World Running Down

by Al Hess

Genres: Dystopian

Synopsis

A transgender salvager on the outskirts of a dystopian Utah gets the chance to earn the ultimate score and maybe even a dash of romance. But there's no such thing as a free lunch…
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Valentine Weis is a salvager in the future wastelands of Utah. Wrestling with body dysphoria, he dreams of earning enough money to afford citizenship in Salt Lake City – a utopia where the testosterone and surgery he needs to transition is free, the food is plentiful, and folk are much less likely to be shot full of arrows by salt pirates. But earning that kind of money is a pipe dream, until he meets the exceptionally handsome Osric.

Once a powerful AI in Salt Lake City, Osric has been forced into an android body against his will and sent into the wasteland to offer Valentine a job on behalf of his new employer – an escort service seeking to retrieve their stolen androids. The reward is a visa into the city, and a chance at the life Valentine’s always dreamed of. But as they attempt to recover the “merchandise”, they encounter a problem: the android ladies are becoming self-aware, and have no interest in returning to their old lives.

The prize is tempting, but carrying out the job would go against everything Valentine stands for, and would threaten the fragile found family that’s kept him alive so far. He’ll need to decide whether to risk his own dream in order to give the AI a chance to live theirs.

 

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Release date: February 14, 2023

Publisher: Angry Robot

Print pages: 400

Sample

1

A Good Deed in a Weary World

Valentine

This was not a dignified place to die. Sepia hills sat beneath a chalky sky, salt flats and barren desert rolling away in all directions like a crappy abandoned landscape painting. Hexagonal ridges of salt crunched beneath Valentine’s boots as he stepped around the body, glittering grains rasping against his legs as the wind picked up. The otherworldliness of so much white sucked all the warmth from what would be this pirate’s final resting place.

Valentine crouched in front of her, his likeness peering back at him from her tinted shades. Blood and dirt crusted the hole in her forehead, and whatever weapons or valuables she’d had were already gone. Feathers were woven into her ratty hair, and they fluttered against her mouth, still open in a silent scream.

He tried to push her jaw closed, but it was stiff from rigor. Ugh. It didn’t matter how many bodies he encountered; he would never get used to dealing with them.

Footsteps neared, but he didn’t look up. Ace nudged the woman’s temple with a steel-toed boot. “She probably deserved it. Put on some act about how she’s trying to feed her family. They do that, y’know.” She knit her brows in mock supplication, then clasped her hands beneath her chin and raised her pitch. “‘Please, mister. I got starving kids at home.’”

Valentine scowled. Maybe it was spending practically every moment of the past year together that made Ace so adept at pressing his buttons. Or maybe it was natural talent. Either way, it was tiresome. The pirates were their enemies, sure, but whatever thoughts had gone through this woman’s brain before the bullet did were likely no different than what he or Ace would think so close to the end.

“You need to pick up knitting or tarot card reading. Making fun of the dead is not a distinguished hobby.”

“And burying random corpses is not a productive one!”

“Just because it’s not–”

“You can’t stand out here in the sun for hours and dig a four-foot-deep hole for some woman who would have lodged an arrow right through your eyeball without a second’s hesitation. There are too many people in the world to worry about. And salt pirates should be particularly low on that list.”

Valentine picked up the shovel and jammed it into the ground, then hefted the dirt behind him. His concern didn’t work that way.

“Jesus, Val.” Ace sighed. “Stop it, will you?”

The shovel clanked against a rock, and he struggled to dislodge it.

Ace pinched the bridge of her nose and blew out a slow breath. “I don’t want us to waste time when we have a delivery to make. Plus, it’s dangerous. I shouldn’t have stopped at all, but I thought she might have something good on her that we could grab quick.”

It was his van, but Ace was always the one who ended up driving.

He flung dirt over his shoulder, continuing to ignore her.

“Val...” Ace stepped back toward the van.

They were supposed to be a team, but the only time they got along was when they did things her way, and he didn’t have the energy to fight about every decision.

“Val, c’mon!” she repeated.

Sighing, he dropped the shovel. “Fine, then let’s go.” Hopefully the pirate’s kin would look for her when she didn’t come home. They could give her a proper pirate burial, whatever that entailed.

Trying to keep his voice level was difficult. “We gotta be in Festerchapel by nightfall, anyway.” He pursed his lips. “Such a gross name. Sounds like a church full of zombies.”

Ace squinted, sun-bleached hair fluttering in the wind. “Dog Teats is worse and always will be.”

