Grey

on the cuffs, Ise–B, the back.

“Fanjor is off to another fast start,” said the announcer.

“He’s been in a zone all week,” enthused the color man.

“Go Ise,” said Mr. Cedar.

“Ise–B has finished the back,” said the commentator. “But Fanjor and his incredible quickness are already in evidence!”

Ise–B got out his sleeve board and began the left. Fanjor didn’t bother and just crushed the material flat, leaving two creases on the sleeve.

“Why isn’t he penalized for that?” I asked. “That’s not right!”

“Indeed,” agreed Mr. Cedar.

“He just guts it out with that speed,” added Color, as if he’d heard my complaint. “Fanjor wills his victories. They’re not subtle or graceful, but they’re fast.”

“They’re brutal!” I complained. “And they’re ugly!”

“Ise–B is close,” said Mr. Cedar. “He’s got a chance.”

“I just want him to beat Fanjor!”

A close-up showed Fanjor leaning in as he started the collar. While picking up his iron, he hit the steam and a blast filled the air. His goggles fogged so badly, he had to stop, and wipe them off.

“Uh oh!” cried the announcer. “That could be a costly error!”

“Yes!” I screamed. “Go!

Ise–B.

Go!”

“Three years ago, a steam-up just like that cost Fanjor the Northern Invitational,” explained Color. “That was the last major won by the veteran Matus before he retired, leaving Fanjor to dominate. Today of course, Fanjor is the veteran, and Ise–B, the upstart.”

I couldn’t believe it, but I was about to see Ise–B finally beat him! “Go!” I shouted, as Ise–B ran his Schiaparelli across the shoulder yoke. Then he flipped his shirt around and worked the collar.

“Faster! Come on!

Hurry!”

“It’s neck and neck!” said the announcer.

“I’d say it’s completely up for grabs!” added Color.

“No!” I screamed. “Ise–B’s ahead! He’s winning!”

As Ise–B finished the collar; Fanjor flew his Intel across the front. In another flash, he grabbed a hanger and slapped it onto the finishing rod. The horn sounded. An instant later Ise–B, hung his.

“Incredible!” said Color.

“Just incredible!”

“Fanjor pulled it out again!”

“He’s unbeatable,” declared Color. “And you could see it in his eyes. Right at the end, he just wanted it more.”

I felt teased, then crushed again. And it wasn’t so much that I wanted Ise–B to win, but Fanjor to be beaten, as if I wanted some proof

that good things

happened, if not for me, for someone somewhere. But it was just like the Tournament of Ironing Champions, The Weave, and Fiber-Con. It was always the same. It was unfair, just like everything.

“We’re going to go down to the boards,” said the announcer. “Our own very attractive Lindsay Beech is down on the stage with Fanjor, who—”

Mr. Cedar snapped off the screen. He worked on his sketching board for several moments “Watch,” he said.

On the screen played a rendered movie of myself in a radiant orange suit.

I stood in a generic-looking coffee shop of polished iron, black cement, and silver furniture. In my right hand, I held a black glass of what I assumed was cream coffee.

“It’s boxy,” I noted, unhappily.

“It’s the bastard child of early Ultra and Pure H.”

“Indeed.”

Holding up a finger, he said, “Observe.” He touched a few things on his board. Another figure, wearing black, entered the frame. He tossed what looked like a fist-sized rock. When the rock hit the orange suit, it exploded in a white flash, sending the head and arms flying. An instant later, nothing but a few glowing embers and a black spot remained on the floor.

“I’ll deliver it this evening,” said my tailor.

Thirteen

During the first few minutes of my trip back to the family compound, a feeling of regret began to swell in my stomach like a hastily eaten meal. I wanted to tell my driver to turn around, so I could go back to Mr. Cedar, ask him to design a normal suit, and devise some other way to stop Father. When I had thrown Love Alone to the floor, it had burned like a piece of paper, not a stick of dynamite. I didn’t want to end up as a fireball with my limbs flying across the stage in different directions.

Each time I was about to press the intercom button I came up with a reason why the suit made sense. First, instead of a smoldering fire like the tie, when the suit detonated, I probably wouldn’t feel much. I’d see a flash of yellow, sense a flare of pain, but then I’d be dead. Second, the power assured Father’s elimination.

Then I worried about the color of the suit. While the Adjoining Tissue orange was symmetrical and fatalistic, did I really want to end my life in an Ultra disaster? And more importantly, what would Nora think? My death would devastate her, but would the color of the suit and the ferociousness of the explosion contaminate my sacrifice and ruin our grey perfection? Or did the color separate my death from our love and protect our colorlessness?

Gazing straight ahead at the red emergency brake button with its big white E, I took several deep breaths, and tried to clear my head. I thought of how desperate Father was. I thought of Elle and the ridiculous marriage that was supposed to happen tonight. And most of all, I thought of my beautiful Nora and

the freeboot

and Father’s threats of violence. No, the orange was good. Father had asked for color and he would get it.

Then I felt the car slowing. We weren’t stopping again, were we? Pressing the intercom, I asked, “What’s going on?”

“A car is approaching from behind.”

Spinning around, I saw a shiny gleam on the horizon. “Is it Father?” He had discovered my plan!

“They have not identified themselves, but are nearing our safety zone.”

“Is the car blue and orange?”

A beat later, the driver said, “Negative.

Green and gold… MKG colors.”

I raced to the back of my car and peered out the window. Was it Mr. Gonzalez-Matsu coming to get me? Was it he all along? Or was it Nora? And if it was, what was she doing?

“They’re gaining on us,” said my driver. “I have orders to take evasive action.” After he spoke, I could hear a harsh whine from below as the engines began to overdrive. When they engaged, we would be shot out of range, and I would never know who it was.

Then a peculiar feeling filled me, as if I had just seen something. I searched the inside of the car, hoping the answer was close by. When I looked at the red emergency button up at the front of the cabin, my skin went cold. When Nora had touched the button on her jacket during Heavy Profit Camp, her finger had covered the bottom edge of both the button and the letter she had scratched on the surface. It wasn’t an F. It was an E!

The vacuum motors had just about reached their final velocity. As fast as I could, I ran forward, leaped, and hit the red button. The brakes engaged instantly. Baffles and airbrakes shot out from the sides of the car, and a large parachute was released behind. The force slammed me into the upholstered partition.

When I came to, I sat up and felt a spasm of pain shoot through my head and neck, like a long skewer had been plunged through me. I heard nothing. The motors were all off. Everything was still except for a flickering emergency light in the center of the cabin roof. The air was sour with the tang of burnt electronics and rubber. Then