The hall outside City Hall smells of floor wax and freshly cleaned coats.

  Tables have been lined into a long corridor, each covered with white cloth that still carries the fold marks from storage. A banner hangs from the second level: YOUTH INVENTION REVIEW – SERVICE THROUGH INGENUITY. A clerk in a blue sash checks names on a board, sticks paper badges to our sleeves, and gives a small encouraging smile to every child who looks up at him.

  Mother adjusts my collar with quick, efficient fingers.

  "Stand tall," she says. "You're already short—don't help them forget you."

  Father studies the room as if measuring it for repairs.

  "Speak clearly," he adds.

  I nod and try not to scratch the badge.

  My table stands near the windows where the afternoon light shows every fingerprint on the glass. The fan controller sits in its brushed aluminum box. Two sensors rest on a wire stand Father bent straight after three attempts. The noteputer is open, numbers walking across the screen in tidy rows.

  The nobles' sons arrive with escorts who carry their coats and their inventions. Their projects shine under printed signs. One displays a small dronelike thing that bows on command. Another presents a purifier with a family crest etched deep enough to catch dust. They speak the way people do when they have practiced.

  Instructor Ren moves along the aisle with a clipboard. He reaches my table without greeting, the same way he enters a classroom.

  "We are going to do functionality test now, power cycle," he says.

  I press the button. The fan spins, pauses, spins again, following the pattern as intended. Ren bends closer, listening to the bearings.

  "Failure mode?"

  "If the sensors misalign for ten seconds, it shuts down and flashes yellow," I answer. "Manual override stays active."

  "Is that the whole code shown there?"

  "Yes. Written on my father's noteputer."

  His pen scratches once. I cannot read the mark. He is already at the next table.

  The review committee arrives in dark suits that fit like uniforms. Their faces are practiced—no surprise, no boredom. A woman with steel-rim glasses touches my sensor with a careful fingertip.

  "Application?" she asks. Her tone is precise, the kind used by people who expect short answers.

  "Barracks and workshops," I say. "Anywhere the air changes faster than people notice."

  She tilts her head. "Explain."

  "Smog mornings. Engine bays before lunch. Classrooms with forty children and one window. Toilets." I maintain my no-nonsense bearing.

  She shows no reaction to the joke. Her pen scratches across the form. "Military value?"

  "Cleaner machines," I say. "Workers who stay awake. Fewer sick days."

  The corner of her mouth tugs up.

  She steps aside for the next official, a thin man with a Party pin polished smooth from years of fingers touching it. He studies the controller, then studies me.

  "Why did you build this, if I may ask?" he asks with a friendly smile.

  Father shifts his weight behind me. The question is heavier than the others.

  I keep my voice level.

  "I like problems that are fun to solve and making things better. This one was for our own kitchen window."

  He waits. I don't add anything.

  "Who helped you?"

  "My parents made space and bought me the material," I answer. "Instructor Ren answered questions. I did the rest."

  "On whose machine?"

  "My father's noteputer and my own workbench."

  He glances at Father, then back at me. "You understand this will be inspected."

  "Yes, Comrade."

  His pen makes a small mark that could mean anything.

  Another official leans in, older, fingers stained with ink.

  "And how is the power reliability?"

  "Two paths," I say. "Primary from plugs, secondary from a small cell. If the grid blacks out, the fan finishes its cycle."

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  "Cost per unit?"

  "Under twelve yuan in tens. Under eight in thousands."

  He gives a short, condescending chuckle. "Everyone promises thousands. Who builds thousands?"

  "Whoever needs people to keep working," I answer.

  Mother's hand touches my shoulder once—light, quick: careful.

  The woman with glasses returns to the table.

  "Maintenance burden?"

  "Filters rinse in a sink. Sensors replaceable with a soldering iron."

  She writes. "And if the sensor is wrong?"

  "It waits ten seconds if one is misaligned and puts out nonsense. Either it restarts and tries again or it shuts down and needs a person."

  The committee trades a look without speaking.

  The man with the Party pin folds his hands.

