Round Rock, Texas, in 1985 was not a city. It was a glorified truck stop with a zip code.

  I stood on the edge of County Road 132, the heat radiating off the asphalt in shimmering waves. To my left was a barbed-wire fence holding back a few despondent-looking Longhorns. To my right was a sprawling expanse of scrub oak, limestone jagged rocks, and prickly pear cactus.

  "You want to buy this?"

  Robert Mercer stood beside the Lincoln, wiping sweat from his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief. He looked out at the desolate landscape with the expression of a man who had just been asked to invest in a humidity farm on Mars.

  "It's rocks and rattlesnakes, Rudra," he said. "It's not even good grazing land. That's why Silas Miller has been trying to offload it for five years."

  I adjusted my sunglasses. They were Ray-Bans—too big for my face, but they hid the blue glow of the interface flickering in my retinas.

  I wasn't seeing the scrubland. I was seeing the overlay.

  > SEARCH: DELL HEADQUARTERS LOCATION HISTORY > RESULT: 1 DELL WAY, ROUND ROCK, TX. CONSTRUCTED 1994. PRIOR STATUS: AGRICULTURAL/VACANT.

  I focused on the empty field. The Mind Browser superimposed a ghost image over the reality.

  Where Robert saw cactus, I saw glass atriums. Where he saw a dirt track, I saw a four-lane boulevard filled with engineers driving Toyota Camrys. I saw the epicenter of the PC revolution.

  "I don't want the grass, Dad," I said, kicking a loose rock. "I want the zoning."

  "There is no zoning here," Robert sighed. "It's unincorporated county land. There are no utilities. No water main. No sewage. If you want to build anything bigger than a barn, you'll have to pay to run the pipes yourself. That will cost more than the land."

  "I won't pay for it," I said, turning back to the car. " The taxpayers will."

  Robert paused, his hand on the door handle. "Travis?"

  "Travis needs a win," I said, opening the rear door. "Downtown is gridlocked. The environmentalists are blocking the Barton Creek development in the South. He's squeezed. He needs a new direction for the city to grow."

  I pointed North, toward the empty horizon. "He needs a corridor."

  Robert looked at me, then back at the empty field. He shook his head, a small, baffled smile playing on his lips. "You're wicked, Rudra. Truly wicked."

  "I'm efficient," I corrected. "Now, let's go visit the Mayor."

  City Hall in Austin was a building that smelled of floor wax and compromise.

  Travis Mercer's office was corner-facing, filled with flags, plaques, and photos of him shaking hands with people who mattered. He was sitting behind his desk, looking at a map of the city like a general losing a war.

  "The Salamander people are suing again," Travis groaned as we walked in. He didn't even say hello. He just gestured at a stack of legal files. "They found a blind amphibian in the creek bed near the proposed mall site. Construction is halted. Investors are pulling out. I look like an idiot."

  "Hello to you too, Travis," Robert said, taking a seat. "I brought you lunch. And a solution."

  Travis looked up, eyeing the takeout bag from the BBQ joint. "I don't need lunch, Dad. I need a miracle. Or a way to pave over a creek without the Sierra Club crucifying me."

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  "Forget the South," I said from the back of the room. I was looking at the large city map on the wall.

  Travis swiveled his chair. "Excuse me?"

  "The South is a trap," I said, walking up to the map. "Too many environmental regulations. Too much old money fighting over views. You can't build an empire in a nature preserve."

  I tapped a spot on the map, way off the top edge, where the lines turned into blank paper.

  "Go North," I said.

  Travis laughed. "North? Round Rock? That's commute hell. Nobody lives there except farmers."

  "Not yet," I said. "But look at the topography. It's flat. It's limestone bedrock—perfect for heavy foundations. No aquifers to contaminate. No blind salamanders."

  I turned to face him. "Dad tells me you're looking for an infrastructure bond to put on the November ballot. You want to upgrade the downtown sewer system."

  "It's not sexy," Travis admitted. "But the pipes are fifty years old."

  "Voters hate sewer bonds," I said. "They love 'Growth Initiatives.' Change the bond measure. Propose a 'North Austin Technology Corridor.' Extend the water and power lines up I-35 to the county line."

