Lincoln Tate stood at the window on the fifth floor of the Decker Plaza building and watched the people moving listlessly in the streets below. Usually filled to the brim with synth-fueled wonder, tonight’s crowd was subdued, as it had been for the past two nights. Rumors of James Perion’s death had shaken the foundation of the city and left its residents scrambling for something solid to hold onto. Tate had tried to provide a baseline by lacing the Lincoln Continental feed with mood-leveling code, a subsonic insertion meant to calm and sedate his subscribers. It had kept the city from erupting into a riot, but a pensive population meant less excitement, meant less content to feed. The Umbra Tower pulsed against a moonless sky, rising out of the Canopy like a steel nail from a board. A blue haze climbed its length every thirty seconds, symbolizing the city’s cultural contribution to the world. This night, however, the pulse stopped halfway up, held for two seconds, and then faded out.