“Don’t make fun of Dog Teats. Only bar that sells the mead I like.” It was also the biggest queer community this side of Las Vegas. He knew everyone there; a couch, food, and friends were always available. Unfortunately, the road there was near non-existent, and Ace argued they could pick up work in places more easily accessible.

“You should just drink whiskey neat like every other salvager. Put hair on your chest.”

“Is that what I’ve been doing wrong?” He looked down at the pirate one last time and pulled her scarf up over her face, tucking it beneath her head so the wind didn’t blow it away.

Brittle brush whisked at their boots as they headed back for the van.

Ace hopped into the driver’s seat. The old beast was looking a little worse for wear with every passing month, but Valentine supposed that made it more intimidating. They’d had to replace the passenger’s side of the windshield with a metal vent cover last month. It had previously withstood three years of pirate arrows, rocks, and birds, but was apparently no match for Valentine sitting on it when drunk. His ass had gone right through the pane.

He tested the sliding door, laced in rust and studded with welded staple steps. The damn thing had a habit of flying open when they were driving if the lock wasn’t secure. They’d lost half a shipment of copper piping before, but that wasn’t close to what a disaster it would be to lose any of the fuel barrels stacked in the back right now. The tank batteries within two hundred miles were already tapped dry, but traveling the extra distance to an oil field with a partially full one had earned them more barrels than Festerchapel had asked for.

An unwanted visual of them exploding open on the highway entered his mind, and he checked the lock again.

He climbed the steps to the top of the van and collapsed in the scalding vinyl seat behind the static-gat. He much preferred driving to sitting up here. Driving gave him an active task, all his thoughts cinched down like they were supposed to be. But Ace complained the gat was too hard to wind up. It was, which is why they’d gotten such a good deal on it.

Valentine hooked his boots into the stirrups of the gun stand as Ace drove them south. Hot wind buffeted his face, the torn shoulder of his blazer flapping. The gatling squeaked as it swiveled on its stand, and the dead pirate disappeared into the distance.

He couldn’t shake the image of his reflection in her glasses – strong cheekbones, heavy brows, all his shortcomings indistinct. Dress him in the perfect suit, a city suit, with wide lapels and broad shoulders and a silver collar clip. Scrub the dirt from his face and slick back his hair. Give him shiny shoes without a speck of blood or shit so he could look like one of the apathetic jerks in his magazines.

Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out his slim billfold and removed a magazine page from within. The edges were creased, and the fold lines had become soft and fuzzy with age. He opened it and smoothed it over his knee, shielding it from the wind.

The heaviness in his heart grew as he stared at the spread. A model stood casually, his gaze on something in the distance, like the fact that he had the world’s squarest jaw and a thousand-dollar outfit weren’t worth his time to consider.

He was a man who had probably never spared a thought for his Adam’s apple, for his height, his narrow hips, or his dick… Well, he probably thought about that last one a lot, but never the idea of lacking one.

Valentine would never have any of those things, but once he had a city visa, he could relieve some of this anguish. Residents of Salt Lake City had free medical care, which meant he could go back on testosterone and get chest surgery. And after that, yes – hell yes – he was going to buy a sexy suit. Permanent citizenship felt like a delusion – he’d already failed the practice test several times – but there were so many more resources in the city. Once he had a visa, he could get better textbooks, watch tutorial videos, or hire an actual tutor to help him. Memorizing historical figures and writing grammatically correct sentences was easy, but doing algebra made his brain melt.

It was hard to stay optimistic about eventual residency though, when he was up here roasting his ass with sand raking his face; when every day meant heading into dangerous territory for materials needed by places called Festerchapel.

Dark forms crested a nearby hill, speeding toward them at an alarming rate. Shit! Not again. Ace would be livid if she knew how much he daydreamed up here.

Heart throbbing, he folded up the magazine page and stuffed it in his back pocket.

Dust billowed behind two motorcycles, weaving effortlessly across the white salt. Something whined past Valentine’s head and he ducked behind the gun stand.

He swiveled the gat toward the riders and struggled to wind the handle. The obstinate thing took too much time to warm up, but once it got going, it turned everything it touched into toast three shades too dark.

Static crackled, purple arcs of electricity snapping between the barrels. An arrow pinged off the van. Ace screamed something that was mostly his name and a handful of obscenities. He cranked faster.

His chest and arm ached in protest and his hand slipped from the handle. The hum within the gun became a disappointed sigh, and the electricity died.

