried to contact her.”

  “Because you chose him!” Galen’s voice rose, then dropped as he glanced with suspicion toward the door. “Against everything we believe, everything we taught you.”

  “I chose love.”

  “You chose abomination.”

  The word stuck on her like poison gas. Meera’s jaw tensed.

  “My husband is a man. My son is a child. They are courageous and persistent, and they overcome so much. They …” Meera felt the tears building, hot and insistent. “His name is Kip. He’s twelve. He has her eyes.” She swallowed hard. “How often did she ask about him?”