Dusk arrived soon. Rakheel had secured three of the prized horned camels for their journey, each beast bred for endurance and tempered by the harsh desert winds. Their curved horns gleamed faintly under the dimming sky, restless hooves kicking up fine plumes of dust as they snorted impatiently.
The merchant had insisted on traveling under the cloak of night—less chance of running into Sultanate patrols or opportunistic raiders that way.
Rakheel leaned against the lead camel's harness, adjusting the straps with practiced ease. He turned to Raymond, his voice low but steady. It carried the weight of a man who'd navigated Cyber City's shifting allegiances more times than he could count.
"Once we reach the city," he murmured, "I'll send word to my contacts. The ones who don't ask questions." His fingers tapped absently against the camel's flank, a silent rhythm of impatience.
"They'll forge whatever papers you need—passport, work permits, even a full citizen chip if you've got the credits." His gaze sharpened slightly. "But remember—names, histories, they're all currency there. Choose yours carefully."
A gust of wind hissed through the dunes, carrying the fading clamor of Rocky Town as the settlement's weathered structures blurred into the desert haze behind them. Rakheel's gaze lingered on the flickering glow before he tightened the last buckle with a decisive click.
"Just stay sharp," he added. "The city chews up strangers faster than a sandstorm."
Raymond listened quietly to Rakheel's low assurances. His fingers tightened around the saddle's reinforced pommel as the camel beneath him shifted uneasily.
His thighs burned with the effort of keeping steady on the creature's broad back. This wasn't like the docile, lumbering beasts he'd ridden in training exercises years ago. No, this was something else entirely—a desert-bred monster with scarred flanks and a bone-hard hump. Its curved horns glinted wickedly under the fading twilight.
The mahawi beneath him, at least, was a modern mercy. Its shock-absorbing polymer weave molded itself to distribute weight and cushion every jolting step. A luxury, compared to the rough-hewn saddles of his past.
The beast was pure aggression—all bared teeth and hot, huffing breaths through flared nostrils. Its hooves scraped restlessly at the hard earth, craving a fight.
Every slight shift of Raymond's weight drew a displeased rumble from its throat. He pressed his knees tighter, murmuring steady, pointless words—just like calming a spooked horse—but the camel only tossed its head, nearly throwing him.
A shiver rippled down its spine, muscles twitching under coarse fur. Not fear. Eagerness.
This wasn't just transport. It was a warning. Even the beasts here had edges.
Raymond exhaled through his nose and adjusted his grip. If the camel was a taste of what Cyber City would be, Rakheel's advice suddenly felt heavier.
Sayeed watched Raymond struggle with the camel, his lips curling in quiet amusement. The young foreigner—normally so controlled, so precise—now wrestled clumsily with a beast that seemed determined to throw him.
"Riding small was the right call," Sayeed said. "Sultanate patrols won't scour the dunes at night—too afraid of getting ambushed. Less chance of bandits spotting us too."
He paused, scanning the endless sea of sand around them with a predator's wariness.
"But that doesn't mean we're safe."
His voice lowered, eyes lingering on the farthest shadows where the moonlight didn't reach.
"The desert has its own hunters. Things that don't care about permits or bribes. Things that come out after dark."
Raymond's grip tightened on the camel's reins. The word hounds echoed in his mind—claw marks on that prisoner's arm, the very first person he laid his eyes on after arriving at this strange world. His body remembered before his mind could react, tension coiling in his muscles.
The silence stretched, broken only by the rhythmic crunch of camel hooves on hard-packed sand. Rakheel, wrapped in insulated desert robes, ignored the conversation entirely, focused on the dim horizon.
The journey carried on, uneventful.
By 5 AM, the first jagged silhouettes of Cyber City's outer sprawl pierced the darkness—rusted shipping containers stacked like forgotten toys, flickering neon signs, the hum of generators cutting through the predawn chill.
They pressed deeper into the city, Rakheel steering his camel east through the outer sprawl. The buildings spread wide here, low structures of salvaged metal and concrete scattered across the industrial wasteland. Neon flickered against corrugated walls, and the air thickened with the smell of synthetic fuel and rust.
Rakheel guided them between two squat warehouses, their facades patchworked with scavenged steel and crumbling concrete. A rugged tin shed squatted in the narrow gap—part stable, part forgotten relic.
