When you leave the memory farm, you emerge into streets brimming with the strange energy of a long weekend and a compulsory celebration. In just a few hours, under pseudo-cerulean skies, the citizens of Counterweight will celebrate the sheer fact of their existence. But now it is dark and laborers are in the final stages of preparation. Neon cloth banners roll out over freshly cleaned memorial archways. Firework display configurations are programmed into the ballistic systems of decommission riggers. Twelve year olds practice the opening bars of our national anthems and wonder what it is they're supposed to happy for.
“You've two and a half days,” Orth says, ”Finish your business and get ready.” His vision drifts past you, up to a blinking satellite in near orbit. “It’s time to leave Counterweight.”