“Asswrench!” Heaving his weight against the crankshaft, muscles straining, he wound it with both hands until it screamed with sparks.

The van lurched violently, throwing Valentine from the seat. He slid across the scalding roof, scrabbling for the gun stand. Sharp bolts scratched across his fingers as he clawed his way back. He snatched the spade grips, hauled himself upright, and hit the trigger.

Lightning blasted from the whirring barrels, snapping against the salt and leaving black scorch marks in its wake.

“Back off!” Valentine shouted, but his voice was snatched away by the wind.

One of the riders veered toward the van; Valentine swung the gat their way and the tires on their motorcycle exploded. The rider vaulted over the front and slammed into the ground. Smoke wound from their clothes, and they didn’t get back up.

The second cycle raced closer, the two riders coming into focus. The one on the back was tiny, swimming in their oversized helmet. A junior pirate.

Valentine curled his hand away from the trigger. He couldn’t fry a kid or fling them off a speeding bike. Why in the hell had they been allowed to come on a raid?

He aimed the gat in front of the motorcycle and squeezed off a warning shot, but the rider simply weaved around the blasted earth and kept pace with the van.

The junior pirate pointed a pipe gun and fired. Something shattered against the gat’s seat in a puff of red smoke. A fiery itch raced down Valentine’s throat and into his lungs. He coughed violently and gulped a painful breath, batting at the haze through teary eyes. That little shit.

The gat was slowing down, the hum dying. Another pepper bomb exploded against the van.

“Val! Do something!” Ace shrieked.

He had to act, kid or not.

After giving the crankhandle another vigorous spin, he pressed the trigger. Electricity arced from the barrels, zapping the ground directly in front of the motorcycle. The rider swerved, their bike fishtailing. It listed and crashed on its side, then slid to a stop in the dirt. The little salt pirate tumbled off, and the driver shoved the bike away.

Well, at least he didn’t kill them. Maybe the universe would return the kindness and leave him and Ace alone for a while… Although his consideration for pirates hadn’t helped them any in the past.

Sliding across the roof, his throat still full of bees, he swung through the passenger’s side window and into a pile of papers. Ace wrinkled her nose like he’d sat on her perfectly collated inventory logs instead of a clusterfuck of crumpled study notes. A collection of plastic fruit sat above the glove box, some of it partially melted into the dashboard.

Ace threw a wide-eyed glance into the side mirror and gunned the engine. “They’re getting back up. You should have killed them.”

Valentine braced himself as the van bounced over rocks and badger holes. Some of the fruit rolled across the dash. “We’ve been over this.”

“I don’t want either of us face down in the salt with holes in our heads. They aren’t going to bury us. C’mon, you’re supposed to have my back.”

He scrubbed his cheeks, and his hands came away slicked in red powder. “You know I do.” But each fight, each injustice, each war within himself sliced him open a little bit more, until he was raw and aching. He’d told her this before, but she never listened. Any time he opened his heart, or hell, just wanted to bitch about something, her eyes glazed over.

He popped open the glove box and rooted through for a weapon, but there were only more papers. The silhouette of the motorcycle disappeared in the side mirror, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t follow them.

“You know, you were the one who insisted we take that job looking for an ‘ancestral heirloom’ for that snobby old asshole,” Ace said. “I told you it was a bad idea.”

“Are you still thinking about that?” Now he knew she was purposely pushing his buttons. He pulled a slow breath through his nose, then let it out, but it didn’t ease the tightness in his chest. “What do you want me to say, that it’s my fault we don’t have visas yet? My poor judgment choosing that job, even though you were the one who grabbed the wrong necklace?”

Ace huffed. “You said it was gold with a green gem. That’s what I grabbed.”

“I said I thought it was. You didn’t remember either.” He’d also lost the paper with the description of the necklace. It was probably still in the van somewhere. “Well next time, we’ll be sure to get–”

“Next time?” Her gaze bounced between the side mirror and the terrain ahead. “There’s no ‘next time.’ I’m not doing that sentimental shit again. Not worth it. We stick to fuel and tools like normal. These towns out in the sticks aren’t fussy like city people.”

Valentine thudded his head against the warm metal of the door. He didn’t have the energy to argue about this again.

Desert rushed by beyond the window, sagebrush and maiden grass giving way to craggy hills studded in juniper trees and wildflowers. He worried at a loose thread in the seat stitching, winding it tightly around his finger until it broke. No cycles trailed behind them, but hopefully Ace would keep her foot firmly planted on the accelerator until they reached their destination.

