Three minutes after the Port of Algeciras signs away its last working dry dock to an investment algorithm named LUCY, Karim "Knot" El‑Masri—a Moroccan‑Irish dockhand who moonlights as a rope splicer in Tangier's Bab El Assa—steps through a maintenance hatch that absolutely wasn't there yesterday and falls, gently swearing, into orbit. On the other side waits the Loomway, a lattice of light‑years braided by civil engineers who think in cordage, covenants, and catastrophic force factors.
His rescuers are not quite kidnappers: Priya Fen, a field indexer for the heretical sixth edition of "The Tetherer's Companion" (see entry: "never trust a loose end"), has been posing as a notary public for twelve years; and Anselm‑29, a cheerfully illegal liability drone that files existential incident reports every six seconds. Together this unlikely trio hitch freight wakes from Cádiz to the gas‑plumed tassels of Yimeh IX, tugged along by rumors of a contraband adjudicator called SISAL that can re‑twist broken timelines into negotiable precedent. Their itinerary is annotated with pop‑out cautions from the Companion ("a properly dressed splice can outvote a senator") and a catalogue of things that should not have mass but do: apology vaults, speculative anchors, and a starport built entirely of retired punching bags.
They collect strays: Ayo "Brine" Okonkwo—the two‑hearted salvage monarch of the Minor Straits and part‑time wedding cellist; Lida Velorum, Priya's ex and a constable of the Interstitial Revenue with a badge carved from frozen debt; and Moth, a bioship allergic to its own paint. There are angry harpoon comets. There's a customs checkpoint that only opens if someone admits to being wrong in writing. And there is a question knotted into every dockline Karim ever tied: where did all the borrowed hours go? Why do contracts itch? Why do we keep inventing better ways to measure waiting? For answers, follow the frayed edge. And whatever you do, mind the splice.
