Chapter Seventy: A Country With a Garage
Something was eating a government document.
Roman opened one eye.
Vesper stood on his desk with one black-gold foot pinning down six pages of stamped paper and her beak buried through the corner of the seventh.
Roman stared at her.
Vesper pulled.
Paper ripped.
“Yo.”
The phoenix stopped.
Violet eyes shifted toward him.
Roman pushed himself upright.
Bleach-blonde twists fell over half his face.
His room looked like somebody had robbed an expensive teenager and then changed their mind halfway through.
One black boot beside the bed.
The other underneath a gaming chair.
Three shirts on the back of a sofa.
Two open military slates.
One dead military slate.
Hair oil beside a box of ammunition he had been told four times not to store beside hair products.
A school workbook under the ammunition.
One gold watch missing since last week.
The ceremonial sword Helena kept insisting belonged on its wall mount was leaning against a speaker.
Ren's broken controller sat on the floor.
Roman maintained Ren had broken it.
Ren maintained physics had broken it.
Vesper had personally witnessed the event and refused testimony.
Roman grabbed his phone.
Forty-seven notifications.
He scrolled.
Dessa.
Helena.
War command.
Cassiel.
Three banking messages.
Eight missed messages from unknown numbers.
One school reminder he immediately deleted.
One reminder from the same system informing him deleting a school reminder did not delete the assignment.
“Fuck.”
Then Ren.
2:07 A.M.
awake
2:41 A.M.
important
3:18 A.M.
very important
3:19 A.M.
not emergency
3:56 A.M.
A video attachment.
Roman opened it.
Eleven seconds of a black car doing a mountain descent under floodlights.
No road barrier.
Crowd packed against rock walls.
Driver entered a turn sideways at a speed that should have ended with a memorial.
Exited clean.
Ren had added:
look
Roman watched it again.
Then locked his phone.
Later.
The wall screen across the room was already on.
Muted.
War map.
Blue-black lines.
Red retreat indicators.
A ticker at the bottom:
KARSOV NORTHERN RAIL AUTHORITY CONFIRMS EVACUATION OF THIRD LOGISTICS HUB
Roman got out of bed.
Barefoot.
Black T-shirt.
Loose dark lounge pants.
Fifteen years old.
Arch Crusnik.
Territorial Executive.
Hair looking like shit.
He walked into the bathroom.
The news continued through the open door.
“—Avarran aviation losses have increased for a fourth consecutive week while Floodline's western air-defense network—”
Roman brushed his teeth.
“—Namarrian officials accuse the blockade coalition of creating civilian shortages—”
Toothpaste dripped onto his shirt.
He looked down.
“Fuck.”
“—Serevan information authorities deny responsibility for the false evacuation broadcast distributed across neutral trade networks yesterday—”
Roman wiped the shirt with water.
Made it worse.
Vesper landed on the bathroom counter.
Roman pointed his toothbrush at her.
“Don't judge.”
She clicked once.
“Your ass ate paperwork.”
Another click.
“Exactly.”
The screen in the bedroom changed.
Footage of a Floodline freight terminal.
Thousands of containers.
Kobold crews.
Human loaders.
Artificial workers.
Two demons in orange safety jackets arguing beside a forklift.
Roman stopped brushing for half a second.
His country had been working for hours.
Without him.
Again.
He spat.
Rinsed.
Looked at himself.
Icy-blue eyes.
Thin red Sangria ring.
No horns.
He tried.
Heat moved beneath the skin of his forehead.
Two short obsidian horns emerged through his hair, burgundy translucence at the tips.
Stable now.
Easy.
He looked.
Retracted them.
“Still cool.”
Vesper clicked.
Roman looked at her.
“You jealous.”
She flared violet fire around her neck.
“Exactly.”
Roman stole the sausage before the cook finished plating it.
She slapped his hand with a wooden spoon.
He still got the sausage.
“Worth.”
“Sit down.”
“I am sitting.”
“You're standing.”
Roman looked beneath himself.
Fair.
He sat at the counter.
The kitchen belonged to whoever was awake.
That was the only rule Roman understood.
Night security was finishing breakfast on one side.
Morning staff had coffee on the other.
A courier in reflective work clothes slept with her head against the wall while chewing.
Nobody bowed.
Good.
Roman reached for another sausage.
The cook moved the entire tray.
“Damn.”
“You have food.”
Roman looked at his plate.
Eggs.
Bread.
Fried tomatoes.
Fruit.
Two sausages.
“Not enough.”
“You're fifteen.”
“Exactly.”
“That is not a medical condition.”
A voice behind him said:
“With his metabolism, the distinction is narrower than you think.”
Roman turned.
Sabine Duvall walked into the kitchen with a mechanical eyepiece pushed up over one eye, short dark hair uneven around her jaw, the silver streak at her right temple nearly hidden beneath grease.
She looked like she had already dismantled something expensive before breakfast.
Bishop followed.
The mechanical chaplain entered on articulated golden limbs with far too much quiet for something shaped like a devotional nightmare.
Brass-gold body.
Layered filigree.
One central violet optic.
Several smaller mechanisms folded close underneath.
Roman watched him climb onto a reinforced stool.
“Why Bishop eating?”
Sabine dropped into the seat beside Roman.
“He isn't.”
Bishop's violet optic turned toward Roman's plate.
Roman immediately moved it farther away.
“Don't.”
The machine produced a soft chime.
Sabine looked at him.
“He doesn't want your breakfast.”
“Everybody want my breakfast.”
A security officer at the far table said:
“No one wants your breakfast.”
Roman looked over.
“Then why cook hiding sausage?”
“Because you're stealing.”
“Same thing.”
The officer stood.
She looked exhausted.
Roman recognized her from western night detail.
“You off?”
“Seven minutes ago.”
“Going home?”
“Childcare.”
Roman nodded.
Her son was four.
He remembered because the kid had once bitten one of his coat buttons during an evacuation drill.
Not the weirdest thing a child had done to him.
Sabine took Roman's coffee.
Drank.
Put it back.
Roman stared.
“You got your own.”
“Hers is terrible.”
The cook:
“I heard that.”
Sabine:
“Then improve.”
Roman laughed.
Bishop chimed again.
This time a small projector opened from his shoulder.
Text appeared over the counter:
VANITY IS A MINOR SIN.
Roman stared at Bishop.
“Why you looking at me?”
The violet optic moved toward Sabine.
Sabine looked offended.
Roman smiled.
“Yeah.”
Bishop added:
SO IS GLOATING.
Roman:
“Fuck church.”
Another chime.
The cook nearly dropped a pan laughing.
Gideon entered at the exact moment Roman reached for a third sausage.
He caught Roman's wrist without looking.
Roman stared at his hand.
Then at Gideon.
“Release.”
Gideon took the sausage himself.
Roman's mouth opened.
“You just—”
“Road tax.”
“That's not road tax.”
“Then challenge it.”
Roman narrowed his eyes.
Gideon ate.
Keeper of Roads.
Family.
Professional pain in Roman's ass.
