The plates were cleared, Isabella disappeared inside with a call from a friend, and Jeremy motioned toward the sliding doors at the back of the house.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get some air.”
They stepped out onto the deck, the smell of saltwater faint on the breeze. Beyond the railing, the Atlantic was a black sheet with silver edges, the moon catching on each rolling swell. Overhead, the stars were sharp, unblurred by city lights. Every so often, a moving speck crossed the sky—small shuttles, cargo craft—headed to or from one of the aerospace hubs scattered across the region.
But the Shafts stole the view. From here, two—maybe three—of them were visible, their triple-tethered structures lit in bands that pulsed slowly upward into the clouds. They looked impossibly far away and impossibly high at the same time.
Jeremy handed Mick a beer, the cold glass sweating in the humid air, and then offered him a cigar from a small cedar box. “Special occasion,” he said.
Mick didn’t usually drink or smoke, but tonight he took both.
They leaned against the railing in silence for a moment before Jeremy spoke again. “Citon’s a beast, man. People think it’s just the city under the elevator, but it’s more than that. Six Rings. Twelve main roads, like spokes on a wheel. CDF keeps it locked down tight—good for business, bad if you cross the wrong line.”
He took a slow sip, eyes on the horizon. “It’s a place built for people who want to get ahead. But you’ve got to know what you’re doing. There’s money, but there’s danger too. I don’t live in Citon for a reason.”
Mick puffed the cigar, the smoke curling away into the night. “Danger’s just part of the game,” he said.
Jeremy chuckled. “Spoken like a man who hasn’t dealt with Wilds crews yet.”
The pulsing lights on the Shafts climbed higher, disappearing into the cloud cover. Mick watched them go, feeling that same pull he’d felt from the moment he saw them out the plane window.
This was where the big moves happened. And he wasn’t about to sit it out.