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the muscles. “Be sure to stand up straight. You
know
your limp is more obvious when you slouch. And don’t forget your lovely Commerce smile when you meet your new colleagues.”
    “
Mother
.” Aris shrugged away. “I’m not Commerce. No one cares about my smile.”
    Krissa clasped her hands together by her heart. “This new placement of yours may as well be a Commerce job. A receptionist for the Central Enviro Office . . . It’s so
glamorous
.”
    Aris couldn’t meet her eyes. It stung, how easy it was for her mother to believe she’d give up flying to be a receptionist in Panthea. But she was grateful, too; it meant she’d told the right lie. She didn’t know what Theo—or the Dianthe woman—would do to back up her story. And that was all she had right now—stories. She didn’t even know what she was really signing up for. But she knew what she wanted. And this was her best chance to get it.
    “I love you both. I’ll write as often as I can, but I may not able to visit . . . for a while. I’ll miss you.” She wanted to hug her father, let him hold her like a child this one last time, but his eyes were still mutinous. Instead she leaned up and quickly kissed his cheek.
    “Next time you write Calix, give him my love.” Krissa squeezed her hand. “You’ll make it through this separation, my doll. You
will
.”
    Aris smiled. When Calix left, he’d kissed her and whispered that he loved her. Then he’d walked away without looking back.
    She found, as she turned to leave her parents, that she was strong enough to do the same.
    •••
    The public transjet smelled of sour milk and old sandals. Aris found a seat by a window and tried not to breathe too deeply as the hatch closed. She strapped herself in, wishing desperately she were the one flying the great beast of a wingjet, instead of trapped in its bowels. Next to her, a man in a somber black tunic leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
    She turned to the small round window. A green carpet of trees slid past, dotted with clusters of bright white houses. Smaller wingjets, made tiny by distance, zipped beneath them in a chaotic dance of varying flight paths and altitudes. Soon Panthea rose along the horizon, winking silver and sky-reflected blue. From a great distance, the tall buildings and curving archways of the metroline gleamed.
    The transjet landed with a jolt at the wingjet port just outside the city. Panthea did not allow air traffic; all residents and visitors had to travel by land, in terrans or by the metroline, a system of sleek solar-powered trams that crisscrossed the city.
    Aris grabbed her bag and shuffled forward, penned in on all sides by the heat of bodies. At last, the gentleman in front of her disembarked and she stumbled out onto the landing pad, gulping fresh air. As she headed toward the far end of the port, she concentrated on taking smooth, even steps and standing up straight, her mother’s remonstration still echoing in her ears.
    A group of terran drivers clustered before their sleek, low-slung vehicles, calling to the steady flow of people hurrying toward the metroline platform.
    As she approached them, their voices clawed at her, loud and raucous. She clutched her bag to her chest, a poor shield against the onslaught. She opened her mouth, glancing toward a female driver. The woman was only slightly less intimidating, with her short, spiky black hair and leather pantsuit. Before Aris could speak, one of the men hustled her to his vehicle, sliding the door closed behind her and asking for her destination, his voice barking the words.
    “Five Cleo, the River,” she said. The city was divided into sectors based on proximity to the region’s geographical features—the river, mountains, a watershed plain.
    “That’ll be ten crona. You got money, kid?” He glared at her from the front seat. His doughy cheeks drooped to meet heavy jowls, and his unnaturally red lips were pursed, looking more flower-like than he