He wore dark work clothes rather than formal Duvall black, one slate tucked beneath an arm and rain still on the shoulders of his coat.
Roman looked toward the windows.
“Raining?”
“Surface.”
“Not down here.”
“That's usually how roofs work.”
Sabine smiled into her coffee.
Roman ignored both.
Gideon tossed the slate onto the counter.
“Western connector opened at six.”
Roman looked.
“Which?”
“The new physical fallback road beside Airfield Three.”
“Done already?”
“Apparently people work when you sleep.”
Roman made a face.
Gideon saw.
“Don't be offended.”
“I ain't.”
“You are.”
“Why?”
“Because they finished something without you standing nearby looking important.”
Roman stared.
Sabine laughed.
Bishop projected:
PRIDE.
Roman pointed.
“Turn him off.”
Sabine:
“No.”
Gideon took another sausage.
Roman slapped his hand.
“Get your own.”
“Growth.”
“Thief.”
“Runs in the family.”
That unfortunately was true.
Roman made it twenty feet toward the garage before Dessa stepped out of resident services.
She wore the same patched gray courier coat she had been wearing before Floodline became a country.
The difference was the black government credential clipped beneath the collar.
Roman saw three papers in her hand.
Changed direction immediately.
“Don't.”
Dessa followed.
“Coward.”
“Busy.”
“You were going to the garage.”
“Exactly.”
“Budget.”
“No.”
“Petition.”
“No.”
“Permit.”
Roman stopped.
Turned.
“What permit?”
Dessa looked down at the papers.
“Oh. Nothing.”
“Give.”
“No.”
Roman stepped toward her.
Dessa put the permit behind her back.
“Dessa.”
“Roman.”
“What permit?”
“Western freight road.”
He smiled.
Dessa:
“No.”
Roman's smile disappeared.
“You ain't even say.”
“I know what that face means.”
“What face?”
“The illegal one.”
“I got legal faces.”
“No.”
People moved around them.
The public floor was already crowded.
Residents waiting for desks.
Foreign workers.
Two pixies arguing over a housing form.
A kobold holding six identification slates in both hands.
Three people from an infernal household sitting together near the petition counter.
Someone buying coffee.
Someone yelling because the queue system had assigned them number 488 while the wall board displayed 184.
Roman looked toward the board.
“Why fucked?”
Dessa:
“Pixie sat on scanner.”
A tiny voice from somewhere near the ceiling:
“ACCIDENT.”
Roman looked up.
A blue-winged pixie disappeared behind a beam.
Reasonable.
Dessa shoved the budget paper into his chest.
“Read.”
Roman took it.
Looked at the first line.
“Later.”
She grabbed his sleeve before he could fold space.
“Don't you fucking dare.”
Roman's eyes narrowed.
“You got brave.”
“I had to.”
Before he could answer, a man at the resident-service counter leaned around the clerk.
“Boss?”
Roman looked.
Bad decision.
The man immediately stepped over.
Human.
Middle-aged.
Work clothes.
“You got five minutes?”
Dessa smiled.
Roman glared at her.
“You did that.”
“I did nothing.”
The man lifted a folder.
“My building got a fairy tenant and now the ceiling inspector says her suspended room counts as a structural addition.”
A fairy hovered behind him.
“She built shelf through my window.”
The man turned.
“It is not a shelf.”
“You call suspended studio.”
“Because that's what it is.”
“You rent air now?”
“I rent volume.”
Roman looked between them.
“Nope.”
Both paused.
Roman pointed toward the housing desk.
“Y'all got department.”
The fairy pointed back at him.
“They sent us here.”
Roman looked at the clerk.
The clerk looked guilty.
“Why?”
The clerk cleared his throat.
“Policy conflict between vertical occupancy and existing lease dimensions.”
Roman stared.
“That sentence made me mad.”
Dessa:
“Congratulations. Government.”
Roman looked at her.
“Fuck you.”
A Freeblood night worker stepped out from another queue.
“While you're here—”
“No.”
“Day construction noise—”
“Department.”
“They say—”
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“Department.”
“Boss—”
Roman spread both hands.
“Why everybody think I know ceiling law?”
A kobold behind them raised one hand.
“You founded country.”
Roman:
“Worst argument today.”
The kobold looked at the clock.
“It is eight-twelve.”
“Exactly.”
A woman carrying a toddler called from the insurance window.
“Monster premiums went up again!”
Roman looked toward her.
“Why?”
The clerk answered.
“Culvert-hound migration.”
Roman frowned.
“Catch more.”
“Ecology says capture teams are full.”
“Hire more.”
Dessa:
“With what?”
Roman looked at the budget document still in his hand.
Dessa smiled.
Bitch.
Roman looked down at the first line again.
Actually read it this time.
“Okay.”
“Garage waits.”
“No.”
“Roman.”
“Garage waits five minutes.”
Dessa checked the time.
“Thirty.”
“Ten.”
“Twenty.”
“Fifteen.”
Dessa held out her hand.
Roman shook it.
Then immediately realized he had negotiated himself into doing government before breakfast fully settled.
He hated growth.
Roman forgot government existed the second the garage doors opened.
The Gravesend R9 Vanta sat under white work lights like money had learned violence.
Gloss-black body.
Not matte.
Not pearl.
Black deep enough that burgundy reflections appeared in the curves when the light hit wrong.
Long hood.
Short rear deck.
Two doors.
Black wheels.
Muted gold trim only where Roman wanted it.
No Duvall crest.
No sovereign seal.
Tiny IX beneath the rear badge.
Floodline.
Roman stopped.
Still did that.
Every time.
Ren was sitting inside it.
Roman's face changed.
“Why you in my car?”
Ren looked up from behind the wheel.
“Testing.”
“Get out.”
“Telemetry handshake.”
“Get.”
“It's useful.”
Roman opened the door.
Ren held the steering wheel.
“No.”
Roman grabbed his jacket.
Layla was under the open hood.
Without looking up:
“If you two rip the seat, I'm leaving.”
Roman stopped.
Ren stopped.
Both looked toward the seat.
Expensive.
Roman released him.
“Move.”
Ren climbed out.
Blonde hair half-combed.
Expensive hoodie.
No shame.
Roman slid into the driver's seat.
Perfect.
Black leather.
Dark burgundy stitching.
Actual mechanical controls where he wanted them.
Enough modern interfaces to make it fast.
Not enough to make the machine think it owned him.
Mireya stood outside with a diagnostic slate.
“I changed the telemetry sampling.”
Roman looked at her through the open window.
“You said you wouldn't touch engine mapping.”
“I didn't.”
“What'd you touch?”
“Telemetry sampling.”
“That's same words.”
“Because it's the same answer.”
Xyra slid out from underneath the car on a mechanic's creeper.
Dark work trousers.
Drakov jacket tied around her waist.
Faint awakened scales across her wrists.
A smear of grease on one cheek.
Roman looked.
She looked back.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Then stop.”
He smiled.
She threw a rag at him.
Roman caught it.
“Why under my car?”
“Because your rear mechanical bypass linkage was mounted by idiots.”
