“Memory forgotten, even for a moment, is still a color of time.”

  – Render

  The alter dart trembled, its white sheen reflecting the light into Tristan’s eyes. He watched closely, monitoring the wind strings for excess quivering, as it slowly came to a still.

  Time, he thought. He saw that there were eighteen minutes left.

  Tristan held out his hand. He counted his alter darts. And he compared them to the ones on the piece.

  Seven on the One Body. Three in his hand. He reached down to the blades of grass, deposited two alter darts, brought over the third, to hover, unshaking, just above the eighth intersection of wind strings. With his other hand he maneuvered the clip open to connect the eighth alter dart.

  The ninth and tenth lay on the grass. They were yet unconnected to the gentle matrix, 2236 iterations of the original paper airplane. Arrayed and aloft on the grass. Unbroken by wind. A natural podium. A model as clear to him, as unclear as the image he always had. The wind strings themselves and the alter plastic clips, materials employed by every techist, unifying a most basic form with nature. Engineering into art, art into techistry.

  Eight on the One Body. Two in his hand.

  Given the way things were constructed, Tristan knew that placing the tenth and final alter dart would induce a slight vibration to the work before coming to a rest. The calendar had foretold zero winds, so the only external influence upon the piece would come from its own making. As he placed the ninth alter dart, connecting the clips between alter darts, wind strings, and grass blades, and reached down for the tenth, Tristan paused. Placing the tenth would mean completion and showing the piece to his father. It was always the last piece that had him wait, searching the outside silence for any final alteration.

  The wind strings quivered. Tristan blinked a few times and quickly examined the alter darts. A slight but noticeable upward movement, but his hands moving over them did not detect wind. He looked up, around him on the open plain, and saw—a hand’s palm facing him, from about twenty meters—it was a girl standing there. She had bright blue eyes.

  Their eyes met—she dropped her hand, turned, and ran. Her blue hair dashed away.

  Tristan reached out a hand and brushed a wind string. It twanged, and he looked down and steadied the alter darts with both hands. After a few moments, they stilled, and the grass held them.

  Nine. One alter dart remained. Time, he thought. He saw that there were fifteen minutes left.

  The Vyaedus Dorr household spires reached into the sky like lances from ancient stories of minstrels and queens. She could not see them clearly, but they glinted, reflecting the light of the sun.

  Eleanor was having original thoughts. She had not previously begun her Saturday, after having her body cleaned by the house’s Laconica spouts, sitting in their garden admiring the alter steel filigree on the front gate that would never rust because of self-restoration. She had not previously begun her Saturday comparing the hedges within the garden to the trees just beyond the gate, two sets of plants that, while natural, used bioterra to sustain themselves without rain. She Thought for Calendar again. Clear skies.

  “It is good to see the sun,” a voice intoned, causing her to tur around on her chair, startled. She had spoken aloud, a byproduct of wearing a receptor all day. As did everyone in the 23rd century. Mr. Tupil, the family’s gardener, nodded to her as he passed by, sprinkling the nearby emulation rosebush with water. The dispenser he held glittered. It was pristine.

  She smiled back out of custom. “It is,” she said. As far as she knew, the sun was real, even if the roses were not. Eleanor acceded to her family’s generous hypocrisy: having hired Mr. Tupil since they’d moved up to Plent from Might nine years ago. Back then, being only eight, she’d whined and railed at the improvements and severe changes to their living, which in hindsight were only positive with her father becoming a Netbanker. But her father, noticing she’d found the change from comfort to perfection distasteful, had employed Mr. Tupil immediately.

  She tapped her fingers on the clear, transparent table that carried her V-books for class. Even down in Might, they’d used paper books and had carried both physical and V-book sections in their library. But in Plent it was all V-books, and the sun’s light flowed through them.

  Coming here had also brought her to Tr’aedis, who for once was not home on a Saturday, or at least not responding to her Thought-messages. She had even walked to his manse an hour ago, and he hadn’t been home. So she couldn’t mire him in her petty critiques.

  Incoming Thought: Tr’aedis von Hiischklen. Just as she was thinking about him. Accept, she Thought.

  Have at you, Eleanor, he Thought in reply. As usual, in his not-alter fashion.

  Good morning, Tr’aedis. What brings you to my door on a Saturday? She hadn’t checked, but so many Saturdays he’d come in person to the house; greeting Mr. Tupil, and even her father if he could help it. So he was here today, wasn’t he? Making yet another gripe on the perfect society they shared.

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  I’m not outside, but I’ve discovered a rather priceless artifact of the 21st century in my parents’ engineering study. It’s probably more entertaining than studying your garden.

  Eleanor doubted it, but she decided to play along. I’ll have to stop by then, she thought and closed the Thought-feed. Waving a hand, she summoned Mr. Tupil and informed him of her immediate departure to the von Hiischklens’. She’d walk, of course; even though there was a portal between their residences. His towered domain was something she had to see every morning from the arched window in her bedroom; and the nearest house, in fact, along their street.

