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breath. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I think meeting you here may have been a mistake. I’m going to leave.” But he doesn’t move. It’s not the fear, exactly. It’s something closer to curiosity, but of a strange, riveting variety, almost like weight in his limbs. As if it’s becoming difficult to move.
    â€œPlease,” Rope Three extends a hand. Chance watches it move toward him. “I’m sorry. I just think it’s important that we be honest with each other. I don’t think what I said should surprise you. Apple told you about me, didn’t she? I kill my drives. But don’t worry, it’s perfectly okay.”
    That’s not what the literature says, but Chance nods anyway, though it’s difficult.
    â€œYou might not have completely believed what Apple told you,” Rope Fourteen says, “but it’s true. There’s more to it, though. I’m very well connected. I have friends on Vitalcorp’s board. So I don’t worry about Vitalcorp, about the Directorate.” He waits for a response. Chance nods.
    â€œYou’re concerned that the fear of your Five dying may destabilize your join,” Rope Three says. “Maybe start a pathological depression. But that’s not all. There are things you haven’t told anyone. You’ve been working your other drives hard recently, skipping sleep. You decided a few years ago to join with a few younger drives. But you haven’t been doing a good job of saving money to make that happen, have you? So, instead, you’ve been working harder. Taking extra shifts. You’re taking risks. You’ve fatigued your drives. You’ve been stressing yourself so much that you’re not thinking clearly. And now you’re sick, which makes it worse. Right, Chance?”
    Rope Fourteen says, “Go ahead, Chance. Tell me the truth. That’s what we’re doing here, having a heart-to-heart, remember?”

    On the airplane, Chance and Leap have flown into a gust of ferocious turbulence. They’re both focused on their displays. Leap is quickly sifting through metrics. Autonomy, the guidance system, is making suggestions.
    â€œChance,” Leap calls.
    They’re hitting air pockets, and the cockpit is noisy. Atmospheric particulate levels are showing a dramatic shift, and a cold front they’ve been tracking is shifting in their direction. They’re definitely heading into a storm, but it’s spinning up more quickly than it should be. They’re also getting unusual electromagnetic readings. Things just don’t look right. They need a new plan, a new route.
    â€œWhadda you think?” Leap’s been asking about an alternate route suggested on the shared display. Autonomy is waiting for approval. “Are we gonna take it? C’mon, cowboy!”
    Chance isn’t doing what she should be doing. She’s not splitting her attention effectively. Something is wrong in the restaurant. Chance Three’s perceptions aren’t right. All of Chance is focused on Chance Three. In her pod by the reflecting pool, Chance Four is completely still, her dark eyes unfocused.
    The plane rocks. Leap shouts, “Dammit, do something!” But Chance doesn’t respond.
    Autonomy says, “The cockpit stress level is above the recommended threshold. Both drives present appear potentially compromised. Protocol S-Nine, initiated.”
    â€œFuck that,” Leap says. “I’m overriding.” She does. Chance doesn’t respond to the urgent request for confirmation. It subsides. Leap’s the captain now. She growls, “Goddammit, Chance! Shit. I’m not having an S-Nine on my record.”
    Chance notices her display changing as Leap accepts a new, less-volatile route through the storm. The plane banks starboard, drops suddenly through an air pocket, shudders massively. Chance bounces against her restraints. There are loud banging