The Icepick had been the Keller Tower, not so long ago. Built by an Ospie industrialist eager to bring wireless technology to Gedda. For a long time the only radio listeners had been hobbyists—many of them Ospies—setting up hack networks here and there across the country. Leading up to Acherby’s coup, if you’d had an antenna to catch the signal, the air would have been buzzing with party music and opinions. Of course, Aristide hadn’t. He’d been of the mind that wireless was gauche and lacked artistic merit.

More fool him, for not keeping up with the times.

He was frankly amazed the Icepick had made it through the fall of the regime. Its façade was smeared with graffiti—Catwalk train tracks, filthy slogans, Spotlight Lives—but it still stood, all forty floors of it, complete with gargoyles, scalloped arches, and the eponymous blinking transmitter tower. Keller’s name had been chipped from the arch above the entrance; he had fled the country, and nobody wanted to remember him.

The lobby had not fared as well as the exterior—it smelled of stone dust, fresh paint, and plaster, but showed none of the benefit. Plywood blocked off most of the space, covering whatever ornamentation might have made the entryway more welcoming. A few mismatched folding chairs were strewn unevenly across the marble floor, which was badly pocked and, in one place, shattered.

“Can I help you?” The young man behind the desk was round-faced and plump, much tidier than the rest of the lobby. His dark skin didn’t show a cold-flush, but from his fingerless gloves and the hunch of his shoulders, the initial shock of warmth Aristide had felt upon entering the lobby was only relative compared to the outdoors.

“I’m here to see Laurie Kostos,” he said.

“He’s still broadcasting. But you can go up and wait. Oh, sign the book?”

Aristide did, with a flourish, and headed toward the single lift that stood free of plywood or scaffolding.

The studio was small, which surprised him, but it was also very high in the Icepick, where floor space was at a premium. According to the directory by the lift, the station offices occupied several floors below. The single receptionist looked up when he came in and almost moved to shush him, but just then the red recording light flashed to green. Moments later Kostos came out yawning. The receptionist jumped up and took his hat and coat from a rack in the corner, giving Aristide a curious look as she did.

“Thanks, Marlene,” said Kostos. “Who’s this?”

She opened her mouth to answer, but Aristide cut her off. “My name is Aristide Makri—”

“Oh, Makricosta, yeah. I clock you now. You were at that memorial ceremony a couple of weeks back. I broadcasted live from there, listened to your speech.” He shouldered into his coat. “Pretty good stuff. Who wrote it for you?”