CHAPTER 2: Consequences

1.

"You get your violence from your father," Ma said hoarsely.

We sat at the Joe & Go, an outdoor café, in what was, no doubt, the busiest part of the Gloom. The table ran around in the shape of a square, hollow at the centre, and fitted with uncomfortable wooden benches, all occupied by foul-smelling men. A sign shined brightly overhead, dangling from two pieces of rope with the words 𝙹𝙾𝙴 & 𝙶𝙾! dotted in green lightstrips. Next to the words was the face of a bearded man dressed in a blue jumpsuit, and next to that was an image of a white, two-filtered gas mask. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙵𝚒𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊, the poster read. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚢!

It was a shooting event that took place in the City once every year, run by Jet Corp to test their new weapons. I’d never seen it, but I’d always wanted to. Mostly to watch the bloodshed.

In the hollow of the café table was a robot, another AI designed by Jet Corp. We called him Joe. He had no head; only a two-limbed torso that tapered into a set of wheels.

I’d told Ma about what happened the night before. I didn’t want to tell her, but she noticed my bloody bandage, and I couldn’t just lie. Hidin’ the truth’s as good as lying, as that dickhead Mylo said.

It was early in the morning, and the cogs roared busily across the Gloom. The smell of cigar smoke suffused the air, and the sunlight shone through the buildings around us: stores for weaponry, clothing, and food. People often dressed in belt-bound leather pauldrons, along with cotton T-shirts and chest harnesses, but today the majority had donned vests and shorts. To me, they looked like nothing more than wannabe scavengers leeching off hardworking raiders.

*Who wants coffee?* Joe said evenly. For an agency that created countless spaceships and interstellar machines, they sure didn't know how to make a good robot. Maybe they were better on The Marble. Not like I could ever know.

Regardless, I understood what Ma was talking about. She wasn't referring to my violence per se, but instead my lack of awareness when it came to being angry. My father had been an angry man himself. A very angry man.

I dabbed my forehead sweat with my scarf. "Yeah. . . . Shit happened."

God, her gaunt face, that waxy pallor, those chapped lips. . . . I couldn't stand seeing her like this.

She patted me on the shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I lied, not wanting to worry her. I sipped my disgusting coffee, from the equally disgusting cup, looking around at the disgusting people. Some discussed the Grand Fiesta, others hunting, but most were fixated on their payments (as was I). Joe bustled about, trying to get everyone their drinks. Poor robot just needed a hand . . . and a head.

"So what happened after that?" Ma took a sip of her tea. She seemed to enjoy it, 'cause she was smiling. Either that or she was happy to talk to me.

I wiped my eyes, still groggy from waking up not too long ago. "We packed up everything and ran back to Old Rusty."

"Old Rusty?"

"The jeep, Ma, the jeep."

She shook her head, smiling, though I could tell it was forced. "You really need to stop killing people, Ashley." And she frowned. "I know how the world is, I know your job, but what did he do to you? He wasn't part of their group. You know better than to hurt the innocent."

I peeled the band-aid off, showing her the wound. The purple in and around my stitch had deepend. “He wasn’t innocent.”

She grimaced and scooched closer to me, grabbing my injured hand.

I jerked. "Easy!"

She gave a worried expression. "Are you stupid? It looks infected, Ashley!"

"There's nowhere I can go," I said glumly. "No doctors in the Gloom, you know that. Once noon comes I’m gonna stick a Cleanser in it."

She scoffed. “Cleansers don’t work on infections, Ashley. This needs medical attention. Head to the City. There's doctors there. It's too late for me but—"

"Stop," I said. I didn’t want her talking about herself like that.

"—you can still make it. This could be fatal! I really think you should—"

I slammed my injured fist on the table, ignoring the burst of pain. "Stop! Okay? I'll be fine."

The clamour around the table quietened until all that could be heard were the steady twists of the Gloom-door cogs. Loud and grating.

My heart raced. Why did she have to be so dramatic?

She eyed me apologetically, then patted my shoulder again.

The people around the table stared at me while Joe sprang back and forth from his coffee station yelling, *WHO WANTS COFFEE?*

"What?" I snapped.

They started speaking to each other again, as if nothing happened.

I turned back to Ma and she was frowning. That face killed me. "Can we talk about somethin' else? Please?"

"What do you think Pa would say?"

