He looked to be in his sixties, while the woman next to him seemed considerably older. Her face was so lined, and her skin so thin, she almost looked fake, like some kind of animatronic creation. No one looked that old anymore. The Austin autonomous region wasn’t wealthy but basic JuvEn treatments were cheap and heavily subsidized. Even the poor could afford to combat the worst side-effects of aging. Things were different in the Republic of Texas proper, but none of the poor there lived long enough to look like this woman.

She wore high-waisted, purple yoga pants and a very tight t-shirt with a faded print of a five-fingered Bart Simpson flipping the bird. Her hair was completely white and bound behind her in a tight ponytail. She smiled at Manny when he looked at her. The old woman’s teeth were as white as her hair.

“Hello there, young men,” she said in a voice that evoked the Platonic ideal of a grandma. “Hello, Topaz. Mike.”

“Skullfucker Mike, ma’am,” Skullfucker Mike corrected her as he came down the ladder. He handed Reggie, Manny, and Topaz each a beer and then found a cushion large and plush enough for his bulk and dropped down. Manny took his cue and found a seat. Reggie grabbed the cushion next to him. Topaz leaned against the back wall but stood as she introduced them.

“This is Manny Sanchez, he’s a fixer from the Austin region. And this is Reggie Sullivan, he works for the BBC. Manny, Reggie, this is Nana Yazzie. She’s our Eldest. And the less-old fart is Donny Farris. He’s a guest. And a Brit, too.”

“Wait, the Donald Farris?” Reggie asked. “The guy who made–”

“Visions of Blood? Yes,” said the old man. “Did you actually watch it? Or have you just seen a handful of ten-second clips in your media feed over the years?”

“Both, actually,” Reggie replied.

“Mmmph,” Donald grunted.

Manny had heard of Visions of Blood back in school. It was a documentary, released a year before the Second American Civil War caught fire. It followed two Navajo special-forces veterans as they organized a massive direct-action campaign that started in Sante Fe but spread throughout the Southwest. His textbook had called it one of the major seeds of the old U.S.’s collapse.

Reggie was clearly star-struck by Donald. Manny was more curious about the old woman. No matter where he turned his head, he couldn’t quite seem to escape her eyes. She had this strange way of staring at him, without really staring. It made Manny feel somehow naked and, vaguely, comforted all at the same time. “Nana” meant “grandma,” which made sense. But he wasn’t sure what the rest of her title meant, exactly.

“Are you in charge, then?” he asked her. In response, everyone but Reggie chuckled.