Por Qué turned off the dummy’s WAI as Welga dropped into the hammock. She sipped at a glass of icy hibiscus tea. The dust storm had scoured the outer paneling of the house, leaving behind whorls like fingerprints. If only the Machinehood had left more behind.

Welga had Por Qué looking out for data, but her agent was only as effective as her queries, and she didn’t know what she was searching for. Gathering information by making connections, talking to people, earning their trust—that was what Captain Travis had taught her about intelligence work. It never leaves you, not entirely, he’d said. Some part of your brain will cross-check conversations, track behavior, put information together in unusual ways that no WAI can. Using force should be your last resort.

The enemy had come straight to their floor. They’d dodged Welga to go for Jackson. Murder. Assassination. How old-fashioned. You couldn’t get away with that when the cameras were rolling. Some news-seeking gigster would find you out, always. So it was a suicide mission all along. Why didn’t the body explode sooner?

She recalled the arm moving, trying to dig out. Dead by the time she arrived, though. Was that it? Explosion triggered by loss of pulse, as Hassan had indicated? But if it were an android, a bot rather than a human, then it wouldn’t have a pulse.

Welga’s leg twitched. “Por Qué, what’s my recovery status?”

“Lactic acid is within tolerance. Heart rate is twenty percent over baseline. Blood sugar is medium-low. UV exposure is seventy-five percent of maximum. Per your medical team’s recommendations, you should spend the next fifteen minutes on flexibility and range of motion.”

“I’ll do that.”

“I’ve sent the data associated with your tremor to Nithya Balachandran, as you previously authorized. Based on the latest event, the involuntary neuromuscular activity occurs when your zip level drops below twenty percent effectiveness relative to baseline.”

“Thanks, Por Qué. I’m sure she’ll find that interesting.”

Her muscles had cooled to stone and trembled with the effort of getting off the hammock. She rolled the training-dummy contraption into the garage. Nothing left in the open would last long in Phoenix’s dust storms.

Footsteps crunched toward her as she emerged. They belonged to someone dressed casually in jeans, a T-shirt, and a cap pulled low over a bearded face. Too slender to be Hassan, and why would he be here anyway? Welga stepped back into the shadows and took another duo-zip. People who arrived unannounced with obscured faces were rarely on a friendly visit.

“Por Qué, send a private request for ID,” she murmured. Worth a shot before she jumped them.

“They’ve replied with the name Arvindh Olafson, trans male, using male pronouns, employed by the Joint Intelligence Agency,” Por Qué said.