The intent to forget was easily identified in Roman Fairchild’s room that morning.

He sat on a rubber carpet with the hollowed-out husk of a laptop set before him, the sleeves of his shirt pulled up to his forearms about a pair of charge-retardant gloves. Business card-sized components were spread out in an arc in front of him on the rug—box-shaped formations of screws and data strips arranged with minute precision beside each. In order to see them better, and to not lose the screws, he’d placed the pieces on three white plastic dinner plates.

Across from his perch, between his room’s two windows, his computer sat on a desk—a sleek, rounded screen on a domed base with a lifeless sensor eye panel on the top rim. The screensaver displayed the same weather as outside: low, misty clouds and a steady drizzle—both cast on the wall in fluid silhouettes. Typical weather, for Brewster.

Like most people, Roman found it easier to ignore disagreeable thoughts when he had something in his hands, even though what he avoided was potentially many times more rewarding than what he was actually doing now. Truth be told, Roman wasn’t nearly half as organized as this set-up he’d created. The rest of the room was testament to that, being composed of discarded clothes, a couple of note tablets—one bearing a hastily-sketched double-heart, labeled “Biology Project – Mr. Sebring, sec. 02,” smudged by a shirtsleeve draped over a part of the half-lit screen, a textbook on Post-Earthen Religion, and enough scattered pieces of hardware for to be its own computer. He’d only arranged his workspace the way he had to impress himself in the most meaningless way possible.

For the moment, it was working—for the moment, all was right with the world.

A voice with an unmistakable edge, but slow like warm water, came from out of nowhere. “Yo, there’s somethin’ on the Newsnets you gotta hear.”

The blue sensor eye on the computer had swiveled to life. The voice was that of Aodh, Roman’s CP.

Roman neither looked up, nor made note of his computer personality’s uninhibited activation. He was wondering when anything reported on the Newsnets was ever worth hearing. “What is it?” he asked. “Crux Hybrid lose another bassist to a sex scandal?”

The Newsnet audio feed had been playing for the past hour, but Roman hadn’t been actually listening to what it was about. He’d been using it to block out some noise from downstairs—noise that was accompanied by rhythmic beats of wood on plaster that Roman could only wish was the chugging of the old furnace. No, this was something else that steadily gained intensity like the start-up of an MRI that Roman remembered, stopping abruptly, only to start again, and rise in a sordid crescendo.

“Naw, man. You gotta hear this to believe it. Lemme turn it up.”

The eagerness that had taken hold of Aodh was curiously out of character from his usually steadfast demeanor. Whatever he wanted to share must be something important to the both of them, since the CP was usually rigidly respectful of his owner’s off days.

Roman glanced up. “Go ahead,” he said noncommittally. “But if it’s another one of those stupid AimRight pregnancy test ads, I’m capping you.” The ads he referred to were a series of once-popular spots resulting from the spiking pregnancy rates that had run out of witty innuendo about peeing on a stick. Even the fact the product bore the voice of a reprimanding nanny wasn’t funny anymore.

“It ain’t,” Aodh assured him. “Listen.”

He turned up the volume.

“—lasted over two hours in the first non-public meeting of the Arch House on a weekend in seventeen years,” came the voice of Rick, a well-known political commentator whose manner seemed to Roman better suited for a sportscaster. “According to several sources in Babylon, the call to convene came from The Camp itself,”—Roman’s eyebrows furrowed—“which I remind you, Jay, a call which can only be made by direct appeal to the Arch House of Parliament. What do you think?”

“Compelling stuff, to be certain, Rick,” replied Jayant, a younger man with an Indian accent, and a tone that was no less cordial. “Most of all, that the Progressives even allowed it! I think they’re desperation is finally starting to show. Whatever The Camp’s demand was, the Progressives have bigger fish to fry. They’re clearly trying to earn a favor.”

Roman was leaning forward, riveted by the commentator’s words. He was so absorbed, the slam of a door downstairs barely registered.

“That makes sense, but why would both the Arch’s sitting parties pass it?” Rick pressed. “I mean, why listen to The Camp? Why listen to an impartial mechanism? I hear you on what you said about the Progressives, but what about the Preservationists? Do you think it’s the Decree again?”

“Oh, definitely, Rick, definitely—.”

“Huh!” snarled Roman, snapping upright again. “Bullshit.”

Aodh lowered the volume. “What you think it is?” he asked. “What they doin’?”

In the four years since discovering Netropolis and the anarchistic underworld of the bincrons, Roman had become accustomed to wild and groundless political speculation that resembled kids fighting over their favorite football players. At the same time, having a system of government that used a war-game like The Siphon as its parliamentary stonewall-buster made such comparisons a sad reality.

The concept of The Camp as a secluded, media black zone had always fascinated Roman, an idea not trusted by bincrons, yet still accepted as a necessity of a nonpartisan entity.

That was the one thing about The One War—as called by the bincrons—that Roman had never bought. He’d always argued that the whole “impartial mechanism” thing was ridiculous, and the claims that The Camp was one was naive. Until now, not one bincron he’d held the debate with had listened to him.

“You know what this is, right?” Roman asked excitedly.

Aodh’s reply was innocently dull. “Another attempt to pass that Decree?”