He dismounted and led the camels through the wide entrance. Inside, the space opened into a functional stable—low partitions, water troughs, the earthy musk of animals and hay. A pair of stable hands emerged from the shadows, young men with dirt-streaked faces and practiced efficiency. They took the reins without a word, guiding the restless beasts toward empty stalls.
Rakheel gestured for Raymond and Sayeed to follow. He moved to the back corner where a stack of feed bags leaned against the wall. With a grunt, he shoved them aside, revealing a narrow hatch set flush with the concrete floor. He pulled it open, exposing a ladder that descended into darkness.
The tunnel smelled of damp earth and stale air. Their footsteps echoed against close walls as they moved forward, guided only by the dim glow of Rakheel's wrist-mounted light. The passage twisted once, then straightened.
A steel door blocked their path. Heavy. Industrial. The kind meant to keep people out.
Rakheel knocked three times—sharp, deliberate raps that rang through the tunnel. He reached into his coat and produced a data chip, its surface catching the light as he slotted it into a panel mounted beside the door frame.
Silence.
Then, from somewhere deep within the lock mechanism, metal scraped against metal. Bolts withdrew with heavy clunks. The door began to open.
Rakheel stepped through the doorway, gesturing for Raymond and Sayeed to follow.
The space beyond opened into a narrow corridor lit by a single overhead bulb. An old man stood beside the door controls, one weathered hand still resting on the lever. His eyes flicked to Rakheel, and a faint smile creased his lined face.
"Rakheel, my boy."
His voice carried the rasp of age and cigarettes.
"What brings you to our place at this hour, nonetheless?"
His gaze shifted to Raymond and Sayeed, lingering on each in turn. Measuring them.
"And you brought guests?"
Rakheel returned the smile.
"Nothing much. Came to lay low for a while."
The old man's brows drew together for a heartbeat, a flicker of concern crossing his features. Then his expression smoothed.
"Alright, go on upstairs."
He waved one hand toward the far end of the hallway where a staircase climbed into shadow.
"Who made us owe your old man? I'll send a message to the boss. She'll send someone to take care of your needs."
Rakheel's smile widened.
"Please convey my thanks to Nāna Asra for me."
The old man nodded, already turning back to the control panel.
The group moved down the corridor, their footsteps muted against concrete. At the end, they climbed the stairs, leaving the underground passage behind.
The attendant led them to a room on the third floor—clean, functional, with three narrow beds and a single window overlooking the sprawl. Modest compared to the presidential suite, but it would do.
After the attendant departed, Rakheel closed the door. The latch clicked into place.
He turned to face them.
"Nāna Asra owns this place and similar safehouses across the outer regions. She was a close confidante of my father's once upon a time."
His tone carried a weight of old debts and older loyalties.
"She can be trusted. There's nothing tying her to my business except past feelings. That makes her the safest bet."
Raymond nodded.
"Alright. But we need to act fast."
His eyes held Rakheel's.
"Even if your escape hasn't reached the Sand Rats yet, once they realize you're gone and find out Basim is missing—their inside man in your family—they'll put their guards up. The infiltration plan won't work."
Rakheel exchanged a knowing glance with Sayeed as the gravity of their situation settled between them. They didn't need to voice aloud what they both recognized—this fleeting advantage wouldn't last. The Sand Rats operated like insects beneath the city's corpse-metal skin, thriving in darkness where deals turned bloody and informants vanished without trace. Strike too late, and Sand Rats would swarm them from every angle.
But now? Now they carried the rarest currency in the wasteland—the blind side advantage. If they moved with precision, they could sever the Sand Rats' grip on the Serenity Desert routes permanently. Not just disrupt—annihilate.
"There's a cantina near the pits on the east side," he said, eyes distant as he visualized the route. "Freelance hackers and arm's dealers drink there after sundown. Men who don't ask questions if the payment's right." He met Rakheel's gaze squarely. "I'll need to grease palms and promise bonuses. Hazard pay."
Rakheel didn't flinch. His fingers danced across the screen of his PDA with the fluid certainty of a merchant who'd wired illicit payments a hundred times before. The device chirped—a synthetic sound too cheerful for the sum transferring into Sayeed's shadow account.
"Tripled the standard rate," Rakheel said, sliding the PDA back into his robe. "Buy their silence first, their skills second."
Sayeed's lips curled upward, "You got it!"
