Sage Pendragon's fingers traced the condensation on the outside of his government-issued canteen. Two liters of Aqua Vitae. His weekly ration. To most, it was water. To Sage, it was a prison of routine.
He had to be practical. Measure every sip. Log every use—drinking, cooking, charging his light-pad. Deviation meant depletion. Depletion meant desperation.
Yet, his imagination was a stubborn spring. As he walked through the dusty, muted streets of the Low-Sector, he didn't just see rusted pipes and faded ration posters. He saw the ghost of a river in the cracked pavement's path. He wondered what happened to the energy between the molecules of Vitae, the part not measured by Syndicate meters.
"Daydreaming again, Pendragon?"
The voice was crisp, organized. It belonged to Valentine Paxregal. Her boots were polished, her data-slate clipped securely to her belt, her own canteen full and precisely secured.
"Calculating hydro-static pressure variances in the old conduits, Val," Sage said, offering a faint smile. "Fascinating stuff."
"It's a waste of mental energy," she stated, falling into step beside him. "The conduits have been dry for forty years. The only calculation that matters is the one on your ration ledger."
She was right. He knew she was right. But her practicality felt like another kind of dust, settling over everything.
"The Sector Chief called a mandatory assembly," Valentine continued. "At the central square."
Sage's stomach tightened. Unplanned assemblies never brought extra rations. Only new restrictions, or bad news.