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Alandra.”
    â€œI don’t believe Alandra would do anything to hurt the kids.”
    â€œAs our friend, it doesn’t make sense to me that she would. But she is a Dirt Eater. I don’t trust them anymore, and she trusts them too much. I don’t want her to know where we’re going.”
    â€œAnd just where are we going?”
    Roan smiles for the first time since this ordeal began. “I had a dream...”
    Lumpy laughs, rolling his eyes skyward. “Of course.”

COOPERATION UNLIMITED
    PROVIDERS OF ESSENTIAL SERVICES ARE NOW ALL ALPHA-ENABLED AND WE ARE PLEASED TO ANNOUNCE THAT THIS TRIUMPH OF KNOWLEDGE AND EXPERTISE WILL SOON BE MADE AVAILABLE TO ALL. THE CONURBATION, STRIVING ALWAYS TO ENHANCE THE FOCUS, STRENGTH, AND WISDOM OF ITS CONGREGATION.
    â€”PROCLAMATION OF MASTER QUERIN
    T HE ROAD S TOWE’S SPED DOWN for the last hour is all new concrete and high guard towers. This highway is reserved for the Masters and their minions, while other ancient broken roads are left for the use of travelers and refugees, but there is nothing to see apart from interminable flatlands. Gazing out in bored silence, Stowe’s stupor finally ends with the sight of the forest of sleek windmills that signals their imminent arrival at the plant. She steels herself as she watches the spinning blades harness the infinite energy of the wind. She loves what the wind can do. From little innocuous breezes to paralyzing hurricanes, she and the wind share the same kind of force. Invisible, powerful, and often deadly. Stowe loves the wind.
    When the motorcade stops at the guard gate, Stowe suddenly senses herself being surveilled. Her eyes dart in all directions, but all she sees is a Gunther, peering through his thick glasses at a windmill transformer. With their half-addled minds, Gunthers are said to be good for only one thing: maintaining the power grid. They hide away like mice and speak like automatons and are generally unpleasant. Something about them makes her cringe... maybe it’s the large eyes behind the thick lenses. The city’s dependence on those pariahs is inexplicable and she’s wondered more than once why Darius granted them guild status. Though she continues to scan the area, it is of no use—the chill of being profoundly observed has left her. If that stupid drudge hadn’t been working there, distracting her, she might have found the culprit.
    As the convoy proceeds through the guard gate, the factory’s sign, prominently displayed over the entranceway, becomes visible. COOPERATION UNLIMITED. Stowe sniggers to herself. This should prove interesting.
    Before she has a toe out of the car, she’s surrounded by a dozen clerics and whisked into the entryway of the pharmaceutical factory. There she is greeted by a large, amiable man with small teeth, the factory Manager. She instantly identifies him as Fortin, the groveler. At the council meetings, he insinuates himself into every conversation, usually through some sort of self-deprecation. And well he might. Of the forty-one Masters, Fortin is the only one with the lowly title of Manager. His singular incompetence is the stuff of legends, the legends of fools. Even dour Kordan loves to mock him.
    â€œYou bless us with this visit, Our Stowe.” Fortin dabs his right eye with a cloth, but not because he’s been moved to tears by the sight of Stowe. The veins in his eyes are red and swollen, constantly oozing fluid. Soon his vision will become cloudy, then obscured by dark spots, until his sight fails completely. Whose eyes will they pluck for you, Fortin the Fool?
    â€œThe pleasure is entirely mine, Good Fortin.”
    â€œYou are too kind. May I have the honor of showing you our facility?”
    â€œI would be delighted.”
    Willum and the clerics change into white coveralls, cotton mittens, and covers for their feet. Stowe, in her billowing scarlet gown, like any good trophy, is left untouched. No