"About what? This?" I raised my infected hand, inspecting it closely, thinking about what Pa would say. "'Pick yourself up and stop bein' a lil bitch?' Sounds about right."

"Your pa was violent, not stupi—" Ma started coughing, the coughing turned into hacking, and after a few seconds, she let out full-throated rasps . Wasn't the first fit she had; she was sort of prone to them, what with the amount of drugs she was on.

But this went on for far too long. "Ma?" I grabbed her arm. "Ma, you alright?"

Dumb question, ’course she wasn't.

She stopped, catching her breath, then drank her tea. "Ashley," she said softly, "Pa would want you taking better care of yourself. He died for us, to let us live a happy life—"

"To those bastards at Jet Corp," I said, clenching my healthy fist. "And for what? Because he stole from the City? Because, oh, he stole some Jet-Corp weapons and used them in raids?"

"That's not all of it." Ma cleared her throat.

"Well, it's most of it!" I fought back tears. Didn't wanna be a big baby in front of these people. "And now you're dying, too. . . ."

After a moment, she pulled me into a hug. Soft, comforting.

There was no better feelin' sometimes.

"Ashley," she said, breaking the hug, "promise me you'll get your hand checked in the City?"

"But—"

"Promise me," she said sternly. That glare, God, it could cut through steel.

I stared at her for a small while. There really was no arguing with her. Eventually, I sighed. "I promise.”

She stared at me questioningly. "Do you really?"

"Yes. I’ll let Silver know, but I’m gonna stick it with a Cleanser before heading out. Can’t stand the pain." I groaned.

Silver was out hunting allypus and wingboar, as he often did on break-days. No breaks for him apparently. That guy would do anything for extra cash.

"Good." She smiled and pulled me back into the hug.

When our discussion ended—and it didn’t last much longer—Ma told me she wasn’t feeling well and that she would head home. That saddened me more, because you had to feel sad about slowly losing your only remaining parent to something out of their control. Cancer was a disease which did nothing but reap, murder, and get out without bail.

Maybe the effects of Jet Corp stripping our planetary resources had something to do with her getting cancer in the first place . . . but that had been ten years ago. The ma I loved back then had strong, healthy muscles along with a willingness to make the world a better place. She loved people, loved me, and Pa would protect us through the harshest of winters and hottest of summers. Like a good father.

People in those days hadn’t nearly been as violent as they were now. The Dust had been a kinder place where people didn’t have to fight for resources. Jet Corp changed everything. Those heartless, evil fuckers.

I met with Rogue and Mylo at an old bar called the Devil’s Fork, a ten-minute walk from the cafe.

The inside was dark, like the walls, lit by a dim incandescent bulb and warm sunbeams climbing through squares of west-facing windows. One such beam slid across our octagonal table like a yardstick through mud, and within it the dust particles floated.

This had been Rogue and I’s hangout for seven years, and Mylo’s for four years. Silver had saved him from The Crows, a northern civilisation which survived off sex and the infamous c-word: cannibalism. I only found out about that after Mylo nonchalantly told me that his parents had been eaten alive.

Rogue on the other hand: She was an orphan. Had been ever since her father disappeared and her mother bit the dust. Her ma had been good friends with my pa. Rogue had a theory that her father somehow made it to The Marble, but that was all it was. A theory. 

“We need to talk about last night.” Mylo tweaked his goggles over his hairline and drank his Eye-to-Eye lager, right from the bottle. The smell of alcohol did little to hide his showerless odour. “The guns.”

“Not this shit again,” I said, sipping my water.

“What’s done is done.” Rogue zipped her jacket down and placed it around her chair, revealing nothing more than a white, sweat-smeared vest.

“We missed out bigtime,” he said. “Silver’s holdin’ us back by being too cautious.”

“He was right,” I said.

“What if other gangs go after them?” he said. “From what I hear, we’re not the first one’s to be sniffin’ around The Mopes. People all over the Gloom mentioned the Western Alps.”

“So?” said Rogue. “The point was the bluesuit—”

Mylo moued. “Oh that guy was so full of shit.”

She continued as if he hadn’t spoken: “We killed someone from Jet Corp. Whether he’s the son or not doesn’t matter. He got that blue suit, and he got those weapons, which all had the Jet-Corp eye.”

