3.

We rode through the desert until the land turned blue—not only with grass but mesquites, juniper, lakes, and the Doc Goose River, whose reaches snagged under froth and meandered north.

I was so tired and wanted to forget the events of the day, the reason I was on this journey, and that I was wanted by the most powerful people in the solar system (if not the entire western star system).

Silver made a good point back there: We couldn’t trust any Jet-Corp bots. None. Not only because Jet Corp could use them to record, locate, and seize us, but also because the bots were capable of mimicking human thought processes, which was frighteningly advanced. It meant that they could be programmed to look for and trick us.

It didn’t make sense that Sparky would travel away from The Mopes if it was searching for Aaron Baxter. Then again, an AI was an AI; their actions depended on the programming, I supposed. 

At any rate, we made the right decision to destroy Sparky. I was sure of it. Listen to Silver. He’s an intelligent man.

I felt sick to my stomach as we sped through the Dust. The sting in my hand was numbing out, but that was more concerning than relieving. My condition was worsening. Would I die if I didn’t get to the doctor in time? Would there even be a doctor who would willingly help a fugitive/bloodthirsty killer like me? I hadn’t the slightest of an idea. If I were in their shoes, I certainly wouldn’t.

I felt a lift when we rode over the hill and spotted the giant wall across the plain. A wall made not of scrap-metal but instead of smooth steel, wooden arches, black-and white watchtowers, and an enormous blue eye octagoned by eight holo-strips around which a flow of words manoeuvred: <<WELCOME TO THE CITY!>>.

The City. A decade ago, it didn’t have a wall. The people must have upped their resources since then.

It sat beneath The Marble and blotched the bleeding horizon. We’d been travelling for hours, and the night was fast-approaching.

“It’s been a while,” mumbled Silver. “Ten goddamn years.” Three minutes later we were parked next to a black turnpike tollbooth (which was in serious need of polish), in front of a red-and-white barrier. The window was shut at first, but after five seconds, a long beep rang out, and it slid open. On the other side stood a slim android with white arms, black hands, pointy fingertips, and a metallic mesh for a head. No lips, no eyes. Completely faceless.

“This is new,” said Silver, wiping sweat from his cheeks.

*Welcome to the City,* the android said with obnoxious gaiety, *where you can spend your money, relax at our local hotels, watch exhilarating events such as our annual Grand Fiesta this Saturday, or do whatever you like. All we ask is that you don’t bring guns on the premises.*

“And this is very new,” said Silver with the disbelief of a poor man finding out the gas prices went up. “Since when were weapons banned?”

*Since six years ago, Mr . . .* The android spread its hands, waiting for him to finish.

“Silver,” he said. “Just Silver. And I used to live here, ten years ago.”

*I welcome you on your return, Mr Silver! There is a required scan, however. All I have to do is scan your vehicle for weapons, confiscate any before you come in, and you can be on your merry way!*

“What if we hold on to them but give you the bullets?” I said, thinking of Sammy. The idea that this city would hold onto my pipe-pistol didn't sit well with me. 

*No no, young lady,* the android said. *Any and all weapons must be confiscated before entry, see above.* It pointed to something above the tollbooth. I couldn’t see it from this angle, so I scooted closer to Rogue. Above the window was a small sign which read 𝙽𝙾 𝙾𝚄𝚃𝚂𝙸𝙳𝙴 𝚆𝙴𝙰𝙿𝙾𝙽𝚂 𝙰𝙻𝙻𝙾𝚆𝙴𝙳.

The sign had been tautly pegged to a silver plaque, and the corners were plugged with large screws.

Silver glanced at it, as if just noticing for the first time, too. He sighed. “Scan away.” 

“This is crazy,” murmured Rogue. “No guns inside?” She gave me a concerned look.

Yeah, it was crazy. I felt naked without bullets, without Sammy.

*Won’t take but a moment,* the android said, and its head suddenly snapped open, revealing a wirework of batteries, motherboards, and, surprisingly, a tiny bulb (though that was more than likely for engineers). What caught my attention more than anything was a pyramid-shaped outlet at the centre. Blue light beamed from the outlet and expanded into an enormous ray, covering the entirety of Old Rusty, sweeping from her roof to her wheels, and then back up again.

Once it finished, and it only took ten seconds max, the android’s mesh closed. *Woah-ho! You people are packing some serious firepower! Hand them over!* The order at the end was so passive aggressive, but considering that this was an AI, I figured it must have been reciting lines or, as Sparky mentioned, operating based on internal commands issued by what it saw. Whatever that meant. 

Silver ordered us to give him our weapons. We did. He gave away his rifle, Rogue and I's pistols, and her grenade strings, all in the space of ten seconds. Handed them through the window.

The android showed Silver its hand. A piece of foolscap paper printed out of a small slit in its wrist. The android explained that on the paper was the confirmation number (#3756) we needed to get our weapons back once we left. 

Silver stuffed it in his pocket as the red-and-white turnpike barrier rose. 

*Enjoy your stay in the City! And thank you for your cooperation!*

“Thanks.” Silver didn’t seem too happy about giving up those guns. Rightfully so.

*You’re welcome.*

Old Rusty rolled through the turnpike, heading into the City sluggishly—a roadsign up ahead told us only ten miles an hour was permitted.