  "We have many similar products. What makes yours different?"

  "With better programming," I say. "I was able to reduce power draw to a recharge cycle of once every six months."

  No one writes for a moment.

  At the end of the aisle they confer in low voices. Papers move. A pen clicks. We wait like students outside an office, listening to our own shoes on the tile.

  The clerk returns with a tray of cream cards and a rubber stamp that lands heavy on the table.

  Names are called.

  The nobles' sons first. Their families clap with neat, measured hands. Cards rise in the air.

  "Jun-Tao."

  I step forward.

  The stamp comes down.

  APPROVED – EXHIBITION TRACK

  CATEGORY: TOMORROW-MAKER, COMMUNITY BENEFIT STREAM

  Mother presses my shoulder. Father exhales like he has been holding it all day.

  The clerk looks up. "Attendance at the City Hall Complex exhibition is mandatory. Further instructions will follow."

  Further instructions will not follow.

  They come in the evening.

  Two men in gray coats stand in our stairwell with shoes too clean for this building. One carries a leather folder. The other carries a patient expression that looks practiced.

  "Comrade Meiyu. Comrade Lian," the first says, reading while sitting in our living room though he already knows who we are. "The Confederation congratulates your family for your son's achievements in the Tomorrow-Maker Initiative for Collective Advancement."

  Mother offers tea after he finishes. They accept the cups and set them down without drinking.

  The folder opens.

  "Your son has been recommended for educational transfer to Liao, with a turnover at Yangtze," he says. "Recent conditions require quick action." He glances conspicuously at Father. "The City Hall exhibition has been postponed until further notice."

  The word postponed hangs in the room like a closed window.

  He continues. "Capellan law provides relocation for families of exceptional minors during periods of instability."

  Father sits straighter. "All of us?"

  "The whole family," the man answers. "To preserve unit cohesion. However, under certain conditions, minors may receive first departure privilege. Your son will travel on the earliest available lift."

  Mother's fingers circle her cup once. "And we follow?"

  "Within three weeks, pending documentation and space."

  The second man slides a page across the table. Lines wait for signatures.

  "This is considered a pending approval, not an obligation," he says. "You may decline within two days before departure of young Jun."

  The word looks gentle on paper and sharp in the air.

  Father reads every sentence with intense focus. Mother looks at me instead of the page.

  "Do you want this?" she asks.

  I think about the long path that led here…

  "Yes," I say.

  Mother signs first, neat and decisive. Father signs beside her with the loops he uses on work orders.

  The man stamps several different pages and hands over a copy of the contract.

  "Report to the transit office in five days," he says. "Pack light. The Confederation provides what is required."

  They leave the tea untouched.

  We eat noodles that taste of the pot and nothing else.

  Father folds the transit notice along its lines, precise as a map.

  "Yangtze," he says with a sad expression. "Big rivers, small buildings. It will be quite beautiful when you can watch from indoors without a breathing mask."

  Mother washes the same dish again.

  "You write every week. Not one letter less. Even when they can't deliver. I won't have to say what happens if you don't brush yo—"

  "I will."

  She looks at me with an expression I can't decipher.

  "Do you think you will fit in with the other children in Liao?"

  I nod to assuage her.

  Father clears his throat and tries to smile.

  "Don't get too snooty. Polished floors are still walked on."

  Outside a siren blares across the rooftops and fades.

  Inside the spire I file the day under the date, mark it with the appropriate tags, and then add a second tag: Conversation with Meiyu and Lian.

  Before sleep, Mother sits on the bed.

  "You are only going first," she says. "Three weeks is short. I've waited longer for your Father to propose."

  Her hand is warm on my forehead. I let her, even when it grows uncomfortable.

  A truck backfires in the street. A radio in the apartment below catches a song and loses it. The ground hums.

  The next morning, while accompanying Father to the depot, a poster catches my eye.

  SERVICE THROUGH INGENUITY – OUR CHILDREN BUILD THE FUTURE.

  My face is on it, smaller than the slogan, eyes too bright for the paper. It looks like they took the picture while I was answering questions. We walk past it without remark.

