When she saw the four armed soldiers at the end of the driveway to headquarters, Welga wanted to cry in relief.

“Holy shit,” one soldier said as they caught sight of Khandro.

Another talked into a handheld radio. Welga stumbled as she exited the trike and held out her thumb.

“Any of you got a zip on you?” she asked while they checked her DNA on an ancient, palm-size tablet. Where had they dug that thing up from?

The whine of engines reached them before the vehicles—two armored trucks and an ambulance, all driven by human beings. Not a bot in sight, not even a medic. A lazy smile played across Khandro’s lips as they secured her in one of the trucks.

Welga slipped the duo-zip from the gate guard under her tongue. She and Olafson rode in the other truck into an underground garage. Armed and armored soldiers surrounded them, their rapid motions indicating quad-zips, their weapons trained on the dakini. A tunnel led into the bowels of the building. Their escort stopped outside a solid gray door set into a blank, off-white wall. Inside, a room with basic surfaces and no windows awaited their prisoner. A single chair sat bolted to the middle of the floor. Two officers strapped Khandro to the seat with broad metal bands around her torso and legs. Their prisoner stayed passive through the process, eyes half-closed.

Olafson took Welga by the elbow. “We’re needed upstairs.”

She held back her protest until they stood in the hallway. “That is my capture! I’ve done field interrogations. I should—”

“You’re not cleared for it. Those two are. Rice told us to be back for the briefing. We have five minutes to get upstairs.”

As they rode up the elevator, Welga’s reflection stared at her from the mirrored walls. Her hair had transformed into a windblown bird’s nest. Shadows cradled her eyes. Smoke stains streaked her clothes. Real fieldwork neither demanded nor supported looking good the way shielding did, but goddamn did she want some soap, hot water, clean clothes, and makeup.

When they stepped out, the sight of bots roaming the hallways made Welga freeze for a moment. Stupid. The rest of the world could lose its shit over the Machinehood, but she couldn’t let the paranoia infect her. They walked into the meeting room, once again crowded to the point of standing.

Director Rice saw them enter and waved them over. Fatigue lined her eyes and hollowed her cheeks, same as most of the faces in the room. Her navy-blue blazer hung open, revealing a rumpled shirt.

She gripped Welga’s shoulder. “Good work, Ramírez. I’m glad you’re in one piece this time.”

“Thank you. I’d like—”

Rice stopped her with a raised hand and passed her a tether. “We’ll watch from here.”