Hangtime is the colloquial name for Ekstrē Maias, a floating frat house. Educational arks, like College, form a district three waves back. Students catch smog buses to school, and use the protracted amble to smoke loose Gatorettes they roll from crushed hibiscus leaves and Salt. Independence is achieved at fifteen years of age, then they move to Ekstrē Maias (if they can’t afford to board). Some will stay at home — or take apprenticeships around the fleet — but Hangtime is a common draw for idealistic striplings.

It has an annoyingly large, open space, perfect for outdoor activities. In the artificial sky, gliders drift on ebbs of airflow; hot balloons ascend, and hoverboards perform precarious loops. ‘Tween them, harmless lasers beam their light towards the ground, setting checkpoints for the daily race (arranged by seniors). On the fields — marked with sprays of white emulsion — half and quarter pipes create a sprawling park for skate enthusiasts. Swimming pools, with waterslides that rival the Island of Pleasure, cool the slacking sophomores and hide their copulation.

Despite their youth, they contribute to Parliament. There’s six, in total, representatives from Ekstrē Maias; three-a-side. Fresh Whigs are always staging protests — from their beds — about mermaid treatment, Foundry contracts and assorted fads. Children of The Union have bratty dispositions; hatred and contempt define their selfish policies. Elder politicians smirk and sneer at them, jealous — faintly threatened — by the attitude of duty they exhibit. Naive prospect yuppies are susceptible to blackmail, though; sexual misdeeds and drug use often ruin careers.