It wasn’t nerves, she told herself, it was her body preparing itself to fight. She no longer had the flight instinct—it had been ground out of her by years of training and countless missions for the Agency.
At the bottom of the steps, the corridor stretched off into vantablack infinity, and Enda cursed the Varket’s interior designer. The familiar smack of knuckle on bone resounded through the space. A voice cried out, pitched high enough to be a woman, or a boy not yet hit puberty.
Enda sent Tiny ahead, past one open door, then another, VR immersion rooms empty, images of VOIDWAR projected onto the walls—ships hanging static against a backdrop of stars, their pilots escaped into the real. Tiny reached the last room, the low-resolution camera showing Enda five pixelated figures. One sat slumped in a reclining VR seat, while three others took turns beating him with their fists. One was white, with long red hair, the rest were Asian. One had an ugly bowl cut, one a Mohawk, and the third stood in the corner with a clean-shaven head, clutching a 3D-printed Kalashnikov—the famously reliable weapon rendered un- by the inadequacies of plastic.
Enda pulled Tiny back before it was seen and closed the video feed to clear her vision. Enda crept past the hovering drone and paused outside the door, assailed by the sound of torture.
Enda clenched her hands around the baton and the riot shield grip. With her mind clear of all thought, she stepped into the room, taking in the scene in a single instant. Seeing violence with her own eyes grounded it in the real: it was Khoder Osman in the seat, his face barely recognizable; a swollen, bruised, and bleeding mess. Coppery scent of blood reached her nose, joined by the warm scent of old sweat. The four assailants were male, either teenagers or in their early twenties. Each was dressed in layers of black faded to various shades of gray. Osman’s blood spatter revealed itself only with its wet freshness.
Enda charged the standing guard in the corner. His eyes shot wide, and he brought the Kalashnikov around—too late. Enda slammed the riot shield into him, pinning the gun against his body and his body against the wall. He pulled the trigger and a five-round burst shot across the room, punching holes in the LED screen wall. The other three assailants flinched.
No, not “assailants.” Not even “males.” They were targets. Enda’s face twisted in rage or gruesome joy. In that moment she couldn’t be sure which.
She stepped back and freed the target from the wall, and the gun fell from his hands. Enda stomped his groin, tender flesh caught between boot and bone. He bent over double with a choked howl, and Enda swung the baton at his head. A sickening crack sent vibrations traveling up the length of telescoping metal and into Enda’s hand.
She spun about to face the remaining targets. The redhead backed away, but the other two rushed her. Enda weathered their frantic blows long enough to kick the Kalashnikov behind her and keep it out of the fight, then she struck again. She barged forward, putting her full weight behind the shield, and earned the wet smack of flesh on plastic as Bowl Cut was lifted off his feet. His limbs flailed as he flew back. He hit the wall with a crack of broken glass, and slid to the ground.
“Jin!” Redhead called out in anger.
Mohawk took the opening to hit Enda in the kidney with a left hook—a solid hit, stronger than she expected from the gangly fighter. She swung her baton out and he ducked beneath it, punching twice more, both strikes landing in her gut. Enda swung her elbow, crunch of cartilage breaking as she hit his nose. More blood on the floor to mix with Osman’s. She lifted the shield to cover her front again, baton held loose by her side. Mohawk stepped back, quickly wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand.
Enda’s eyes flicked past Mohawk to Redhead, spotted his Glock knockoff printed in bright red plastic, the sneer as he aimed down the sight, trying for a shot over Mohawk’s shoulder. Silence filled the room, broken only by the groaning of the two targets on the floor and Osman’s wet, ragged breathing.
“Kid, are you still with me?” Enda asked loudly.
Osman sputtered some wordless sounds. Good enough.
“Who the fuck are you?” Redhead asked.
“Concerned citizen,” Enda said. She backed toward the corner, felt her foot knock against the stock of the plastic AK-47.
“Bullshit,” Redhead said. “Drop the weapon.”
Enda threw the baton to the floor where it clattered and bounced, the sound sharp in the stillness.
“Pick it up, Park,” Redhead said, and Mohawk did as he was told, gripping it with both hands like a baseball bat. “Now drop the shield.”
“Leave me and the kid alone, and I’ll let you live,” Enda said. She blinked Tiny’s vision onto her left eye, and turned her head so she could still see Redhead and the black abyss down the barrel of his gun.
“You’ll let me live? That’s fuckin’ cute.”
Enda pushed Tiny into the doorway, its rotors masked by the buzz of shorted screens. Mental schism as Enda saw herself painted on the lens of her contex, crouched behind her shield. She steered Tiny further into the room, and pivoted the drone so the last two targets were centered in its vision.
“Drop the shield,” Redhead said again.
Enda tore off the Velcro strap that kept the shield secured to her arm. As soon as she saw Redhead’s smirk she threw the shield at Mohawk, sent Tiny flying at Redhead’s face, and dropped to the floor. She landed awkwardly, her elbow digging into her side, and
