2.

When we got to the gates, they cogged open.

Despite being so much smaller and shorter, I managed to shoulder my way through the people. Once I made it to the other side of the watchtower, I could see (and hear) the bugship clearly.

The propellers roared with lurid blue fire until the hull landed in the desert, a stone's throw from the station guard. The cockpit shone under the afternoon sun like an abalone shell.

Voices spoke in the crowd:

"The fuck do they want?" A man.

"It's Jet Corp." A woman.

"Seven years. Seven years." Another.

Someone shoved my back and I almost tripped. I turned, feeling my muscles tense.

"Sorry," Rogue said, and quickly my anger dwindled to a spark.

I told her it was okay, and another voice called through the crowd:

“Outta the way!”

Mylo, anyone could tell. That croaky, irritating voice couldn’t have belonged to anyone else. He burst from the people and staggered past Rogue. He didn't fall, but he did prop his knees in the palms of his hands. His sweat-dampened hair flopped over his ears. "Fuck. Me," he breathed.

The people pushed out from the Gloom again. What caused this sudden push was a loud grating sound, coming not from the Gloom-door cogs but instead from the bugship.

The eye steamed open with white vapour, smelling a little like gasoline.

My heart raced. I couldn't stop thinking—thinking about Ma and Rogue and Silver and Mylo. Did I make a huge mistake? I hoped not. I grabbed Rogue by the wrist and guided her off to the left, away from the crowd. Didn't wanna get trampled.

Rogue's face was as worried as mine. Her brow was creased, and her gimlet eyes were . . . well, gimlet.

The crowd quietened.

A walkway buzzed down from the opening in the prow, where the eye had been. It dug into the sand, and seven people dressed in dark-blue jumpsuits streaked with black at the ribs ambled down, their bootheels clanking against the steel-plated platform until crunching across the sand.

All but two carried Gatling Guns: a man and a woman.

The woman had blue-tinted white hair while the man had black hair that receded into a widow's peak, his face long and sharp. They both had Infrareds on their wrists.

The woman opened hers. The holo-display was blood-red as opposed to bright blue. She pushed a few buttons, then a voice spoke, deep and ominous:

*Scanning area.*

The crowd murmured.

What was going on?

"All right," the man with the long face yelled, and everyone fell silent again. He lifted his eyebrows and a wave of wrinkles sprouted up to the hairline.

I thought about scanning their bugship, scanning them, but I didn't wanna cause any trouble. Didn’t wanna bring any attention to myself. All I could think about was Silver. Where was he? Was he still out hunting allypus and wingboar, or had he stayed inside in case these bluesuits spotted him? Yeah, that was probably it, that coward.

"So, there seems to be a problem here." He stepped out in front of the crowd, his hands crossed behind his back. "The son of Jet-Corp-owner Gideon Baxter has gone missing.”

Shit shit shit! I did my best to play it cool, folding my arms like a teenager getting told off.

“And transmissions show that the last place he had been was here, in the Dust. But, you see, that's not all. No." The man raised his finger, ambling across the crowd, not bothering to look at us. He gesticulated. "Our transmissions failed, after . . . mmmm, around one, two in the morning, not sure when exactly. It frankly doesn't matter.

"It's come to our attention that either the son of Jet Corp has been killed, or that he was taken captive by the likes of you folk."

Likes of us folk? The gall of this man. My face tightened. He's the reason we're like this, they all are.

"Or, similarly, his Infrared might have been stolen, but I doubt anyone who stole from him would have let him live to tell the tale. So . . . first of all, who's in charge here? I'd like to speak with him immediately."

That word—him—was presumptuous, but he wasn't exactly wrong, as much as it irked me.

Then someone chirped up, "Winston Sheffield." A woman.

I had heard little about Old Sheffy, the leader of the Gloom. He didn't seem to be around. If he was, then I mustn't have noticed him.

"Where is he now?" The man stuffed a hand in his jumpsuit pocket.

"He's not here, he's in the City," the same woman said.

That explains it.

"You're to tell me he left this place unsupervised?” The man raised a brow. “What are you, some sort of bloodthirsty scum, no guidance?”

A wave of anger swept the crowd, including me. He was right, right about us being bloodthirsty—well, in my case. But there were honest good people like Rogue and Ma and . . . Rogue and Ma.

A bluesuit fired his machine gun in the air.

It took a moment for the crowd to quieten again.

The man with the long nose smirked. “That reminds me,” he said. "The son took a pod, a military pod, filled with weapons and ammunition and scientific WIPs. First-aid kits, so on. This is the property of Jet Corp, and stealing from our agency will result in heavy repercussions. We haven't navigated it yet, but it's somewhere in this wasteland you people call the Dust.

“Until the son is rescued or confirmed dead, and until all Jet-Corp property is returned, your cryptocurrency as well as your city funding will be disabled.”

Everyone erupted in shock.

Shit!

"If anyone has any information about any of this, about the son of Jet Corp or the Jet-Pod,” the man continued, “please speak now and you will be greatly rewarded for your assistance."