Her hair snapped in the hot draft, eyeliner melted and running into the canyons of scars on her cheeks. A year ago, Valentine had been standing at the message board, checking his requests, when Ace snatched the papers from his hand, declared he had too many, and that it would make sense for them to work together. He couldn’t argue with the logic. There were far too many jobs for just him, and having someone watch his back would relieve a lot of stress.

They spent that evening drinking and sharing their dreams of city life. When it got dark, Ace made herself at home in the van, and Valentine never told her to leave. She looked closer to a pirate than a cityslicker, but she wanted into Salt Lake because her distant relations lived there and promised her a place in their family. After the death of her mom, they were the only relatives she had left. They’d help her with the citizenship test, give her a place to stay, and a position in their business. But they expected her to buy a visa on her own.

She nudged his arm, and he glanced over. “You’re no fun when you’re pouty. We’ll get the money, ’kay?”

“Last I counted, we have twenty-four hundred combined. We’ve been saving up for a year and don’t even have half of what we need.”

For every risky job that paid well, a chunk of the money went into fuel cells for the van, to the border fee to get into city territory, to the rental fee for a message box, and lastly food and hygiene items. It was one step forward and two steps back.

They’d cut trips to town bars first. Then decided they could darn the holes in their socks instead of buying new ones. Valentine didn’t need more magazines and Ace could wear less eyeliner.

Valentine’s leg jiggled anxiously as he stared into the side mirror and leaned out the window, expecting more salt pirates to appear. A bedraggled orchard and collapsed barn slipped into the vanishing point. Rusted hulks of cars peppered the way, and jeweled succulents spilled from their busted windows.

His testosterone had still been sucking up a huge portion of their funds. He’d been dragging Ace down. If they had kept their finances separate, one of them would earn the money for their visa before the other, and they’d made a pact not to abandon each other. Keeping their money together was the most effective way of doing that.

Stopping T was one of the hardest things he’d done, and Ace half-heartedly argued against it. It had been okay at first – his voice had already dropped some, his wedding tackle had grown, and his body hair wasn’t going anywhere. But over the months, his physique had gone soft, shifting back to its previous shape, and his periods had returned.

The worst part was that cutting the testosterone out of their budget still didn’t help them save much faster. They’d started to skip meals and scrimp on soap, and Valentine had been using a toothbrush with a broken handle and frayed bristles for six months.

He’d built up somewhat of a reputation for taking on the undesirable jobs, even before meeting Ace. Garden-variety salvagers came in two flavors – danger-thirsty or travel-averse. Many jobs were too boring or too far away to be worth anyone’s time but Valentine’s. There were usually a handful of personalized notes waiting for him whenever he checked his message box. But no matter how many they took on, it never seemed to make much of a dent in what they needed.

Sinking back into the brittle leather seat, Valentine pushed a sheaf of papers to his feet. He could think all he wanted about being a rich jerk in the city, but it didn’t change the fact that he was stuck here as a wasteland salvager, in a body he hated, in a stinking hot van decorated in plastic fruit.

“The gears in your head are turning so fast they’re starting to smoke,” Ace said. “Want some music?”

He smacked his scruffy cheeks and red powder drifted in the air. “Yeah.”

Ace tapped the shattered screen of the phone plugged into the dash. The twitchy jazz of Gunman Gee filled the cab. Valentine belted out the lyrics in raspy, off-key pitch. It didn’t improve his mood much, but it did pass the miles to Festerchapel.

The town wasn’t quite as ugly as its name, but the scents of pig shit and tanning solution fouled the air so strongly that it stuck in his throat. Wooden buildings clustered together, and fields of barley and peas spread away from the town proper like a patchwork quilt.

Ace rolled up to the town’s front gate and a bearded man toting a crossbow stopped at the driver’s side window, eyes narrowed in suspicion. When he spotted Valentine his scowl faded, and he gave a friendly nod. “Oh, hey.”

“Miss me?” Valentine winked, trying to remember the man’s name. “How’ve you been?”

He stopped at Valentine’s door and rested his elbows on the window molding. “I’m doing well, thanks. What you got in the back? Fine art? Televisions? Anti-aging serum?”

Marcello, that was his name. He’d made these jokes last time too, and Valentine hadn’t been able to figure out whether the man was jealous of what the city had or thought its items were ridiculous. “You need me to find you a Rembrandt?”