He neighed with disbelief. “Anyone can steal from the Big Blue,” he said flatly. “Hell, Ashe’s pa—”

“Don’t mention him,” I said coldly, “ever.” He knew not to do that. I’d told him on multiple occasions, but he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “What’s your goal here anyway? You expect us to go back to The Mopes? As if it’s not too late anyway? Think.”

“If the Big Blue treat people like slaves,” he said, “then wouldn’t that mean they don’t actually give a shit about their people?”

“What?”

“It would mean that they wouldn’t search for him,” he said. “It makes sense.”

I corked the bottle and checked the time on my Infrared. <<11:59>> it read. My chair screeched as I stood up from the table. “You’re not making sense,” I told him. “You’re all about the money. Get a grip.”

“Money’s what runs this joint,” he replied without hesitation, and I remembered that that was true. Jet Corp funded this place, this world, with both cryptocurrency and cash from Jet-EBC machines.

“We’re not heading back,” I said. “So shut the fuck up about it already. You wanna go there? Fine. Hopefully you’ll die like the rest of them, you asshole.”

“Can we relax here?” Rogue said. “Seriously, the week’s been stressful enough. Pop me a Blue Sapphire, Ashe?”

I did.

“If I die,” said Mylo, leaning back and finishing his Eye-to-Eye, “it’ll be in a room full of riches, and a ship full of corpses.” He laughed.

The worst part was, I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

Before I could respond, and I fully intended to tell him he was a sick bastard, the Gloom bells echoed into the Devil’s Fork.

Finally, pay-time.

“Oh, thank God,” said Rogue. “Should we head up now?”

She and Mylo would have to collect their money at the Jet-EBC machines, but mine would be wired directly to my Infrared.

Sure enough, my Infrared crackled with static, and Nirvana spoke: *Update available.*

I had subvocalised the words before they even arrived.

I opened my Infrared with the eagerness of a kid at a birthday party, but something was . . . off.

“What?” I said. Never in my entire life had <<BLOCKED>> shown up on my overlay.

“You okay, Ashe?” Rogue strode over to me, gawking at the display. “Blocked?” she said. “They . . .”

“Why have they just blocked it?” I raised my arm. "Nirvana, what's happening? Where's my money?"

A crackle of static. *Your provider—GLOOM—has blocked your rights of access. Please contact your Jet-EBC provider.*

Mylo pulled a couple coins from his pocket and tossed them on the table. “Guess I was wrong,” he deadpanned.

I glared at him. “What?”

“I was wrong,” he repeated. “About the bluesuit.”

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“Jet Corp owns everything, right? The Infrared? The cryptocurrency?”

I nodded. “So what?”

“So, they must have noticed that a bluesuit died on their radar . . . here, in the Dust.”

Rogue dismissed him with a hand. “Stop being overdramatic. It’s probably a mistake.”

“No,” he said, “it ain’t. Ashe killed that man, and now our money’s gonna suffer.”

“Excuse me?” I said. “I killed him? You were just as involved as me, dipshit!”

He shook his head and, after a moment, said, “You hear that?”

“Hear what?” My heart was pounding from anger and adrenaline. The mental strain to not punch this piece of shit in the face was overwhelming, so outside sounds were imperceptible. How could he blame me?

Regardless, when I ignored the hubbub, I recognised a peculiar, low-sounding thrum.

Rogue pulled her shades out of her pocket and put them on. “Where’s that coming from?” she asked tentatively.

A good question. I started towards the front entrance, creaked up the steps, and looked out the wicket window.

The sound seemed to be coming from the sky, so I looked there first. Right away, I noticed something long, black, and wide.

“Shit,” I said.

“What is it?” asked Rogue.

I opened the door, vaguely aware that other people in the Devil’s Fork had heard the sound and were waiting behind me to see what the commotion was.

“Move it,” one yelled.

I stepped outside, seeing that the streets were occupied by wannabe raiders, and leered at the sky. From behind a cloud, between The Marble and The Tower, a prow, then a framework of PV arrays, propellers, and a hemispherical cockpit, emerged. It was a spaceship of some sort, stretching more than a hundred feet wide and two hundred feet long. At the bottom sat a large blue eye.

“Jet Corp?” said Rogue. I didn’t realise she had been standing behind me until she spoke.

“Impossible,” a man from the crowd yelled. “Those bastards? What do they want?”

“This should be good,” another said.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out a Blue Sapphire, unwrapped it, and tossed it in my mouth. Shit.

Rogue took a step forward. Then the crowd headed towards the gates. I followed.