In the relative silence, she accessed her com, saying, “Juri? I’m in. See you in a couple of days.”

“Roger that, Supervisor. We’re headed for the barn.”

The roar of the thrusters changed; the Pod trembled under the blast, vibrating and rattling. Then it lessened, softened, and began to fade as the shuttle cleared the structure and lifted.

“Shit on a shoe,” she whispered to herself. Fought to pull the tangle of her hair into some kind of order. Gave it up for a lost cause.

Once upon a time, she’d have rather died than made a disheveled entrance. Since her landing at the Port Authority shuttle field that first time, those pretensions had slowly given way to the realization that a hand on her holstered pistol, the scars on her face and hands, and her steely laser-blue glare carried a lot more authority than any sartorial perfection.

Michaela Hailwood was waiting at the bottom of the steps with Lee Shinwua and Kel Carruthers in tow. Hailwood had an amazed look on her face. “We were watching on the monitors. We thought you were going to be blown away at any second. Can’t believe you just did that.”

“Yeah, hell of a way to arrive,” Kalico told them, fingers still combing out her hair. “That’s the last time ever that anyone is going to try that trick.”

“It was a bit interesting in here, too, ma’am.” Hailwood told her. “Perhaps we can find a less exciting means of transport back and forth to the mainland. But in the meantime, welcome to Maritime Research. We’re delighted and honored to have you, Supervisor.”

“It’s our distinct pleasure having you aboard,” Shinwua added. “Can we get you anything after your flight?”

“Let me take your bag,” Kel said.

The way they were looking at her, she must have made quite the sight with her wind-blasted hair, quetzal-hide cape and boots, and, under her suit jacket, the claw-shrub-fiber shirt that Yvette Dushane had embroidered with colorful tooth flowers and crest images. Her scars always grabbed their attention. And then there was her utility belt with the aforementioned pistol, large knife, survival pouch, and various tools.

Kalico indicated the hallway that led to the women’s locker room. “Give me five. Then I’ll meet you in the cafeteria. A cup of hot mint tea will be fine.” God, she wanted a whiskey.

Kalico found the facilities to be immaculate, still so new the duraplast walls gleamed. Stepping inside, she dropped her bag on the floor, stumbled over, and braced her arms on the sink. Her heart was still racing, pulse pounding in her ears.

“Damn it, woman,” she told her tousled image in the mirror. “You came within a millimeter of getting yourself killed out there.”