"What sort of reward?" a voice quickly replied.

When I realised who that voice belonged to, my heart dropped. My skin swelled up with anger, and I balled my healthy fist until it ached just as much as my infected one.

Mylo.

He ignored my existence, not even bothering to look me in the eye.

He better fucking not.

Mylo stood out into the gap that separated the man from the crowd, scratching his own chin.

I almost shouted for him to get back here, but I was impulsive, not stupid.

Rogue beat me to it either way: "Mylo." Her voice was soft, no more than a harsh peremptory whisper, and I could tell she felt just as betrayed as I did. She shared the same look as me, but hers was much sadder.

The man shot Mylo a suspicious eye, and then the woman with the blue-tinted white hair spoke:

"Anyone that has info about Mr Baxter's son, Aaron Baxter, his whereabouts, or anything about the Jet-Pod, will be granted an offer of recruitment from Jet Corp."

Recruitment? Why would—

"So I'd get off this planet, yeah? That's what you're sayin’?" Mylo shook. I couldn't tell if it was with excitement or terror. He didn't sound scared, he sounded like a heartless bastard.

She glared at him. "Do you know anything?"

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I do." He turned around, slowly, and pointed at someone in the crowd. It took me a second to realise that the finger was aimed at me.

My mouth fell open until it was frozen. "What?" I crossed my arms. "You're pointing at me?" I did my best to sound confused—and I was confused, but only because I had no idea why Mylo would rat me out like this.

"She killed him in The Mopes," Mylo said, and the crowd gave out.

As if they'd done nothing their whole lives. Bastards.

"Mylo," I yelled. "What the fuck are you saying?"

"Sorry, Ashley." He grinned wickedly, then stuffed one hand in his pocket. "You killed the son. That ain't cool, and you know that."

I disciplined myself from punching him in the jaw. "You bastard!" I turned to the man with the long face. "These are all lies, he just hates me. He always has!"

The man cocked an eyebrow above the other once again, his hands crossed behind his back, staring at me with doubt. "Where'd you get that?"

"Huh?" I glanced at my bandage. Blood dripped out from it. "I. . . ." But I couldn't think of a good-enough lie. It was so difficult. "From a raid. What does it matter to you?"

The man turned away from me. "Check her Infrared," he ordered flatly.

Before I could respond, a thickset bluesuit marched over, his Gatling Gun bobbing loudly in his arms. He snatched my wrist and I resisted the urge to fight back.

There was nothing I could do. It was like everything with my pa all over again. I was powerless.

"Don't move, don't fight, don't try to run," the bluesuit said. He tapped my Infrared and navigated through the control settings. Tapped <<Advanced>>, then <<Locational Settings>>, and then <<Previous Locations>>.

The Mopes appeared in the seventh row, below the other locations Old Rusty had been to (where I had been). The Gloom was at the top.

“The Mopes, was it?” The bluesuit sent a look Mylo’s way.

“Yessir,” said Mylo.

The bluesuit pressed it, playing an hour-long soundless recording of my time at The Mopes. Another aerial view. My body was highlighted in yellow.

He skipped forward and got to the part where Aaron Baxter and I fought in the kitchen. He watched the glass digging into my palm, the explosion, and my anger. He watched me stick the glass in Aaron’s throat.

Shit.

I jerked my arm away and the bluesuit let go.

"It's true," he said.

The woman with blue-tinted white hair stood forward. She hit her Infrared, opening up a red map of the Dust. “Scan says the weapons are there, too. The Mopes. All checks out.”

The man with the big nose sighed, and the sigh became a half moan. He turned to Mylo. "What's your name again?"

"Miles Gunning, but everyone calls me Mylo." He wasn't grinning anymore. He was trying to look all innocent, and that made me—oooooh!—so fucking mad.

"Okay, Mylo, come.” He beckoned him towards the bugship. When they stepped on the gangway he paused, half-turning. "Oh, and kill her." He and Mylo began walking into the bugship.

The crowd broke out in rage.

"She's a kid!" I heard a woman say, and all of a sudden I felt a little more cared about.

But the terror of losing my life to these scum sent my heart into a panic.

The bluesuit who took my arm aimed his Gatling Gun at me.

"No!" Rogue lunged for the weapon.

They struggled, but he shook her off easily. He re-aimed the gun at me.

“This isn’t happening,” I murmured, but it was. Nothing could change that. I screwed up, and now I had to suffer the consequences of my actions. But hey, at least I could see my pa again, right?

The crowd bustled, hurling swears. Another bluesuit shot his machine gun in the air. This time the people didn't quieten; they loudened.

"You suffer the consequences of Jet-Corp jurisdictional laws—law 5.2—crimes of treason and murder against a military officer or a member of relations,” said the bluesuit, gripping the aluminium handles. “As a result, an order of execution has been issued as punishment. Any last wor—”

A bullet whizzed into the bluesuit’s neck. Blood gushed out in profuse streaks. He dropped.

Suddenly there was silence.