The buildings were tall and wide, wrapped with colour-changing lightstrips and boasting billboards. Sometimes the billboards displayed holo-projections of hygiene products: 𝙶𝙴𝚃 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙻𝙰𝚅𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴𝚁 𝙱𝙾𝙳𝚈 𝚆𝙰𝚂𝙷 𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴. A picture of a female model wearing a bath towel and tying her hair into a bun. Other times they showed the Grand Fiesta: 𝚃𝙸𝙲𝙺𝙴𝚃𝚂 𝙾𝙽 𝚂𝙰𝙻𝙴 𝙰𝚃 $𝟷𝟿.𝟿𝟿! An image of a man in a white two-filtered gas mask next to a black woman wearing a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off to reveal arms that rippled with the sort of muscle that came from years of lifting weights and sticking needles in your ass. 𝙼𝙰𝙳 𝙴𝚈𝙴, the man was called. 𝙱𝙸𝙲𝙴𝙿, the woman was called. Go figure.

People of all kinds—businessmen in suits and bowler hats, outsiders in chest harnesses and leather pauldrons, and shirtless psychos—all roamed the flagged sidewalks, bustling to different establishments. I couldn’t believe that the posh and the countrified were able to live together without causing havoc. It was honestly . . . beautiful.

“Ashe?” asked Silver, speaking with haste. Old Rusty slowed to a stop outside a nightclub called The Funny Plonkers. “Can you scan the place?”

“Huh?” I had completely forgotten about that. I raised my Infrared and said, “What do I scan for?”

“The Underground Passage, the Underground Elevator, the Underground Alley. Any of those. Badger gave me a list of ’em if I ever wanted to come back here and had an Infrared on me. I didn’t plan to get an Infrared, let alone on coming back here.”

Yes, that was true. Silver had often spoken about his distrust towards Jet-Corp technology even before all of this happened. When I first bought my Infrared in the Gloom, he was wary around me. I didn’t understand why at the time, but now that I understood he was wanted (like me), it all made sense.

“Nirvana,” I said.

Static. *Yes, Ashe?*

“Isolate the City and scan for the Underground Passage.”

By the end of the scan, a big fat <<X>> popped up on my overlay, and a buzzer sound played. 

*No such location exists,* Nirvana said.

I tried Underground Elevator. Buzz. But once I told Nirvana to scan for Underground Alley, it came back with: *One Underground Alley located in the City. Jackson Road. Ten minute drive from the City turnpike, and thirty minutes from the Central Arena, at the permitted speed of ten miles per hour.* Then, after five seconds, it said: *Please take the closest right.*

Silver laughed, pulled out a cigar, and lit it up. He stuck it in his mouth. “Perfect.” And then he drove right. For the rest of the trip, he listened to Nirvana’s instructions.

As we travelled through the metropolis, Rogue scooted close to me. “You feelin’ alright? You’re lookin’ awful pale.”

“Huh?” I said, speaking in a breathless rush. “Oh, no, I’m fine. Just feel a little sick, that’s all. Worried about Jet Corp.”

“You and me both,” she said. “But, if they wanted us dead already, then they’d be here, flying over the City with their ridiculous bugships.”

“Did you see how fast that was?” My tone was somewhere between horrified and surprised.

She nodded. “Very fast. It’s how they navigate the galaxy, don’t you know.”

“Yeah, I know. They’re advanced, but I didn’t think they were that advanced.”

“They’re part of a bigger string of galactic civilisations,” said Silver.

*Take a right up here.*

He continued. “All civilisations work to take as many star systems as possible. It’s only our shitty luck that they decided to overtake this one.”

“Really?” I said. “I mean, I knew that already, but what’s so special about our solar system?”

“Melted weave,” said Silver.

“Melted weave?” I’d never heard of that in my entire life. And to think, even for a second, that it was important in Jet Corp overtaking our system. . . . Did I miss something?

He rested his hand on the windowsill, the cigar tucked between his fingers. “Jet Corp need melted weave to power their machines: robots, bugships, that big fucking station up there.” He gestured to The Tower in the sky. “They’re creating an army of interstellar soldiers, robots, and that bastard Gideon has one goal.”

“What’s that?” asked Rogue, leaning forward with her thighs pushed against mine. “Money?”

“Power,” he said. “He wants to take over the galaxy and run all the other civilisations out of Big Milky.”

“That’s absurd!” I said. “He’ll never be able to do that. The other civilisations will, what, destroy him?”

He looked at me through the rear-view mirror. His face was apprehensive. “I don’t know. . . . If he gets enough melted weave and takes over enough systems, then he might be able to.”

“That bastard,” I growled. 

He nodded. “Yup.” And he took a puff on his cigar. “Real ol‘ bastard, Gideon Baxter.”

The image of him and his army taking over the galaxy made my stomach stew with anger-induced sickness, not quite enough for me to puke, but definitely enough for me to grimace and hold my belly like some kid who wants to go home from school early. 

Eventually, we made it to the alleyway Silver had spoken about. It was between two apartment complexes, pathed with brickwork and leading into a cross-shaped split. Rogue and I followed Silver through the alley as the sky darkened and Big Milky slowly inked through the atmoshield. We stopped once we reached an elevator door, shaped like an airlock, with a red access panel reading <<-1>> to the left of it.

“This is it,” said Silver, and he pressed the panel. The elevator climbed up until stopping with a loud ding, and then the doors slid open diagonally. The number changed to <<0>>. “It’s been too long. . . .”