Layla looked up from the engine bay.
“It wasn't.”
Xyra:
“It was.”
“It survived factory testing.”
“That only means the factory employs the same idiots.”
Layla thought.
“Fair.”
Mireya:
“It was within tolerance.”
Xyra:
“Tolerance is what engineers say when they're too lazy to fix something.”
Mireya's eyes narrowed.
Roman looked between them.
Good.
Iven Tarrow appeared from behind a tool cabinet.
Roman had not known he was there.
The fourteen-year-old Nullwright held a compact ignition module in both hands.
School shirt under stained coveralls.
“Finished.”
Roman got out immediately.
“Null ignition?”
Iven nodded.
“Primary system can still use normal aether assist. If local magic collapses, module isolates the starter logic and switches mechanical.”
Ren:
“I could make the transition predictive.”
Roman:
“No.”
Ren:
“You haven't heard—”
“No.”
“You don't even know—”
“I want drive car.”
“You still drive.”
“Your shit drive for me.”
“It corrects traction.”
“Exactly.”
“That makes you faster.”
Roman pointed toward Layla.
“She got electronic help?”
Layla looked up.
“No.”
Roman pointed at her.
“See.”
Ren:
“Her car is a rolling criminal offense.”
Layla:
“Thank you.”
That was not a denial.
Gideon entered through the security door with Sabine beside him.
Bishop came behind.
Roman looked at Gideon.
“You inspecting?”
“Road.”
“My car ain't road.”
“Your car will be on my road.”
“Your?”
Gideon smiled.
Roman hated when older relatives used his own logic against him.
Sabine walked around the R9 once.
No reverence.
She crouched near the front wheel.
Tapped something with one gloved finger.
Roman's stomach tightened.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You made face.”
“Family disease.”
“Sabine.”
She stood.
“Front ward sink is too exposed.”
Mireya immediately:
“No.”
Sabine looked at her.
Mireya continued.
“It is accessible for maintenance.”
“It is accessible for debris.”
“Protective housing adds heat.”
“Then vent it.”
“That introduces another opening.”
Xyra rolled back underneath the car.
“Move it.”
Mireya:
“No.”
Xyra:
“Yes.”
Ren looked at Roman.
Roman:
“Don't.”
“I haven't said anything.”
“Your face programming.”
Bishop approached the front of the car.
His central violet optic brightened.
Roman watched.
“What you doing?”
A narrow beam traveled over the hood.
Then the windshield.
Then Roman.
A projection opened.
VEHICLE: EXTREMELY FAST
Roman smiled.
OPERATOR: FIFTEEN
Smile gone.
Everybody started laughing.
Roman pointed at Bishop.
“He hating.”
Bishop added:
PRAYER RECOMMENDED.
Even Gideon laughed.
Roman climbed back into the seat.
“Open garage.”
Gideon:
“No.”
Roman slowly turned his head.
“What?”
“Identify the brake fluid reservoir.”
Roman stared.
Silence.
Ren smiled.
Xyra slid halfway out from under the car.
Layla leaned on the hood.
Mireya lowered her slate.
Everybody waited.
Roman pointed.
“Under hood.”
Gideon:
“Remarkable.”
“Fuck you.”
“Where?”
Roman got out.
Opened hood.
Pointed confidently.
Layla:
“That's coolant.”
Roman froze.
Ren bent over laughing.
“Shut up.”
Xyra was already smiling.
Roman pointed to another.
Layla:
“Power accumulator.”
“Car got too much shit.”
Gideon folded his arms.
“You wanted to drive.”
“I can drive.”
“You can operate a wheel.”
“Same.”
“No.”
Roman stared at him.
Gideon nodded toward the engine.
“Again.”
Roman learned where the brake fluid reservoir was.
Then the fuse isolation.
Then the manual fire cutoff.
Then the mechanical fuel shutoff.
Then the emergency rear release.
Then Xyra made him crawl under the car and identify the differential.
Roman emerged with grease on his shoulder.
“Happy?”
Xyra:
“No.”
“Why?”
“You called the transaxle a gearbox three times.”
“It got gears.”
Ren:
“Technically—”
Xyra looked at him.
Ren stopped.
Roman smiled.
Then Gideon finally pressed the garage-door release.
Daylight appeared at the top of the ramp.
Roman sat behind the wheel.
His entire mood changed.
Gideon saw.
“Slow.”
Roman started the engine.
The R9 woke with a low mechanical violence that traveled through the seat into his spine.
Roman smiled.
Gideon leaned through the open window.
“I mean it.”
Roman:
“Yeah.”
“Roman.”
“Yeah.”
“Do not use gravity to correct your driving.”
Roman looked offended.
“I wasn't.”
“You haven't moved yet.”
“Exactly.”
Gideon stared at him.
Roman smiled.
Then pulled out.
Roman stalled at the first light.
Nobody said anything.
That was worse.
Ren was in the car behind him.
Roman could see his face in the mirror.
Smiling.
Layla beside him.
Also smiling.
Roman started the engine again.
Xyra sat in the passenger seat.
She stared straight ahead.
Roman:
“Say it.”
“No.”
“Say.”
“No.”
“Your face.”
“You stalled.”
“I know.”
“Then why do I need to say it?”
Roman pulled away.
Too aggressively.
Xyra's hand caught the dash.
“Smooth.”
“Was smooth.”
“That was an assault.”
“It moved.”
A delivery van passed them.
Old.
White.
Rust around one rear door.
Roman watched it go by.
His right foot moved.
Xyra:
“No.”
“I ain't doing nothing.”
“Your entire body leaned forward.”
Roman stayed behind the van.
For twelve seconds.
Then twenty.
The driver looked in the mirror.
Recognized him.
Raised one hand.
Made the universal gesture for:
slow the fuck down.
Roman stared.
Xyra laughed.
“He told you.”
“I saw.”
“You gonna listen?”
“No.”
He listened.
Mostly.
The R9 wanted speed.
Roman could feel it.
Not magic.
Mechanical invitation.
The steering communicated weight cleanly.
The hybrid aether system filled torque gaps without taking over.
Every tiny road surface variation came through the chassis.
His supernatural senses made some of it worse.
Too much information.
Tire slip.
Engine vibration.
Wind pressure.
Traffic heartbeats through open windows.
Spatial anchors beneath the street.
His reflexes wanted to fix things before they became problems.
That tempted him into doing too much.
He entered the next corner fast.
Braked late.
The front loaded harder than expected.
Roman corrected.
Too much.
Rear moved.
Small.
But real.
Xyra's hand hit the door.
“Roman.”
“I got.”
“You almost had.”
“I got.”
He straightened.
No crash.
No curb.
Still.
Roman's jaw tightened.
Xyra didn't lecture.
Good.
Two turns later he slowed before entering.
Better.
She noticed.
Didn't say anything.
Also good.
They passed through Old Bell Thread.
The streets looked insane now.
Construction cranes.
Sky ferries.
Infernal freight crews.
A kitsune production team filming something under a bridge.
A restaurant line curling around a block.
