She resisted the urge to hurry them up. The number of pills in her pocket had turned into a fuse. She had no more microcards to buy another batch, and the banks would move only minimal amounts of coin. They refused to dispense untraceable money. She had to get to Phoenix before her supply ran out. Papa always kept some cash on hand.

Welga arrived at the outskirts of Phoenix just before sunset. People on the streets sorted through the rubble and kept getting in the way of Welga’s truck. Idiots. Did they think she wouldn’t run them over? She was tempted. So damn tempted.

Her final check-in with Olafson hadn’t helped her mood. Yes, she was sure she wanted to cancel her contract with the agency. No, Troit didn’t want to stay, either. He hadn’t fully healed from the refinery incident. Yes, she realized she would’ve been in trouble for launching without him. No, she didn’t want to rendezvous with the Maghreb team. Yes, she was really damn sure. No, she didn’t need a week to reconsider. I have bigger plans, traitor. Which was somewhat unfair to Olafson. He hadn’t created this situation, but she couldn’t help the bitterness. He’d gotten her involved only to frustrate her again. She changed her mind and accepted the extra week. She needed the time with the military vehicle and emergency stella access.

A sandstorm from the previous night had scoured the landscape of smaller debris. Large bots—more mechanical death—hulked in every street. Plenty of good pickings for scavengers. Welga ignored the yelling as she drove over a pile of weeder-bots in the middle of the street. It’s a road, assholes. Find a better place to dump your shit.

She was down to two zips. Phoenix had its hot zones—every city did—but she had to go home and grab some microcards first. She’d lost consciousness twice since getting off the freeway, waking to find the truck rammed into a wall and herself flopped at an awkward angle, pain radiating from multiple parts of her body. She needed to increase the dosage frequency again. Christ, she missed Por Qué—the real one, not this shitty generic version. No doubt a full-fledged Por Qué would’ve informed Welga of seizure activity and reported it, too, but at least she would have looked after her.

Welga stopped at the nearest charging station to the house. She had some network access from the emergency stellas, but seeing the empty bays reminded her that most everyone else didn’t.

“Incoming anonymous message,” Por Qué announced.