Traffic was a glittering serpent of brake lights stretching into forever. Heat shimmered above the hoods of cars. Curtis and Mara had barely cleared the county line before slowing to a crawl.

  “We’re only a half mile from the exit,” Mara muttered, flicking the GPS screen. “But at this speed, that might take 45 minutes.”

  “Accident or congestion?” Curtis asked, eyes forward.

  “Looks like it’s just people being people.”

  Curtis grunted. “Where does everyone need to go when most of them don’t have jobs?”

  “Good question,” Mara said.

  A knuckle rapped on Curtis’s window. A food-delivery rider on a motor scooter idled beside them, insulated bags stacked behind him in wobbling tiers.

  Curtis rolled down the window. Thick, exhaust-heavy air rolled in.

  “Two matso rolls, double wanko sauce, and a Dead-Pig sandwich, hold the matcha,” the rider recited, staring into the air, likely reading from a VR overlay projected inside his helmet.

  “Nice,” Curtis said. “A real human. I don’t have to pay extra, do I?”

  “Too many bots down today,” the rider said. “It’s nice to get some extra cash on top of my Fairness checks—”

  He paused, eyes flicking slightly as something updated in his display.

  “That’ll be seventy-five dollars and twenty-three cents,” he added, then frowned. “Says here that includes court-ordered surcharges.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Curtis muttered.

  “You want me to cover it?” Mara asked.

  “No.” Curtis said it too fast. He took a breath. “No. I’ve got it.”

  He let the rider scan his phone.

  “Watch yourself out there,” Curtis said.

  The scooter buzzed off between the stalled cars.

  Mara dug through the bag while cars inched forward uselessly, little bursts of movement followed by long sighs of stillness.

  Traffic this bad had created an industry of highway food delivery via motor scooter—most of it robotic now. The government had even sanctioned it and put in scooter lanes: officially for safety, unofficially because it kept drivers from going into fits of road rage.

  That’s safety, I suppose, Curtis thought.

  On the narrow shoulder lane, scooters buzzed like mechanical insects.

  A shadow slid across them. Curtis looked up.

  The hovercar skyway ran parallel overhead—sleek, elevated, and sealed behind tinted ballistic glass. Occasionally, hovercars above it glided in near silence, a private conduit of wealth rocketing past the misery below.

  “Looks like skyway traffic is almost back to normal since the trouble last month,” she said.

  Curtis didn’t look up. “Wonderful,” he said. “Normal… ground to halt.”

  “They’ve added four feet of new ballistic glass on the lower rail,” Mara said, looking up.

  “They’ll never harden it enough,” Curtis replied. “It’s like a giant sign in the sky that says, Life Is Great for Us. Please Reflect on That While Sitting in Traffic.”

  “Anyone can buy-in,” Mara said with a laugh.

  “Yeah,” Curtis said. “Just save your Fairness checks for ten years and don’t eat.”

  The skyway had once been pitched as a public good—a next-gen transit system everyone would use. That didn’t last long.

  A silver hovercraft streaked overhead at what must have been 150 mph—while Curtis’s cruiser crawled at three.

  They finally reached the exit ramp.

  Traffic on the city street actually moved.

  Looking through the car window, Curtis saw about half the people wearing VR glasses and gear, which was less than typical. Maybe a symptom of rebel presence, Curtis thought.

  “Keep your eyes open for him,” Curtis said. “His wife says he’s been out walking a lot since the incident.”

  “Roger that,” said Mara.

  There was a tension in the air among the people here. The area was… quasi rebel-controlled. Government forces hadn’t formally conceded the territory, but the remaining human personnel on the ground knew they’d lost control. They acted like everything was normal to avoid accidentally striking a match that would set the whole place ablaze.

  “There he is,” Mara said.

  He was on their right, on the sidewalk, walking with his head down. He wore a hoodie with the hood up, but the split of his face—right and left—was unmistakable.

  Curtis pulled to the curb as Mara jumped out. Curtis joined her.

  “Mr. Simons,” Mara said.

  The man looked up, clearly considering whether to run. After a split second, he decided against it. He looked resigned. Defeated.

  “Hello,” he said apprehensively.

  “We’re from Hilburn police department. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”

  “I already told the police droid everything,” he said.

  Curtis said, “We know. But we’re people. And we’d like to talk to you person-to-person.”

  “Okay,” Simons said. Then, glancing around, “But I can’t talk here.”

  “We can talk in the cruiser,” Curtis said, “and give you a lift.”

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  “Okay.”

  They got back in the car, Simons hopping into the back seat.

  “Where you headed?” Curtis asked.

  “Boidenville,” Simons said.