Two fairies sitting on a traffic light despite a sign that explicitly said not to.
One waved at Roman's car.
Roman waved back.
Missed the next signal changing.
Xyra:
“Road.”
“Got.”
He stopped.
Late.
Not dangerously.
Still late.
Xyra looked at him.
Roman:
“Don't.”
She smiled.
Dare looked at the grease on Roman's cheek.
“Car?”
Roman:
“Yeah.”
“Lose fight?”
“No.”
Tavian moved his plate away before Roman reached for it.
Roman stopped.
Looked at him.
Tavian kept reading.
“Learned.”
“You greedy.”
“You stole my lunch on your birthday.”
“Birthday.”
“It was three weeks ago.”
“Still counts.”
“No.”
Kei came in wearing another coat that cost too much.
Roman looked him up and down.
“Rich ass bunny.”
Kei dropped into the booth.
“Jealous.”
“I own satellite.”
“You don't personally own satellites.”
Roman stared.
Kei grinned.
Dessa, at the counter:
“He got you.”
Roman ignored everyone.
Outside the station windows, commuters moved through the Founding Line.
Workers.
Soldiers.
Merchants.
Two foreign tourists trying to photograph the original blue stripe on the floor while people stepped around them.
A boy in fake Floodline shoes stood beside his father.
The shoes had Roman's six-wing symbol on the side.
Wrong number of wings.
Eight.
Roman pointed.
“Fake.”
Kei looked.
“Those are terrible.”
The kid heard.
Looked down at his shoes.
Then at Roman.
Roman immediately regretted speaking.
The father looked embarrassed.
Roman stood.
Walked over.
The kid couldn't have been older than ten.
Roman crouched enough to see the shoe.
“Where buy?”
The father answered.
“Street vendor near Black Pump.”
Roman rubbed one thumb over the fake logo.
Eight wings.
Paint already cracking.
“How much?”
The father named the number.
Too high for fake shoes.
Roman's face changed.
Dessa saw it from inside.
Here we go.
Roman stood.
“Keep receipt?”
The father hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Send to trade desk.”
“Why?”
Roman pointed at the shoe.
“Eight.”
The kid looked down.
“So?”
“I got six.”
The kid:
“Eight cooler.”
Roman froze.
Kei made a choking sound behind him.
Roman stared at the child.
“You wrong.”
“No.”
“Six better.”
“Eight more.”
“That ain't how design work.”
The boy shrugged.
Roman looked at the father.
“Your son disrespectful.”
The father was trying not to laugh.
Roman went back inside.
Dessa:
“Defeated by arithmetic.”
“Shut up.”
An alarm sounded outside.
Not war.
Local.
Three short tones.
Then a voice:
POST-FOLD WILDLIFE RESPONSE — WEST TRANSFORMER CANOPY
Roman stood immediately.
Dare didn't.
Tavian didn't.
Kei did.
Dessa looked toward Roman.
“No.”
“What?”
“Eat.”
“Monster.”
“Wildlife crew exists.”
Roman was already walking.
Dessa followed.
“Roman.”
“Just watching.”
“That means helping badly.”
“Wrong.”
They reached the street.
A flock of inkback heat kites had nested inside the warm housing of an advertising transformer.
Not birds.
Not exactly.
Thin-winged urban predators with translucent membranes, long tails and ink-dark dorsal markings that shimmered when hot.
Six adults.
At least nine young.
One had melted half an advertisement into the shape of a screaming shoe.
Roman smiled.
“Cool.”
The ecology crew leader heard him.
“No.”
Roman looked.
Adult woman.
Heavy capture gloves.
Thermal mask around her neck.
“Didn't say anything.”
“You smiled.”
Everybody used that against him now.
A veterinarian unpacked insulated carriers.
Two monster handlers extended a thermal lure.
No swords.
No guns.
No heroic music.
One heat kite snapped at the lure.
The crew leader pointed to Roman.
“You want to help?”
Roman smiled.
“Yes.”
She pointed toward a ladder.
“Hold that.”
Roman's smile vanished.
Ren arrived behind him with Layla.
He looked from Roman to the ladder.
“Please tell me.”
Roman:
“Don't.”
Ren started laughing before anybody explained.
Roman held the ladder.
The crew leader climbed.
One heat kite exploded out of the transformer.
Roman's predatory senses fired.
He didn't move.
Another handler caught it cleanly in a net.
Good.
Second one came out.
Third.
A young kite panicked.
Flapped directly overhead.
Something warm hit Roman's hair.
He stopped.
Nobody spoke.
Roman reached up.
Pulled his fingers back.
Glowing blue-green pigment.
Ren fell against Layla.
No sound came out.
Layla covered her mouth.
Kei turned around completely.
Dessa failed.
She laughed.
Roman looked up at the kite.
It landed on the transformer.
Stared down.
Roman:
“You got one chance.”
The veterinarian:
“Do not threaten wildlife.”
Roman slowly looked toward her.
She stared back.
Roman wiped glowing shit from his hair.
“Country disrespectful.”
Dessa:
“Hold the ladder.”
Roman held the ladder.
Roman arrived late with damp hair.
Helena looked at him once.
“What happened?”
“Wildlife.”
She decided not to ask.
Smart.
The war room had changed since the beginning.
Less theater.
More work.
No giant throne-like chair.
No ring of people waiting for Roman to speak.
Adult commanders were already arguing when he entered.
Maps covered the central table.
Karsov.
Namarra.
Avarra.
Belisar.
Talaris.
Serevan barely had a conventional front worth mapping anymore.
Roman took his seat.
Gideon was standing near the transport map.
Dessa had come upstairs with him.
Mireya occupied one end of the table with three technical screens.
Helena sat opposite Roman.
A professional general Roman had learned not to interrupt unless he wanted his own stupidity publicly documented slid a marker across Karsov.
“We can take the third rail town in forty-eight hours.”
Roman:
“Then take it.”
The general:
“No.”
Roman's eyes narrowed.
“Why say can?”
“Because capability isn't recommendation.”
Roman leaned back.
The general pointed.
“We take it, we inherit thirty-one thousand civilians, two damaged water systems, one hospital running on emergency generation and a rail workforce Karsov began evacuating yesterday.”
Roman:
“Stop evacuation.”
“With what?”
“Road.”
Gideon answered.
“Road isn't the problem.”
Roman looked.
Gideon tapped two bridges.
“Both physically mined. Their engineers did real work this time. No fold shortcut until we clear the anchor interference.”
Mireya:
“And if you force a continuity sleeve across it, you'll drag the bridge geometry with you.”
Roman:
“Bad.”
“Very.”
The general moved another marker.
“We hold where we are. Consolidate supply. Let their retreat empty faster than our advance fills.”
Roman hated that.
He could feel it.
Everybody could.
Roman:
“They burning depot?”
“Two.”
“Take depot.”
“Already planned.”
“Then—”
“Roman.”
Helena didn't raise her voice.
He stopped.
The general continued.
“We are winning.”
Roman looked at the map.
“Then why feel slow?”
