Welga regained consciousness to a sense of heavy exhaustion. Luis sat on the floor next to the sofa and held her hand. The clatter of dishes came from the kitchen.

“I’ll go,” her brother said.

“What?”

“I’ll go to Chennai with you, get a launch together.” Luis shook his head as if incredulous at himself. “How we’re going to do that with the airports and sub-orbs shut down, I have no idea.”

“We’ll take a boat ride.”

She made it through dinner without another episode, then took her last zip before heading to downtown Phoenix for a dealer. Night had fallen, and she nearly had to tie Luis and Papa down to keep them from coming with her. Even during her deepest cover operations, her family could get her status from the military. This time, they had to wait and hope for the best.

She changed her outfit to a loose tunic over leggings, baggy enough to hide the weapon underneath. The bathroom mirror informed her that her hair and skin looked naturally greasy. Nothing to change there. She glanced at the old makeup-bot on the counter and had a flashback to Briella Jackson’s death. That happened on March 12. It was March 25. How had the world—and her life—fallen apart in less than two weeks?

Oven-hot air greeted Welga when she entered the truck. A fine layer of dust from the short-lived storm coated the outside. She drove into the city, but she didn’t get far. The truck’s headlights drew too much attention. Vigilante forces guarded the better-quality hives and kept trying to approach her.

If she’d been able to change her clothes, she could’ve transformed into a wealthy citizen and left the truck in one of those neighborhoods. Instead, Welga found a side street where she could park it mostly out of sight. The military vehicle could take plenty of physical abuse and wouldn’t start without her physical key, but if someone managed to tow it away, she’d have a long, unpleasant walk home.

She and Luis had been good kids through high school, staying away from the pill-hackers and drug abusers. She hadn’t paid attention to where they liked to hang out. Her grandfather had run a shop in the migrant labor section, an address she knew. Might as well go that way as anywhere else.

She pinched her cheeks until they hurt, then inhaled dust until her cough sounded convincing. Sickness spread quickly without daily prophylactics, and fear of infection was her best defense against aggressive civilians.

The first gang appeared two blocks from the alley. No surprise. They surrounded her, four masked, overgrown teenagers with metal clubs ripped from bots. She bent over, coughed, and spat.

“Please, help me,” she rasped. “I’m sick.” Coughed again and held out a pleading hand. “Lookin’ for juvers.”

The one closest to her outstretched arm stumbled back.