Rakheel turned to Raymond.
"I'll get the identity and background you requested. Anything specific you need added?"
Raymond pulled his PDA Rakheel had given him in Rocky Town from his belt, the screen glowing blue as he scrolled through menus. He opened the memo he made prior—back when this was still just a plan. Tapping the screen, he sent the data packet.
"Just these should suffice."
Rakheel scanned the document briefly, then pocketed his device.
"Good. We rest for a while."
He moved toward the adjoined room and disappeared through the doorway.
Sayeed nodded at Raymond.
"See you later."
He stepped out into the hallway, the door closing softly behind him.
Raymond stood alone in the quiet room. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the knots that had formed during the journey. His back protested as he stretched, muscles screaming from hours of wrestling with that damned camel. He'd been holding it together since they arrived, keeping his face neutral, his posture controlled.
Now, finally, he could let it go.
He grumbled under his breath.
"I should really put more stats into Endurance."
He crossed to the bed and dropped onto it. The mattress wasn't much, but it beat the camel's back. He closed his eyes.
Sleep came quickly.
Sayeed moved through the narrow alleys, his boots scraping against cracked pavement. The outer sprawl pressed in on all sides—corrugated walls plastered with faded advertisements, steam venting from rusted pipes, the distant clang of machinery echoing through the darkness.
He turned a corner and caught sight of The Pit.
The mechanical waste disposal area yawned open like a wound in the earth—a vast crater filled with twisted metal, discarded tech, and the skeletal remains of machinery too damaged to salvage. Cranes loomed over the edges, their arms suspended mid-swing. The smell hit him next: oil, burnt circuits, and something chemical that stung the back of his throat.
The cantina squatted on the edge of the crater, its walls reinforced with scrap metal and welded plates. A neon sign flickered above the entrance—half the letters dead, the others buzzing with irregular pulses of red and blue light. Figures in dark clothing slipped in and out, collars raised, faces hidden.
A muscle-bound man blocked the doorway. His left eye glowed faintly—a mechanical replacement that tracked Sayeed's approach with cold precision. The synthetic lens whirred, focusing.
Sayeed stopped.
The bouncer's eye swept over him, scanning. A moment passed. Then the man stepped aside.
"Go on."
Sayeed pushed through the door.
The interior hit him like a wall. Smoke hung thick in the air—tobacco mixed with something synthetic and acrid. The lighting came from strips of salvaged LEDs taped haphazardly across the ceiling, casting everything in harsh whites and deep shadows. Tables crowded the space, most occupied by figures hunched over drinks or data pads, their faces obscured by hoods or augmented visors.
Conversations murmured in low tones, punctuated by the occasional bark of laughter or the scrape of a chair. In the corner, a slot machine blinked and chirped, ignored. The floor was stained concrete, sticky in places, and the walls bore the marks of old fights—dents, scorch marks, a crack that ran from floor to ceiling.
This was where mercenaries came to find work. Where fixers brokered deals. Where questions weren't asked and names were negotiable.
Sayeed crossed to the counter and slid onto a stool. The bartender—a wiry woman with scarred hands and a metal jaw—glanced up.
"What'll it be?"
"Whiskey. Neat."
She reached for a bottle and started pouring.
"I need a job posted."
The bartender studied him for a moment, then reached beneath the counter. She pulled out a stiff card—standard issue, pre-printed with fields for details—and a pen. She slid both across the scarred wood.
Sayeed took them. The pen felt cheap in his hand, but it worked. He bent over the card, filling in the blanks with quick, deliberate strokes. Job type. Payout range. Requirements. Meeting location.
By the time the bartender set the whiskey glass in front of him, he'd finished.
He slid the card and pen back across the counter. His fingers wrapped around the glass, lifting it as the bartender took the card without a word. She turned and moved to the back wall where a small port sat embedded in the metal plating. She inserted the card with a practiced motion.
A faint beep confirmed the upload.
Sayeed brought the glass to his lips and took a sip. The whiskey burned going down, cheap but honest. He let it settle, the warmth spreading through his chest.
Now came the waiting.
Hopefully I'll be lucky. Gather the crew in one go.
His eyes tracked the room through the mirror behind the bar—the shadowed figures, the quiet exchanges, the careful postures of people who lived on the edge.
Get this done while surprise was still on our side.
He took another sip, savoring the taste.