“Because war is slow when you're not using civilians as fuel.”
That shut him up.
Good answer.
Roman looked toward Namarra.
“What there?”
A naval officer switched the map.
“Blockade is working too well.”
Roman frowned.
“That's problem?”
“Yes.”
“Explain.”
“Military fuel down. Good. Military medicine down. Good. Civilian medicine also down. Bad.”
“Let civilian ships through.”
“Which ones?”
Roman looked.
The officer continued.
“Namarra is hiding military cargo under civilian manifests.”
“Search.”
“We do.”
“How long?”
“Long enough that insulin, fever treatment and surgical stock are sitting offshore.”
Roman's jaw tightened.
Nyxara's message came through at almost the same moment.
Private.
Nhal-Moran bloodstock inspectors found falsified medical cargo on two Namarrian routes. One was real medicine. One was military precursor. They mixed them deliberately.
Roman showed Mireya.
She passed it to the naval officer.
No ceremony.
Just information.
The officer swore.
Roman:
“Create corridor.”
“Already drafting one.”
“Fast.”
“Fast gets people killed.”
Roman looked at him.
The officer didn't look away.
Roman nodded once.
“Then right.”
Avarra next.
Their aircraft losses were up.
So was Floodline's ammunition burn.
Belisar tunnel injuries remained ugly.
Talaris—
Roman hated Talaris.
Mud.
Food.
Irrigation.
Burned fields.
Seed vaults.
Nothing glamorous.
Everything important.
A commander said:
“They're poisoning their own canals before retreat.”
Roman:
“Why?”
“So we don't use them.”
“People live there.”
“Yes.”
“Then stop them.”
“We're trying.”
Roman looked at Helena.
She was already reading something else.
No one needed Roman to announce that poisoning water was bad.
That felt strange.
Useful.
Strange.
Vaelora entered halfway through the Talaris briefing.
Not remotely.
In person.
Black hair with metallic-gold streaking.
Green eyes.
Human form.
She had clearly come straight from somewhere official because she was still wearing Varkesh formal field clothes and looked irritated by every buckle.
She dropped into the open chair beside Roman.
“Your air-defense people requested another dragon-radar exchange.”
Roman:
“They need?”
“Yes.”
“Then give.”
Vaelora looked at him.
“That is not how states exchange military technology.”
Roman:
“Why?”
“Because Varkesh also wants things.”
“Tell them ask.”
“They did.”
“What?”
“Your compact atmospheric slip-routing.”
Mireya immediately looked up.
“No.”
Roman glanced toward her.
“Why?”
“Because they don't need the unstable version.”
Vaelora:
“We want to study it.”
Mireya:
“No.”
Vaelora:
“You don't own it.”
Mireya:
“I designed half the failure restraints.”
Roman looked between them.
Good.
Problem left the sovereign.
He checked his phone.
Eirene had sent a picture.
Valedane terminal.
Traffic backed up for what looked like miles.
One word:
Yours.
Roman typed:
trade good
Reply:
traffic bad
Roman smiled.
Vaelora saw.
“Eirene?”
“Yeah.”
“What?”
“Road mad.”
Gideon leaned over the map.
“Send me.”
Roman forwarded the picture.
Keeper of Roads became visibly offended by another country's traffic.
Perfect.
The noodle dragon offered Roman financing.
Roman listened.
That was the problem.
Ssilith sat coiled on a reinforced cushion with three contract ribbons suspended above his head.
Tiny claws moved through accounting sigils.
Tavian stood beside him.
Foreign merchants sat opposite.
Valedane grain contract.
Floodline machine exports.
Continuity freight slots.
Normal things.
Mostly.
The noodle dragon completed the interest projection.
Roman stared.
Then:
“No.”
One merchant looked surprised.
Tavian smiled.
Ssilith's whiskers twitched.
The merchant said:
“It is favorable.”
Roman:
“For him.”
Ssilith inclined his head.
Roman tapped the floating rate.
“Variable threshold tied to freight demand.”
Tavian:
“Yes.”
“Demand already climbing.”
“Yes.”
“So three months we get fucked.”
Ssilith made an offended sound.
Roman:
“Respectfully.”
Another sound.
Less offended.
Tavian slid a different contract forward.
Roman stopped.
Logo.
Recognized it.
Spatial luggage company.
“Wait.”
Tavian looked at him.
Roman:
“I got one.”
Mireya, standing near the rear wall:
“Of course you do.”
Roman looked at her.
“What?”
“That company issued a recall this morning.”
Roman stared.
“Why?”
“Skipped a secondary spatial failover ward.”
“My bag gonna explode?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“It may open into adjacent storage under null exposure.”
Roman thought.
“So somebody steal my shit through bag?”
“Yes.”
Roman immediately took out his phone.
“Where my bag?”
Nobody knew.
Worse.
Tavian rubbed his forehead.
“This is why you shouldn't buy random products because somebody made the advertisement funny.”
“The ad was fire.”
“The bag may violate containment law.”
“Still fire.”
Mireya:
“Where is it?”
Roman thought.
Bedroom?
Car?
Céleste's room?
Maybe Vaelora had used it.
He texted the group.
WHO GOT BLACK FOLD BAG
Céleste:
me
Roman:
why
Céleste:
mine now
Mireya looked at him.
Roman:
“Found.”
She held out her hand.
“Give me the address.”
Roman typed.
No explanation.
Tavian looked back at the merchants.
“Where were we?”
Ssilith displayed the interest rate again.
Roman pointed.
“Still no.”
Business continued.
Céleste arrived wearing Roman's jacket.
Roman looked at her.
Then the jacket.
Then her.
“You got clothes.”
“Yes.”
“Then?”
She put one hand in the pocket.
“Better pockets.”
Roman couldn't argue.
White fox ears uncovered.
No glamour.
She barely bothered hiding them in Floodline now.
That was new enough Roman still noticed sometimes.
Nyxara arrived twenty minutes later with a small Nhal-Moran travel case and no entourage visible.
She saw Roman.
Saw the faint blue-green stain still caught in one blonde twist because the heat-kite pigment had refused to wash completely out.
Stopped.
Roman:
“Don't.”
Nyxara walked closer.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
Céleste:
“Bird shit.”
Roman turned.
“Why you know?”
“Dessa sent video.”
Roman's face changed.
Nyxara put one hand over her mouth.
Roman:
“You laugh, relationship over.”
Nyxara's eyes watered.
Céleste:
“Which relationship?”
Roman looked at her.
Wrong group for threats.
Sera's doorway opened against the courtyard wall.
No warning.
Just a black slit in reality becoming a door.
Sera stepped out wearing black-and-silver club streetwear despite the fact it was not yet dark.
Long silver-white hair.
Platform boots.
Asymmetrical jacket.
Mr. Buttons under one arm.
She carried a paper bag in the other.
A customs receipt was stuck to it.
Sera looked furious.
“Sixteen crowns.”
Roman smiled immediately.
“What?”
“Import fee.”
“You rich.”
“Principle.”
“What in bag?”
“Food.”
“Declare?”