  At the depot, Kara looks at the poster once and then at me.

  "They made you look cuter," she snorts.

  "Impossible," I counter.

  Chen claps my shoulder while laughing.

  "Don't let them teach you to hold a wrench like a teacup."

  Several other technicians congratulate me while we work. My Father smiles proudly every time he is asked how he raised me.

  Instructor Ren waves me down while I am leaving the school.

  "So," he says, not smiling, not frowning. "They're taking you."

  "Yes, Instructor."

  He watches a group of younger students run in a crooked line.

  "You are a creepy child, Jun-Tao. Unemotional, or stunted in some way. I've taught hundreds. None were like you."

  The sentence strikes harder than I expect, not because it is cruel but because it is accurate from his angle. He sees only the surface I chose to wear, and I had not considered how thin it looked to someone who watched me daily. Useful feedback, delivered without polish.

  I look at him and remain passive.

  "There. You should work on that look," he continues. "Head Instructor Han asked for my opinion on you. I said brilliant beyond belief. I hope you understand what that means."

  "Yes, Instructor Ren. Thank you for your confidence."

  He lowers his voice, looking past the gate toward the river.

  "This world will be under attack by this time next week. Don't repeat that. I'm not supposed to say, and you're not supposed to hear."

  "Hear what?" I give him an innocent look.

  He studies my face.

  "Already better," he says, and looks away again. "They will want you useful. Useful is a slippery word. On Liao, useful can mean bright or sharp or disposable. Only trust the children. I know how good you are at manipulating them."

  "You have been a good teacher," I say, bowing deeply before him to make any watchers think this is a simple and peaceful goodbye. "Patient. I learned much from you. Goodbye, Instructor Ren."

  I will have to unpack this conversation later.

  He smiles at me.

  "Goodbye, Comrade Jun-Tao. Try to stay alive out there."

  On the fifth morning the shuttle waits on the city outskirts, gray and patient. Families stand in small groups, many of them going together.

  Mother smooths the front of my best jacket, though it is already smooth.

  "You look so handsome," she says.

  Father grips my shoulders, his thumbs firm on the bones.

  "Three weeks," he repeats for the third time today.

  "Yes," I answer.

  He opens his mouth, closes it, then tries again.

  "Listen more than you speak. If someone offers you something for free, count your fingers after."

  Mother laughs at that, and the laugh breaks in the middle.

  "Don't do anything stupid," she says, "or grow arrogant, or forget where you came from, or—"

  She chokes back a sob and presses her lips together as if holding water behind a dam.

  I recognize the shapes of their concern and give them the expected responses. They have earned that courtesy.

  "Three weeks," I say, and hold her hands.

  She puts both hands on my cheeks the way she did when I was small and feverish.

  "You were a good son before you were a clever one," she says. "Stay that way first."

  Father clears his throat again, the sound he uses when he is about to lift something heavy.

  "We'll be right behind you," he says. "You turn around and we'll already be there, complaining about the food."

  I nod as if the future is certain.

  A whistle sounds from the ramp. A clerk raises a board with numbers on it.

  Mother straightens my collar one last time.

  "If the bed is hard, fold your baby blanket twice and put it under your lower back," she says.

  Father presses a folded cloth into my palm. Inside is a collection of coins, warm from his pocket.

  "For luck," he says. "Spend it on something useless."

  I climb the ramp with the ribbon brushing my wrist. Each step feels louder than it is.

  At the top I turn. Mother has her hands folded tight. Father stands very still, holding her.

  I feel no swell of triumph, only a clean sense of alignment. The path I have been building—slow answers, careful manners, inventions that look modest—has met its destination. Gratitude for Mother and Father sits where it should: they provided space, materials, patience. That is a debt I intend to honor in practical ways. Affection is a different currency, and I have never been rich in it.

  The door closes shortly after with a soft mechanical cough. Through a nearby porthole, Tikograd's streets seem thinner than they were on foot.

  Engines wake.

  Behind me, a clerk begins calling out names, and I turn away.