  Tr’aedis wouldn’t know the way she took. And that was because the few times she traveled that great distance to his house, he had to guess from the many two options available. She had to guess his route and take the other.

  Knowing Tr’aedis, he’d come out to greet her personally; either outside his house’s gate of perfect silver, or right by the portal. Eleanor, today, did not feel like guessing. They had been friends since the day she had arrived here in Plent. So she walked out of her own front gate.

  The tall, refined third-year student smiled at his followers and nodded to theirs. As he did so, his golden hair waved, and they called for his attention. Jaceus gave them excuses as he tried to shake them off, his smile reflected on their faces.

  “I have to eat,” he told them.

  And again, they yearned for his presence beside them. After much waving and consolation, they moved away, talking animatedly. Of himself, Jaceus. One who never had to step onto an Alterface each year; one with the best body-maintenance prescriptions, possibly through all of Plent and High too; Jaceus.

  He quickly entered the cafeteria, new faces and hands brightened and waved. He repeated much the same as he looked around the vast, elliptical space where the students would gather at midday to eat. Jaceus typically sat with different students each day to serve his admirers equally; but today, he was reading about a particular part of society he was still unfamiliar with, and needed solitude. So he sought out the one named Glid, one who forsook body-maintenance prescriptions, one who always sat alone.

  After obtaining his lunch capsule, he sat across from Glid, who didn’t look up as he sat down. Even if he were Jaceus, his seating choices were always honored, and Glid’s table only ever had Glid. No one would disturb him this morning. Accessing his receptor, he Thought for V-locker, Things We Do Nowadays, and then the air before him shimmered, seeming to unfold as he saw in both his physical and mind’s eye the V-book appear on the table in front of him, next to the capsule. Its cover was that of Din Dat Bin, a popular but inane novel for high schoolers in which a group of them traveled and saved the world. In case his followers happened to see what he was reading. He was supposed to be born here, after all.

  It took him a few moments to locate his place in the V-book, which he could never quite finish; the author would frequently update it as he read. Chapter 4, Techists. Section 1, the Major Techist Families. He read on. Each has succeeded from parent to child for generations since William Restor began the study and field, which has now become a dominant form of entertainment alongside V-movies and raiders. He then saw named subsections for each of the families: Rin, De Mai, Chibio, and Mott. Focusing his eyes on each name would open the corresponding text, which he did:

  Rin

  District A. Distinctive motifs for the AI populations of Sector I (no longer around). Highly populated Exhibits that reach more than 2,000 visitors each month.

  De Mai

  District F. Constructions look easily made but are some of the most complex among the families that stymie visitors (in a good way) each month.

  Chibio

  District T. Resist the norm, which has only been recently challenged in High’s current art movement of NO-VR with their works that attempt to recall that generation. Not many visitors (unsurprising), but some are still around.

  Mott

  District Q. Headed by Meliodas, surviving his spouse Isabelle and speared by the child prodigy Tristan. Figuratively, the brilliant family has always used ideas that are simple, yet symbolically potent, from the concept to the piece itself. Tristan attends William Restor High.

  The school was founded by William Restor, which was where he attended. Jaceus did not recognize the name: Tristan Mott. But thankfully, he was sitting next to Glid who knew everyone in the school by their face and name––although for purposes he did not know.

  He looked over to Glid. The boy was scrutinizing his Thoughtpad, hands away but eyes only a few centimeters from the screen, and was very rapidly switching between his proximity to the screen and sipping from his silverlight—a mere imitation of Plent’s firesimmer, but which students at a Might school took to be the real drink.

  Jaceus put a hand on Glid’s shoulder.

  “Jaceus, thanks for sitting here,” Glid said without looking up.

  “You are most welcome, Glid. I have a small question––are you familiar with the techist Tristan Mott here?”

  Paradoxically, techists were treated like royalty at Exhibitions, but not so at Restor, for had Tristan received such attention, Jaceus would have noticed.

  Glid nodded, still without facing him. “No, but he’s been doing techist work. His dad’s Meliodas Mott, you know.”

  As he had read. While he was not familiar with Meliodas, he knew what he could do next to further his research of the Mott techist family. He also knew how he could continue his work generally on learning about––about where he lived now.

  He removed his hand from the youth’s shoulder. “Thank you, Glid. You can return to your duties.” He smiled at him, but again, Glid did not look back, the page on his Thoughtpad moving down swiftly.

  Jaceus almost sighed, but stifled it and, looking down at the V-book, Thought for Next Exhibition while focusing his gaze on Mott. A space opened up between the small paragraph and the words further down, and a new line of text appeared:

  The next Exhibition featuring the Motts will be held in District Q this coming Sunday. Thoughtcode 2424 for registration.

  Only five days––well, so soon. Jaceus Thought via his receptor 2424 and proceeded to secure his position.

  Eleanor’s theme - “Passcode 4854” by Yasuda Rei, released on her 2014 album Will