“No.”
“Then fee.”
“You're intolerable.”
Roman laughed.
Mr. Buttons vanished from her arm.
Roman stopped laughing.
“Where rabbit?”
Sera looked down.
“Buttons?”
Céleste's ears twitched.
She looked toward the garage doors.
“No.”
Everybody turned.
Roman already knew.
They walked downstairs.
Mr. Buttons sat behind the locked windshield of the R9.
Driver's seat.
Roman stood outside the glass.
The rabbit looked back.
Roman:
“How.”
No answer.
Sera:
“He likes vehicles.”
Roman looked at her.
“You made that up.”
“Yes.”
Mireya arrived behind them.
Saw the rabbit.
Stopped.
“Car is locked.”
Roman:
“I know.”
Xyra appeared from the workshop.
One glance.
“Absolutely not.”
Roman unlocked the car.
Opened the door slowly.
Mr. Buttons did not move.
Roman reached.
The rabbit's shadow bent in the wrong direction.
Céleste's ears flattened.
Sera's expression changed.
Tiny.
Only Roman caught it.
He stopped reaching.
Mr. Buttons looked up.
Then stepped calmly onto Roman's forearm.
Shadow normal again.
Roman lifted him out.
Held him toward Sera.
“Take your demon.”
“He isn't a demon.”
“Worse.”
Sera accepted him.
Bishop entered the garage behind Sabine.
His violet optic focused on Mr. Buttons.
The rabbit looked back.
Neither moved.
Roman watched.
Three seconds.
Five.
Bishop produced one low mechanical chime.
Mr. Buttons's ears angled backward.
Sera immediately turned the rabbit away.
Roman:
“Wait.”
“No.”
“What Bishop say?”
“Nothing.”
Bishop projected no text.
Roman looked at Sabine.
Sabine's mechanical eyepiece had narrowed aperture.
Interesting.
She saw something too.
Sera opened her doorway.
“I'm going upstairs.”
Roman:
“You just came.”
“Changed mind.”
She stepped through.
Door vanished.
Mr. Buttons's black eye remained visible until the final inch closed.
Roman looked at Bishop.
“Explain.”
The chaplain projected:
LATER.
Roman stared.
“You all piss me off.”
Céleste:
“Normal.”
Dinner became twelve people because nobody had planned dinner.
That was how Roman preferred it.
Cartons.
Plates.
Two kinds of noodles.
Grilled meat.
Something from Valedane Eirene had sent earlier.
Vaelora ate enough for three people in human form and still claimed dragon metabolism.
Roman didn't challenge it because he had Crusnik metabolism and therefore no moral position.
Nyxara stole hot sauce.
Roman took it back.
She took it again.
Céleste ate off both their plates.
Mireya arrived late, sat beside Elys when Elys eventually came in from a navigation assignment, and immediately forgot her own food while showing Elys a Continuity-traffic problem.
Elys ended up holding Mireya's fork.
Nobody mentioned it.
Gideon came through for six minutes.
Stayed forty.
Sabine ate standing near the courtyard heater because she was arguing with Ren about whether his traction software deserved to exist.
Ren:
“It learns surface variance.”
Sabine:
“It assumes sensor truth.”
“Obviously.”
“Then it's stupid.”
“Everything assumes sensor truth at some layer.”
“Not mechanical linkage.”
Ren:
“Mechanical linkage assumes matter remains locally honest.”
Sabine paused.
Roman pointed at her.
“He got you.”
Sabine:
“No.”
“He got you.”
“I am deciding how insulting to be.”
Bishop projected from beside her:
CHARITY.
Sabine:
“Stay out of this.”
Roman nearly choked.
Helena came through halfway through dinner carrying a folder.
Roman saw it.
“No.”
She put it beside his plate.
“No what?”
“No paper.”
“It is not for tonight.”
“Then why bring?”
“Because if I leave it in your office, you will claim you never saw it.”
“I won't claim.”
“You have.”
“Different paper.”
Helena took one piece of grilled meat from his plate.
Roman stared.
Family theft epidemic.
She read the room.
Ren arguing with Sabine.
Layla leaning back in her chair watching.
Xyra with grease still under one fingernail because she had refused to stop working long enough to clean properly.
Céleste wearing Roman's jacket.
Nyxara sitting too close to Roman to be accidental and too casually for anybody to care.
Vaelora reading something Gideon had put on her slate.
Mireya and Elys sharing a screen.
Helena:
“Where is Sera?”
Roman:
“Rabbit issue.”
Helena stopped.
That phrase now meant something.
“Serious?”
“Maybe.”
“Sabine?”
Sabine looked up.
“Later.”
Helena accepted that.
Also meaningful.
A public screen on the courtyard wall switched to entertainment news.
Roman recognized himself immediately.
“No.”
Cassiel's show.
A dramatized weekly series about early Floodline.
Actor playing Roman looked twenty.
Wrong hair.
Too tall.
Too serious.
Roman pointed.
“Turn off.”
Céleste:
“I like him.”
Roman slowly looked toward her.
She smiled.
Nyxara:
“He's taller.”
Roman:
“You both homeless tonight.”
Céleste:
“I don't live here.”
“Exactly.”
Ren:
“I watched episode six.”
Roman:
“Why?”
“Your actor cries more than you.”
“He what?”
Vaelora:
“He cried after the property dispute.”
Roman stood.
“No.”
Everybody started laughing.
Roman grabbed the remote.
Ren grabbed first.
“Sit.”
“Give.”
“No.”
Roman reached across Nyxara.
Nyxara moved the remote behind her back.
Roman stared.
“Relationship over.”
Nyxara smiled.
“Which one?”
Everybody had learned Céleste's line.
Roman hated them.
The show continued.
Ren showed him the mountain race after dinner.
Full screen this time.
No one else needed convincing because everybody knew exactly what was about to happen.
The footage came from Karsov.
Somewhere near the eastern industrial range.
Old mountain highway.
Snowbanks.
Rail viaduct.
Hundreds of spectators packed behind improvised barriers.
Cars were not clean.
Some expensive.
Some ugly.
Some armored.
Some rebuilt from military salvage.
One carried scorch marks on the doors.
Roman watched the black coupe from Ren's original clip dive into a downhill switchback.
The driver braked later than Roman thought possible.
Not supernatural.
Skill.
Roman leaned closer.
Again.
Ren replayed.
Mireya entered the garage.
Saw screen.
Saw Roman.
Saw Ren.
“No.”
Neither boy looked at her.
Roman:
“What is?”
Ren:
“Redline Crown.”
Layla walked in behind Mireya.
She heard.
“Idiots.”
Roman:
“You know?”
“Everybody who actually likes cars knows.”
Roman looked at her.
“Why ain't tell?”
“Because you just learned where brake fluid goes.”
Xyra laughed from under the hood of her own car across the garage.
Roman ignored her.
Ren changed footage.
Another race.
Different country.
Namarrian dock course.
Then Avarran ridge roads.
Then a Belisaran tunnel run with walls close enough to remove mirrors.
Roman's smile grew.