Marcello laughed. “Is that a beauty product? Gonna give me baby soft skin? Nah. I don’t need that stuff.” He straightened and slapped his palm against the side panel of the van. “Go on in. You know the drill.”

“See you around later, maybe?”

“You know where to find me.” Marcello unlocked the gate and waved them through.

“I didn’t think you knew anyone here,” Ace said.

Valentine shrugged. “I know the queer ones.”

A sagging church sat at the end of the main street, its crooked steeple skewering the sky. Swaths of yellow-green plants peeked out between splintery shacks and a barter outpost. Rusty signs nailed to posts were painted with street names and points of interest. As if anyone could get lost in such a tiny place.

A delivery bay – a helpful sign with a drippy arrow pointing the way – sat behind the church, surrounded by corrugated metal sheds and a couple of possibly-functional trucks.

Shadows swallowed them as Ace pulled into the bay and shut off the engine. Whether he’d had drinks with the guard at the gate or not, it was always best to follow the protocol. These little towns got paranoid about strangers wandering around, especially when they showed up in a van sporting a static-gat.

With the lack of a breeze, the heat was more acute, prickling against Valentine’s skin. The engine ticked as it cooled. People wandered past the sheds beyond the bay, but none of them seemed in a hurry to come inspect the van.

Valentine poked his tongue through the gap in his front teeth, then glanced at Ace. “Wanna make out?”

She snorted, then leaned on the horn. “Got a delivery here!”

A stern-faced woman with a clipboard entered the bay and stopped before Ace’s window. She flipped through the papers on her board, then peered at the barrels in the back. “Names.”

“Audrey Emmitt,” Ace said.

Valentine wiped sweat from his brow and his hand came away red. “Valentine Weis. We have your fuel shipment. Quite a haul too. Three more barrels than you asked for.”

The inspector stared at him, mouth drawn down like he suggested they boil her cat for dinner. She rounded the nose of the van and stopped at his window, then consulted her clipboard. “It’s Valentine Weis? That’s not what I have here.” She turned the clipboard for him to see.

He pursed his lips and looked away. “It’s a typo.”

His life was a typo. But there was no reason the inspector should have that name at all. When he’d first taken on salvage jobs, he’d gone by his birth name, but that was years ago. It didn’t make sense that anyone would remember it now. He could have labeled his message box “Studly McStudface” and that would be the only name anyone would have to go by. Maybe it really was a typo.

“Hmm.” She scribbled something on her clipboard. She should have been tallying the goods already.

“Hey, is there a problem?” he asked. “Let’s haggle and we’ll get out of your hair.”

She tugged on the van’s rolling door. Twisting in his seat, he reached for the lock, but the woman jabbed her pen at him. “Don’t move.”

He put up his hands. “Just trying to get the door open for you.” Cautiously, he reached beyond the headrest and pulled up the lock.

The inspector struggled to haul open the door on its warped track, but Valentine didn’t offer to help. She tucked her clipboard under her arm, then poked at the barrels.

Something was off. Normally after they’d arrived with the goods, the community would show their hospitality by inviting him and Ace into town. They’d have some drinks even after agreeing not to, and Valentine would go make some new friends. Or he’d try to, anyway, as long as his gut suggested it was safe. He may have lucked out with Marcello, but not all these settlements were as welcoming as Dog Teats.

The woman returned to Valentine’s door and said, “Get out.”

Valentine raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“Get out of the van. Come with me.”

Ace opened her door, but the inspector shook her head and pointed at Valentine. “No, no. Only her. She comes with me.”

Valentine cringed but held his tongue. The inspector continued, “You, Audrey, stay here while I have someone inventory your delivery.” She waved a hand. “Then you’re free to head into town.”

Valentine’s mind spun with possible reasons he’d be singled out and drawn away from the van. He hadn’t done anything wrong in recent memory, but the woman knew his birth name, and that was unusual.

There’d been a notice at the message hub where he rented his box that said Salt Lake was tracking down salvagers for a delivery tax. It hadn’t seemed like it applied to him and Ace since they never delivered into the city, but his mind had been elsewhere, and he couldn’t remember the specifics.

Maybe that wasn’t it at all. Maybe these people hated that he was trans. Maybe he’d be dragged behind a building and have his head kicked in like that woman at the message hub did last year.

He rubbed his clammy hands on his jeans. They needed their money for this delivery, ...