Through the speaking tube from the Third Gate platform came Ada Morland’s voice, loud, clear, and utterly unapologetic. “Pella? You listening, lass?”
Pella took the brass horn with trembling fingers. “I’m here, Ada.”
“That drop saved my pipe hub,” Ada said plainly. “Ten seconds more of that magnetic-pull surge. The lead collar on this bypass would have blown right into my lap. You pulled your tab on the exact second that field skill demanded. Don’t let any academy idiot tell you that stopping was a mistake. You gave us our lives, and you gave the city its breath. Now drink your tea. Because we’ve still got twenty-two minutes on my watch, and I want that boy off that platform before I pack my wrenches.”
Jo Saye’s voice came through from the staging deck: “Sleeve Beta is resting at sixty pounds, Pella. We’re in the green margin. Martin’s sandwiches are half-eaten, and Dima is ready with the sled. We’re with you, my dear. All the way.” Pella looked around the room, feeling the warmth of their solidarity wrapping around her like an unbending woolen blanket. The culture had held.
Beneath the low northern clouds at minute 64 and 05 seconds on the Courtesy Arch clockwork dial, with 26 minutes left before forced recall, cold mountain runoff carrying splintered pine planking swirled against the timbered bypass trench. It sent a steady rush of cold wind across the four-eye proof slate. Right at the heart of Full Courtesy Workshop Leadership, Ada Morland checked…