  Travis frowned, considering it. "A Tech Corridor? For who? IBM is already settled. TI is in Dallas."

  "Build the road, and they will come," Robert interjected smoothly. He had caught the play. "If you run the utilities, the land becomes viable for commercial campuses. You're not just fixing pipes, Travis; you're expanding the tax base."

  Travis stood up and walked to the map. He traced the highway line with his finger.

  "The North creates jobs," Travis murmured. "The South saves lizards. I can sell that. 'Jobs vs. Lizards.' It plays well in the suburbs."

  He looked at me, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Why do you care about municipal bonds, Rudra? Last month you only cared about your guitar."

  "I'm just looking out for the family legacy," I lied effortlessly. "And I hate traffic."

  Travis grinned. "Alright. I'll draft a proposal for the City Council. The 'Mercer Corridor.' Has a nice ring to it."

  "Call it the 'Innovation Corridor'," Robert advised. "Less ego, more votes."

  As we left the office, Robert leaned in close to me.

  "You just got the city to pay for your plumbing," he whispered. "That adds... what? Half a million to the land value?"

  "Conservatively," I said. "Now, let's go buy the dirt before Travis announces the bond."

  Silas Miller's farmhouse looked like it was held together by termites and spite.

  We sat on his porch, drinking iced tea that was 90% sugar. Silas was seventy, with skin like cured leather and hands that looked like tree roots. He was eyeing Robert's suit with deep suspicion.

  "I told the last fella," Silas spat, aiming a stream of tobacco juice at a potted plant. "I ain't selling for less than five hundred an acre. I know what I got."

  He didn't know what he had. He had the future site of a Fortune 500 company.

  "Mr. Miller," Robert said, using his best country-lawyer voice. "Five hundred is steep for scrub. The cattle can't eat rock. The access road is gravel."

  "It's five hundred," Silas insisted. "Take it or leave it."

  I kicked Robert under the table. Pay the man.

  "My client," Robert said, gesturing vaguely to me, "is willing to meet your price. On one condition."

  Silas narrowed his eyes. "What condition?"

  "A quick close. Cash. Ten days."

  Silas froze. In 1985, in a depressed Texas economy, nobody paid cash. Everything was financed, leveraged, and slow.

  "Cash?" Silas asked, his voice cracking.

  "Certified check," I spoke up. "Bhairav Holdings takes possession on October 1st."

  Silas looked at me, then at Robert. He let out a wheezing laugh.

  "Well, hell," Silas slapped his knee. "If you city slickers want to pay half a million dollars for a pile of limestone, who am I to stop you? I'll move to Florida and fish 'til I die."

  Robert pulled the contract out of his briefcase. "Sign here, Mr. Miller."

  As the pen scratched across the paper, I felt a familiar rush. It wasn't the adrenaline of the Plaza Accord trade. This was different. That was paper money. This was zamindari—landlordism.

  I now owned 1,000 acres of the future.

  NARRATIVE MECHANIC: THE WIDE LENS Target: Silas Miller Location: The Bluebonnet Diner, Round Rock Time: Two Hours Later

  The diner was noisy, smelling of fried chicken and grease. Silas Miller walked in like a conquering hero, waving a copy of the deposit check.

  "Drinks are on me, boys!" he hollered.

  The three other old men at the counter turned around.

  "You sell the South Pasture, Si?" asked Old Man Jenkins.

  "Sold it?" Silas laughed, slamming the check on the counter. "I robbed 'em! Some fancy lawyer from Austin and his kid. Paid full asking price! Cash!"

  The diner erupted in laughter.

  "What are they gonna do with it?" the waitress asked, pouring him a beer. "Raise goats?"

  "Who cares?" Silas wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. "That land is cursed. Too rocky to plow, too dry to graze. I've been trying to get rid of it since '75. Those city fools think they bought a ranch. They bought a rock quarry!"

  "To the city fools!" Jenkins toasted.

  "To the fools!" the diner chorused, clinking cheap beer bottles.

  Outside the window, a lone survey truck drove by, heading north. Nobody noticed.