Someone interrupted her morose thoughts with a well-timed tackle. Welga landed on her back with her assailant crosswise over her. The quad had kicked in, though, as had her instincts. She rolled with the momentum of their fall and threw the asshole. Two others came at her. She ducked the swing of a metal club and pulled its user off balance. They moved like slow, clumsy children relative to her perception and reaction times. Not trained fighters, just some dumbasses looking for a victim.

She broke loose and ran the remainder of the way to the truck. Stupid to have forgotten her coughing act. Stupider to get lost in thought and ignore her surroundings.

Welga drove home at full speed, uncaring of what she trampled. Anyone out at this time of night needed to get the hell out of her way. Darkness both literal and technological blanketed Phoenix and let the worst of human behavior go unchecked. It hid their misdeeds. Ever-present swarms had meant that someone could be watching, that your actions never went unnoticed. Criminals had to work harder—and in the privacy of their property—but with the stellas down, WAIs abandoned, and bots destroyed, the streets had changed.

Her father’s neighborhood was quieter. Welga parked the truck in the garage. The wind picked up and blew hot, dry air across her skin. Another dust storm was coming. She lifted the hair from her neck to feel the breeze. A rusty tap on the side of the house released lukewarm water. Welga scrubbed her hands with sand, using an infuriated speed from the quad-zip, and rinsed until her skin stung from the abrasions. She made sure to get every molecule of that dealer off her. Then she went inside.

A dim ceiling light showed Papa prone on the sofa, his eyes blinking at her.

He sat up slowly. “Well?”

“Got what I needed.”

“You’re talking fast.”

“Quads.” She made an effort to slow down. “The dual-speed zips don’t do enough anymore.”

Sadness and regret tugged his eyes and mouth downward. She kissed his head as her heart ached.

“Love you, Papa. Sorry I couldn’t fix this.”

“Don’t say it like that. You told us earlier that this lady on the station could help you. Maybe find out what’s wrong and heal you. You’re not dead yet.” He took her hand and stroked it. “Sit down. I have to tell you something.”

She dropped onto the sofa.

“When your mama was near the end, some funders offered her an experimental design. Said it might cure her by mucking with her DNA, changing it so that she didn’t have her problems. But it would also mean no more flow. She’d have to start over, find something else to do with her life.”

Where are you going with this?