Mireya:
“No.”
Roman:
“We ain't say anything.”
“You're thinking loud.”
Layla:
“They're going.”
Mireya:
“I know.”
Roman looked at Ren.
Ren looked at Roman.
No need.
Then Gideon stepped into the garage.
Saw the screen.
Stopped.
“No.”
Roman:
“Why everybody saying that?”
“Because you're predictable.”
“I'm studying.”
Gideon looked at Ren.
Ren:
“Cultural research.”
Gideon:
“No.”
Roman:
“War region.”
“Correct.”
“Need know culture.”
“No.”
“Could help diplomacy.”
Gideon stared at him.
Roman stared back.
Xyra slid out from beneath her car.
“That's the worst lie tonight.”
Roman pointed at her.
“Traitor.”
Gideon shut off the screen.
Roman:
“Yo.”
“First learn your own roads.”
That landed.
Roman looked toward the R9.
Gideon saw.
So did Ren.
The Keeper of Roads immediately regretted his wording.
Roman smiled.
Gideon:
“No.”
“Too late.”
They were supposed to test suspension temperatures.
That remained technically true for the first nine minutes.
Roman drove.
Ren followed.
Layla followed Ren in a dull gray car that looked like somebody's aunt used it for groceries.
Roman knew better now.
Xyra rode passenger again.
Céleste came because she had nothing better to do and claimed she wanted food afterward.
She sat in the rear, which the R9 barely had.
Roman:
“You comfortable?”
“No.”
“Then why come?”
“Wanted to.”
Good enough.
The western industrial road stretched between fabrication warehouses and Airfield Two.
Wide.
Late traffic.
Physical lanes.
No spatial sleeves on this section.
That was important.
A red warning sign every half mile reminded drivers:
NO FOLDING / NO GRAVITY ASSIST / NO THRESHOLD SHORTCUTS
Roman looked at it.
Then at Xyra.
She looked back.
“Don't.”
“Wasn't.”
Céleste:
“You thought about it.”
“You not mind reader.”
“No. Your heartbeat changed.”
Roman hated supernatural girlfriends.
A battered dark-green coupe pulled beside them at the next light.
Driver lowered his window.
Adult.
Maybe twenty-two.
Work jacket.
Warehouse electrician patch.
Dark hair.
One hand on the wheel.
He looked at Roman's R9.
Then Roman.
“That's yours?”
Roman:
“Yeah.”
“Thought it belonged to government.”
“Different car.”
The man nodded.
Looked at the hood.
“Pretty.”
Roman's eyes narrowed slightly.
“Fast.”
“Didn't ask.”
Xyra covered her mouth.
The man's smile appeared.
There.
He had done it on purpose.
Roman:
“Yours look slow.”
“It is.”
Light changed.
The green coupe left cleanly.
Not racing.
Just faster than Roman expected.
Roman moved.
Xyra:
“No.”
“He baiting.”
“Yes.”
“Disrespect.”
“Correct.”
Céleste from behind:
“You're taking it.”
Roman:
“Obviously.”
Next light.
Green coupe stopped.
Roman beside.
Ren behind.
Layla pulled into the lane on the other side.
The driver looked in his mirror.
“Whole school came?”
Roman:
“Who you?”
“Tarin Voss.”
“Tin?”
The man looked surprised.
“You heard?”
“No. Name look like Tin.”
Céleste laughed.
Tin shook his head.
“Warehouse electrician.”
Roman:
“Race?”
Xyra:
“Roman.”
Tin looked ahead.
Then back.
“You know this road?”
“Yeah.”
Xyra said immediately:
“No.”
Roman turned.
“Why you—”
“You drove it once.”
Tin laughed.
Roman stared.
“Race.”
Tin:
“To west floodgate.”
Roman:
“Bet?”
Tin looked at the R9.
Then his own battered car.
“Your mirror.”
Roman frowned.
“What?”
“If I win, I get the little IX mirror tag.”
“No.”
Tin:
“Then you're scared.”
Roman's red ring appeared.
Céleste groaned.
Xyra:
“Oh, fuck.”
Roman:
“If I win?”
Tin thought.
“My jacket.”
Roman looked.
Old warehouse jacket.
Grease.
Patches.
One sleeve repaired twice.
“Why want?”
Tin:
“You don't.”
Roman smiled.
Exactly.
“Deal.”
Xyra:
“I hate all of you.”
Ren pulled beside them.
Window down.
“We joining.”
Tin looked.
“Prince?”
Ren:
“Unfortunately.”
Layla's gray car rolled up.
Tin stared at it.
Layla:
“Don't.”
He smiled.
Roman knew that mistake.
Somebody farther ahead recognized what was happening.
Cars started pulling toward the shoulders.
Not organized.
Not sanctioned.
Floodline.
A dozen phones came out.
One warehouse worker shouted:
“BOSS GONNA RACE TIN.”
Another:
“TIN'S GONNA TAKE HIS MONEY.”
Roman leaned out.
“No money!”
“EVEN WORSE!”
Céleste was laughing behind him.
Xyra tightened her seat belt.
“Don't kill me.”
Roman:
“Won't.”
“Don't damage car.”
Roman:
“Priorities fucked.”
“Yes.”
The industrial signal turned red.
Then yellow.
Everybody quieted.
Roman's hands settled on the wheel.
No gravity.
No fold.
No supernatural cheat.
Just car.
Green.
Tin launched.
Roman launched harder.
Too hard.
Rear tires broke loose for half a heartbeat.
Traction caught.
Roman corrected.
Tin gained a car length immediately.
“Fuck.”
Xyra:
“Smooth!”
“I know!”
Ren came up left.
Roman shifted.
Engine climbed.
Second.
Third.
R9 pulled.
Power advantage.
Roman passed Ren.
Caught Tin.
Céleste's hand braced against the rear seat.
“Turn coming.”
“I see.”
Tin braked.
Roman stayed in power longer.
Too long.
Xyra:
“BRAKE.”
Roman hit.
Hard.
Weight transferred.
Front bit.
Rear lightened.
He entered too fast.
Tin turned earlier.
Roman followed.
Wrong line.
Bridge seam.
Rear axle unsettled exactly where Tin knew it would.
Roman's reflexes fired.
He caught the slide.
Good.
But catching cost speed.
Tin was gone.
“Fuck.”
Ren entered behind.
Overcorrected worse.
Layla went inside both of them.
Roman saw gray blur.
“What the fuck?”
Céleste:
“Layla.”
“I SEE.”
Roman accelerated.
R9 devoured distance.
He caught Ren again.
Passed.
Caught Layla on the long straight.
She didn't fight.
She didn't need to.
Next technical section.
Roman braked earlier this time.
Better.
Turned.
Good.
Next.
Better.
Tin still had four car lengths.
Roman's senses screamed information.
Tire temperatures.
Brake heat.
Engine.
Road vibration.
He could feel what the car wanted now.
Less steering.
Earlier setup.
Don't attack corner.
Prepare it.
He gained.
Three lengths.
Two.
Final bridge.
