April Logan was wearing a tailored paper jumpsuit printed in gold leaf: a perfectly body-morphed adaptation of one of the more lysergic ornaments from the Book of Kells. It was just like April to wear something like that: costume as oxymoron. Gilded paper. Preindustrial handicraft warped by postindustrial machine, a consumer conundrum from the warring no-man’s-land of Cost versus Value versus Worth. And it was, coincidentally, quite beautiful. "I’m still riding the back of the Project," April Logan said. "The Project wanted me to come here, you know."