Capillary Sun We were sitting on the guard rail watching suicides dive from the rooftops in graceful arcs. At times two would jump simul- taneously from opposite sides of the street, their trajectories crossing like elegant flares, bursting on impact. "That last flyer was twitching his legs," said Jaina, with a trace of derision. "They don't get much practice," I said She muted a giggle, then laughed with abandon. Jaina was a young creeper from the Shaker Tunnels, and I loved her. She wore her hair in poly chrome braids of blue and silver; a decadent Heidi look, popular with debutantes. Her lips described with black ointment, and her eyes were green like lacewings, churning in the evening light. We had met on a scurry salvage by the river. A sky ship had flamed out and...