Tin positioned left before Roman understood why.
Roman stayed center.
Bridge surface changed near the floodgate.
Old expansion joints.
Uneven.
Tin crossed at an angle that kept the car settled.
Roman hit them straight.
R9 skipped.
Tiny.
Enough.
Tin crossed the line first.
Layla second.
Roman third.
Ren fourth.
Silence inside Roman's car.
Then Céleste:
“Oh.”
Roman's hands remained on the wheel.
Xyra looked toward him.
Didn't speak.
Good.
Roman pulled over.
Tin parked ahead.
Got out.
Warehouse crowd already gathering.
Roman opened his door.
Stepped out.
Hair partly loose from the tie.
Red ring bright around icy-blue eyes.
Tin walked over.
Looked at Roman.
Then the R9.
“Fast car.”
Roman said nothing.
“Fast body too, probably.”
Roman's jaw tightened.
Tin pointed back toward the bridge.
“You still don't know how to drive.”
People nearby went quiet.
Ren got out behind Roman.
Layla leaned against her gray car.
Céleste stayed beside the R9.
Xyra came around the hood.
Roman looked at Tin.
Tin looked back.
No fear.
Not disrespect either.
Fact.
Roman replayed the road in his head.
Launch.
Brake.
Wrong line.
Bridge seam.
Final joints.
He started laughing.
Not much.
Then more.
Tin's shoulders loosened.
Roman held out his hand.
“Again.”
Tin shook it.
“Not tonight.”
Roman stopped laughing.
“Why?”
“You lost.”
Roman stared.
Tin took off his warehouse jacket.
Roman frowned.
“What?”
“You don't get this.”
“Then why—”
Tin tossed it onto his own car.
“Just reminding you.”
Roman smiled slowly.
“I'll take next time.”
“Maybe.”
Roman looked toward Layla.
“Why you second?”
She shrugged.
“I drive.”
Ren:
“Your vehicle violates three emissions codes.”
Layla:
“Lost.”
Ren became furious.
Perfect.
A warehouse worker pushed through the small crowd holding a phone.
“Roman!”
Roman looked.
Video already posted.
Headline:
FIFTEEN-YEAR SOVEREIGN LOSES STREET RACE TO ELECTRICIAN
Roman stared.
“Who wrote that fast?”
The worker:
“My cousin.”
Roman:
“Delete.”
“No.”
Roman:
“I hate democracy.”
Céleste laughed.
Somebody farther back shouted:
“DRIVE BETTER.”
Roman turned.
“Come say it closer.”
The crowd laughed.
He laughed too.
Eventually.
Roman was under the car.
Not because it needed him.
Because he needed to see.
Xyra lay beside him on another creeper.
Work light between them.
Roman pointed.
“That hot?”
“Yes.”
“Too hot?”
“Yes.”
“From bridge?”
“No. From you braking like you saw God.”
Roman looked over.
“You said brake.”
“I did not say attack the pedal.”
Roman stared upward.
The underbody was cleaner than any race car deserved after one run.
“Tin knew road.”
“Yes.”
“I was faster.”
“Yes.”
“Lost.”
“Yes.”
Roman turned his head.
“Stop enjoying.”
Xyra smiled.
Footsteps.
Nyxara crouched beside the car.
Violet-black hair falling over one shoulder.
She looked underneath.
Saw Roman.
Saw Xyra.
“Is the Territorial Executive normally stored under vehicles?”
Roman:
“Maintenance.”
Xyra:
“He broke it.”
Roman:
“Maintenance.”
Nyxara lowered herself to the floor.
Not underneath.
Just enough to look at Roman.
“You lost.”
Roman stared.
“Everybody know?”
“It's the highest-viewed clip in Floodline.”
“Been hour.”
“Yes.”
Roman closed his eyes.
Nyxara's smile widened.
Roman:
“Don't.”
She reached under.
Wiped a streak of grease from his cheek with her thumb.
Roman opened his eyes.
Nyxara looked at the grease.
Then deliberately smeared it back.
Roman stared.
She laughed and moved before he could grab her.
Roman slid out from under the car.
“Come here.”
Nyxara ran.
Roman went after her.
Xyra stayed under the R9 laughing.
Mireya entered through the garage doors while Roman chased Nyxara around a workbench.
She stopped.
Watched.
Roman:
“She started.”
Nyxara:
“He lost a race.”
Mireya looked at Roman.
Then toward the R9.
“Telemetry says you overheated the front brakes.”
Roman stopped chasing.
“How know?”
“I installed telemetry.”
Roman remembered.
“Delete.”
“No.”
“You all evil.”
Céleste entered behind her carrying food.
“Correct.”
Good.
Everybody had arrived to disrespect him.
Home.
Roman showered.
Washed the last heat-kite pigment out of his hair.
Changed into loose black clothes.
Left his shoes somewhere between the bathroom and bed.
Vesper settled on the back of the sofa.
The room was quiet.
Finally.
The wall screen showed the war again.
Karsov.
Another position captured.
Not Roman.
Namarra.
Humanitarian corridor negotiations.
Not Roman.
District Assembly ticker.
Noise ordinance passed with amendments.
Roman noticed the western industrial road had been exempted between midnight and three on designated nights.
He sat up.
“What?”
Dessa had probably done that.
Or ruined it.
He would find out tomorrow.
News changed.
Freeblood clinic.
Tavian.
Trade.
Valedane freight.
A short clip of Gideon arguing with a road contractor.
Then entertainment.
Roman losing the race.
Again.
He threw a pillow at the screen.
It hit wall.
Vesper clicked.
Roman looked at her.
“Don't.”
His phone buzzed.
Ren.
One image.
A map.
Karsov.
Road system.
Mountain route.
Red line drawn through the industrial range.
Roman zoomed.
Recognized a rail corridor from the war map.
Recognized another marker.
Captured Underclock supplier complex.
The Redline Crown qualifying route passed dangerously close.
Ren sent:
research?
Roman stared.
Typed:
fuck you
Three dots.
Ren:
so yes
Roman looked toward the war report still playing behind the map.
Same country.
Same roads.
One screen called them supply lines.
Another called them race stages.
He typed:
when
Ren replied immediately.
soon
Roman leaned back.
Vesper hopped from the sofa to his shoulder.
He scratched beneath her neck feathers.
Outside the Western Rooms, Sovereign House continued running.
Phones.
Elevators.
Night staff.
Resident services closing one set of desks while another opened.
Cars in the garage cooling.
Air-defense traffic somewhere far above.
People working.
People sleeping.
People probably watching him lose to Tin Voss for the nineteenth time.
Roman smiled despite himself.
Tomorrow he was finding that electrician.
After that—
Karsov.
Maybe.
He looked at Ren's route again.
Then the war map.
Then the tiny red road cutting through both.
“Cultural research,” he said.
Vesper clicked.
Roman smiled.
“Exactly.”
And somewhere downstairs, Gideon received the same map from Ren.
He stared at it for ten full seconds.
Then sent Roman one message.
NO.
Roman read it.
Laughed.
And saved the route.