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 windstrings for excess quivering, as it slowly came to a still.

Seven. Three remaining. He reached down to the level grass, where he knelt and selected one of the alter darts. He brought it over, to hover without shaking, just above the eighth intersection of windstrings. With his other hand, he maneuvered the clip open to connect the eighth alter dart.

Father was brilliant. To create his next project’s idea so soon after the previous Exhibition: alter darts. Ten of them. Simplifications of the aerodynamic form. Arrayed in a gentle matrix of windstrings, held aloft by clips, unbroken by wind, connected to the blades of grass on the natural podium. The windstrings themselves and the clips of alter plastic, a material employed by every techist, unifying a most basic form with nature. As alter darts were an engineering feat, the collective whole was an artistic work, named the One Body as a systemic manifestation of the two realms whose union embodied the field of techistry.

Eight. Two remaining.

Given the construction of the matrix of windstrings, Tristan knew that placing the tenth and final alter dart would induce a slight vibration to the work, before stilling. As established by the calendar, winds were at zero speed at this hour, 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, windstrings, 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 influence.

The windstrings 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 off—it was a girl standing there and she had bright blue eyes and she was raising her hand.

When their eyes met, she dropped her hand, turned, and ran.

Tristan reached out a hand, and brushed a windstring. It twanged audibly, 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 remaining. He Thought for the time: 11:45 AM. He still had fifteen minutes before contacting Father to come to the field and review the piece. As he reached down for the last alter dart, he imagined Father nodding in approval, and smiling.

The Vyaedus Dorr household spires reached into the sky like a series of lances from ancient stories of minstrels and queens. She could not make them out in much detail, but they glinted to reflect the light of the sun.

Eleanor Vyaedus Dorr was having original thoughts. She had not previously begun her Saturday, after having her body cleaned by the house’s Laconica bathroom, by sitting in their garden admiring the alter steel filigree on the front gate, which would never rust or blemish with its self-restoration technology. She had not previously begun her Saturday, comparing the hedges within the garden to the trees just beyond the house, two sets of plants that, while natural, used bioterra technology to sustain without rain. And the calendar today had indicated none.

“It is good to see the sun,” a voice intoned, and she turned 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 used, of course, did not rust either.

She smiled back out of custom. “It is,” she said. The sun, at least, was real; she had never seen a real rose. It also did not require water, but Eleanor acceded to her family’s greatest 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 changes with her father becoming a Netbanker. But her father, noticing that she’d found the change from comfort to perfection uncomfortable, had employed Mr. Tupil right away.

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 had both physical and V-book sections in their library, she remembered. But in Plent it was all V-book, and the sun’s light almost shone through the three on the table in front of her. 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 house an hour ago and he hadn’t been home. She felt like miring him in her petty complaints.

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, not speaking like a normal person.

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; greet 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 together.

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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 watching your garden.

It certainly was not, but Eleanor 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 Hiischklen household. She’d walk, of course, even though there was a portal between their houses. His own towered domain was quite literally in sight, 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’d guess from the great number of two options available for the route, which one she took, and she’d try to outguess him and take the other.

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

The tall, refined third year student smiled at his followers and nodded to their smiles. 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, and new faces and hands brightened and waved for his smiles. 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 and so always sat alone.

After obtaining his lunch capsule, he took his seat across from Glid, who didn’t look up as he sat down. Even if he were Jaceus, his seating choices were always honored. 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. Only 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, its being a journovel which would update itself as the journovelist did. 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 of course a dominant form of entertainment alongside V-movies and raider. He then saw named subsections for each of the families: Rin, De Mai, Chibio, Mott. Focusing his eyes on each name would open the corresponding text, which he did so:

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

Chibio

District T. Resist the norm, that 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 still around, it seems.

Mott

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

Where he was currently, and the school founded by William Restor himself. Jaceus did not recognize the name Tristan Mott. But thankfully, he was sitting next to Glid, who knew everyone by face and name in the school––although for which 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 close 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 in the journovel. While he was not familiar with Meliodas, he knew what he could do next to further his research of this techist family, here in this district, and continue his work generally on learning about his––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 in five days––well, so soon. Jaceus Thought via his receptor 2424 and proceeded to secure his position.