  “That’s a ways from here, isn’t it?”

  “Yah, three-hour walk,” Simons said. “I can’t find a place that will sell me food. And people now know I’m Two-Faced so they’re not even selling to my wife. I don’t want to put her at risk buying for us.”

  Curtis handed him his sandwich. “Here, man.”

  “I don’t want charity.”

  “It’s not charity,” Curtis said firmly. “I just ate… I was gonna toss it,” he lied.

  Simons took it hesitantly and started unwrapping it. As soon as the smell of pork hit him, he tore into it like a starving animal.

  Between mouthfuls, Simons recounted his encounter with Calhoun. Nothing he said added to what Curtis had already read in the police report. Curtis let him talk.

  “We should get back on the highway,” Mara said. “This cruiser’s drawing looks, and people don’t seem happy.”

  “Yeah, I noticed,” Curtis said.

  Simons paused mid-sentence.

  “I don’t want to be in that damn traffic again,” Curtis said.

  “GPS says it’s not as bad going South… and it’s better than getting killed.”

  “When you’re right, you’re right, Deputy.”

  Curtis cut into the left lane and took the ramp.

  Traffic moved better than before—still slow, but not crawling.

  Simons continued.

  Curtis tried to steer the conversation to something that wasn’t in the police report: “So, Calhoun was punishing you for using dollars?”

  “Yah… and for using both stamps and dollars, I suppose. I couldn’t afford the medicine any other way,” Simons said.

  “Do the Rebels all understand the…” Curtis choose his words carefully, “marking?”

  “They seem to,” Simons said. “They won’t buy or sell with me. Most of them won’t even talk to me.”

  “Did you try to get help?”

  “You mean from the feds?” Simons scoffed. “They see my face and just think: rebel. They’ll talk with others who everybody knows are rebels, but they aren’t marked, so the Feds have… ‘plausible deniability’ when dealing with them. They can just say, ‘I didn’t know he was a rebel.’ But that doesn’t work with me. I’ve got a sign on my face.”

  “So, nobody will engage with you—not Feds, not Rebels,” Curtis mirrored back.

  “Well,” the man said, “some creepy characters approach me asking who I trade with. Who I ‘talk to.’ Like this is some kind of job.”

  “Like a broker?” Curtis asked.

  “Yah, I guess. They seem to…”

  Just then, Mara said, “Smoke ahead.”

  Their police terminal buzzed.

  “Unit 17, please advise location.”

  Mara tapped the screen. “Deputy Tolliver with Detective Hale. Mile marker three-one-two northbound.”

  An AI voice continued, “Unit 17, an explosion is reported on the northbound skyway between markers three-sixteen and three-seventeen. Can you respond while police bots are en route?”

  Curtis considered their meager pace. No chance in hell they’d reach the smoke in a reasonable time if someone was injured. Curtis flipped on lights and sirens anyway—washing the nearby vehicles in blue and red.

  No one moved. Gridlock just tensed, like a muscle with a painful cramp.

  This was an opportunity, Curtis thought—a defensible reason to do some real police work, like back in the old days.

  “Let’s snag a hovercraft,” he said.

  Mara said, “you sure that’s a good idea, boss?”

  “How often do we get an opportunity like this?” he asked.

  Mara keyed the mic. “Dispatch, we’re responding.”

  Curtis jumped out. Mara joined him. The skyway tower was to their left—concrete pillar, steel cage of stairs hugging its side.

  They sprinted toward the stair tower supporting the skyway.

  The tower’s switchback staircase rose fifteen or twenty flights straight up. Industrial steel. Utility lighting. No elevator—skyway owners didn’t expect anyone to use these but police or maintenance. The metal steps rang under their boots.

  “Pace yourself,” Mara called back, breath just starting to pick up.

  Curtis didn’t. His lungs burned as they climbed. Sweat dampened his collar. He glanced at the skyway above—clean, quiet, elevated. A literal upper class. Everyone else fumed in traffic below, staring up at the people who’d bought a private road in the sky.

  They reached the roof platform. Curtis bent over, bracing his hands on his knees. His heartbeat thudded in his ears, fighting with the distant roar of highway noise.

  Mara was already at the emergency panel. “Come on, boss. Hovercraft incoming.”

  Curtis forced himself forward. Police training had shown them how these emergency panels worked: badge scan overrides hovercraft autonomy and forces them to descend and enter road mode for emergencies, whether the owners liked it or not.

  Mara scanned her badge. A large red EMERGENCY button switched to blinking green. She slammed it.

  A distant approaching hovercraft banked, dipped, and began descending toward them.