Rolling his eyes, Roman hastily explained his take on why the Movement had nothing to do with what Rick and Jayant were talking about. When he’d finished, the CP was silent for a moment.

“Aw, c’mon,” said Aodh at last.

“It is!”

“Hell naw! That’s conspiracy! The Camp don’t have agendas bout’ nuttin. Ain’t that the point?”

“But it is in the constitution, right?”

“Yaw—like, by accident. The Camp can call Movements on its own politics.” Aodh hesitated—apparently he’d been running a search. “They really didn’t broadcast the meeting.”

Roman grinned in triumph. “See? They’ll probably tell us after. Can you find anything else?”

“Yaw, hang on…” He paused, still looking. “It’ll be between ten n’ eighteen tonight—damn, that’s a some window—standard Cloud size, location undisclosed…”

But before Aodh could finish, someone exploded through the door, making him jump and upsetting the motherboard so it tumbled into a formation of screws, scattering them off the mat and onto the floor.

“Fucking hell!” came an irritated voice behind Roman. “Does she really have to do that this early in the day?”

The door was slammed shut again. Roman glanced at the screws, and then looked up at the girl who had entered. Victoria Fairchild bore a sharp, serene face, a bald head hidden beneath a knit cap, and the pinched look of someone who had each of their appendages squeezed until whatever pulp had been underneath had come squirting out. There were dark circles under her green eyes—which in the absence of eyebrows lacked much expression—and her bony hips protruded from beneath the lifeless cloth of faded, fitted blue jeans.

“What, you noticed?” asked Roman, fighting the sudden spike in piezoelectric charge swelling against the cuffs of his gloves that had been spurred by his sister’s entrance. He bent down and began collecting the screws, not looking at her.

Victoria stomped over to his computer chair and fell backwards into it. “Well, it’s only shaking the whole fucking house. How do you deal with her being right downstairs? Even from my room I can still hear her.”

Roman set aside the motherboard and sat back against his closet door, shifting himself so he was still on the rug, but so his feet wouldn’t disturb the hardware. “By blasting Crux Hybrid, usually,” he replied, making an effort to sound as level as he wished he was. News of the Movement had excited him, upping his bioelectric charge—high already after starting the day in a tense, foul mood—and Victoria’s sudden entrance was making him spike. The charge-retardant gloves would only do so much. He had to calm down.

“As much as I hate them, I would not mind them about now. Crank it up.”

“Can’t.” He pointed to the gloves. “I’m spiking.”

“So? Do it anyway. I’m sick of listening to her sound like a fucking seagull.”

Roman glowered at her. In recent years, his sister had started acting willfully ignorant toward his condition. Sometimes, he thought she pretended it didn’t exist at all, treating him like some negligent friend who always let her down. It pissed him off, especially since she knew he had to do more work to manage his charge than everyone else. At the moment, her charge too was high, but she didn’t have to worry about frying computer receivers the way Roman did with his condition.

“What?” Victoria snapped. “Come on, Roman. You don’t need to be such a prude about it.” She shot him a fiendish, conspiring look. “Who cares if you let go a bit?”

“I do,” said Aodh matter-of-factly.

“Yeah? Why?”

Aodh snickered. “Cuz’ I dun want him to blow up ma ass.”

Roman laughed as Victoria’s narrowed eyes shot from computer to her brother.

“So what?” Victoria sniped. “You can’t pretend it doesn’t still piss you off. It’s like she’s totally forgotten we’re even here. And it’s gotten worse. She at least used to wait until we weren’t home or something.” Victoria looked at Aodh as she said this—her words were directed at Roman, and her tone seemed intended for someone beneath the floor.

“It does piss me off,” Roman offered.

“Then come on,” Victoria chided. “Let go a little—.”

“No, Victoria! Until you came in, I was able to ignore it just fine.” Roman wanted to add that if she hadn’t entered the way she did, he’d be less worried about inadvertently setting fire to the house, but passivity of that nature was her territory.

“Then why are you spiking? Have you found something new to be upset about?”

As his sister spoke, Roman doubled over like an out-of-breath jogger, hunching his shoulders as if trying to physically push out the charge, then reached for the motherboard.

“Just an in-between day,” he said mildly, fixing one the visuals card into its slot and reaching for his philipshead.

“Bullshit. You’ve been like this every day for the past month!”

“People have bad months all the time.” Roman’s voice bore a zen-like calm—he kept his tone general. Victoria’s goading was really starting to grate, but he’d managed to wrestle his charge into a manageable state and wanted to keep it that way.

“And how would you? You hardly ever fucking leave your room when you’re not at school. The hell would be so emotionally traumatic that would sideline you for a month?”

Roman wondered if Victoria had caught the contradiction in her question and longed to call her on it. Nonetheless, he resisted. He knew Victoria had come in seeking some kind of reprieve, whether it was spreading her mood around, or taking the opportunity to nag Roman about something that had been bothering her for a while.

Not about to give in now, he adopted a stubborn tone, hoping that his refusal to fight would diffuse her. “Can you just drop it?”

“Sure!” Victoria threw up her hands in defeat. “Fine. I was just asking.”

Roman felt her scathing look through his hair—his head was down, securing the visual card—and inwardly congratulated himself for holding out. He fixed his attention to the motherboard once again, hoping that soon she’d give up and leave him be.