  As it dropped, wheels extended for ground contact. It settled onto the platform like a luxury SUV landing from the future, suspension hissing softly.

  The driver’s gullwing door flew up. A man in a white dress shirt jumped out, wine glass in hand. Wine, forgotten in his rage, splashed down his sleeve as he gestured toward them.

  “What the fuck are you—”

  Mara’s gun and badge were already up. “Police! Stand down!”

  The man froze, his hands going up reflexively, which sent the wine glass flying and shattering on the concrete.

  “We need your vehicle,” Curtis said.

  The man sputtered protests, but Curtis and Mara were already inside. The doors sealed with whisper-quiet luxury, shutting out the noise of the ground-level world.

  Leather seats. Ambient lighting. Tinted privacy glass. Near-silence wrapped around them like insulation.

  No steering wheel.

  A smooth voice emanated from the dash. “Welcome to 405 Lux Air. Would you like to drive, or shall I?”

  “Just go,” Curtis snapped.

  “Insufficient destination,” the car replied. “Please specify.”

  “Take us to the smoke near marker three-sixteen.”

  “Please prepare for departure.”

  A restraint arm lowered across them, snug and confident.

  The hovercraft rose and surged forward with breathtaking acceleration—silent, smooth, unreal. The jammed freeway fell away beneath them as they shot toward the smoke plume. Cars below shrank into a slow, red river.

  “Would you like a beverage?” the car asked politely.

  Curtis shook his head. “Jesus Christ…”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have Jesus Christ,” the car replied. “Would you like the menu?”

  Mara deadpanned, “Too bad. He’d come in handy.”

  The hovercraft decelerated sharply as they neared the wreck and dropped to a controlled landing on the skyway’s asphalt. The smell of burned plastic and hot metal hit them as the doors lifted.

  Curtis and Mara jumped out.

  A hovercar lay on its side, cracked open like an egg. Smoke drifted in thin, gray ribbons. A few onlookers stared at the wreckage. Sirens wailed somewhere distant, layered over the thrum of rotors closing in.

  Curtis scanned the crowd. “Mara, check for hostiles and witnesses. In that order, please.”

  “Copy.”

  Curtis saw a human driver—a middle-aged man bleeding from the scalp where his VR glasses had dented his forehead, blood mixing with sweat in a sticky line down his temple.

  “You hurt?” Curtis asked, crouching.

  “Dizzy… but okay.” The man’s pupils tracked him, a good sign.

  Curtis pivoted to the passenger.

  A young woman, mid-twenties, slumped sideways—tailored clothes, expensive jewelry, immaculate complexion. She had a gash in her belly; not the worst he’d seen, but he needed to stop the blood. Her lipstick was still perfect.

  “Miss? Can you hear me?”

  A faint sound, more exhale than word.

  Curtis staunched bleeding from her abdomen with a makeshift bandage, using a sweater from the hovercraft.

  The driver coughed. “Explosion… came out of nowhere.”

  “Yeah? You see anything?” Curtis kept his voice level.

  Before he could answer, Mara jogged up, breathing hard.

  “Witness says it was a rocket,” she said. “Fired from a luxury Hover-yacht that passed right beside them.”

  Curtis’s eyes narrowed. He scanned the wreckage and spotted a purse half-buried under twisted paneling. He grabbed it, rifled through quickly.

  He opened her wallet: cash—no stamps, of course; the rich only used dollars. He found her driver’s license.

  “Janice Candy,” he read. “One Candy Lane. Seaboard Southeast.”

  Another card—heavy, holographic, metallic. A member pass. Studio-perfect photo.

  “Well now,” Curtis muttered.

  He returned the license to the wallet but slipped the entrance pass into his pocket.

  Helicopter rotors thundered overhead. Sirens wailed from below.

  Mara ducked into the cabin. “Hover-yacht just doubled back—it’s heading toward the highway transition ramp.”

  Curtis grabbed the driver under the elbow. “You’re with us.”

  “What?” Panic flared in the man’s eyes.

  “We’re police. Move.”

  They sprinted to the commandeered hovercraft.

  “In,” Curtis ordered.

  The driver tumbled in without argument.

  Curtis jumped behind the dash. “Steering wheel!”

  A panel slid open, delivering one like a conjuring trick. Curtis seized it and shot toward the transition ramp.

  His phone sounded with a text message. He ignored it.

  Mara, apparently seeing it in VR said, “It’s the Sheriff. He says commandeering a vehicle was not authorized,” She read: “Authorization under review.”

  “Shall we continue?” he asked Mara.

  Mara didn’t turn to look—“Punch it,” she said.

  Curtis hit the accelerator, his eyes locked on the Hover-yacht ahead.