Welga ripped the field kit from her clothing and, fractured forearms screaming in protest, injected Connor with every ampoule that Por Qué highlighted. She gave herself a healthy dose of painkillers, too. “How long was I out?”

“You lost consciousness for two minutes and twenty-two seconds. Would you like to review feeds of the interval?”

“Not now.”

They had a meter’s worth of breathable air—for the moment. The two-story ceilings kept most of the smoke above, but she could see it getting thicker. They could run out of time before help arrived.

“Por Qué, are there any exits besides the way we came in?”

“I no longer detect any functional microdrones within this area. Based on exterior cameras, fire is blocking the rear loading dock, the only other exit,” Por Qué said. “The factory floor map shows two paths to the front door. I cannot determine which is safe.”

Welga chose the shorter one.

“Por Qué, modify my sleeves to the most rigid design I own, set to right angles.”

She draped Connor’s body across her shoulders and swallowed a grunt. She ran her right arm through his legs, grabbed his wrist, then tucked her left hand under her right elbow. Smoke burned her nostrils and lungs. She crouched as low as she could and moved. Heat pressed into her like a living thing.

Welga’s muscles twitched, threatening to tip her over. The zip must be wearing off. No time to dig out a new one.

Focus on the green line. Get the hell out. Nothing complicated, nothing she couldn’t do if she tried.

Flames belched across her path.

“Fuck! Por Qué, reroute!”

The green line made a U-turn. Welga doubled back, ducked under a buckled catwalk. A door beckoned on her visual. Smoke blocked the actual view. She held her breath and moved toward the virtual one. Every step hit a new body part with pain. She pushed through the door and let it fall shut behind them.

The air in the lobby blew cool and fresh. The glass entrance lay in shards. A low table was half-buried by blox from malfunctioning chairs.

Welga ducked behind the reception desk, still intact, and let Connor down as gently as she could. The desk WAI sent a courtesy greeting, which she ignored. Her leg spasmed.

“Fucking hell,” she gasped, then subvocalized, “Por Qué, what’s my zip level?”

“Your neuromuscular speed is five percent over baseline. Anomalous synaptic activity detected and reported to Nithya Balachandran. I recommend that you also post the data to epilepsy networks.”

“Maybe later.” But what would be the point? They’d have the same lack of interest as the neurological specialists.

She left her forearms rigid to minimize the damage and awkwardly fished out a fresh zip from her pill pack. She added a buff and juvers to the mix. She’d need the strength if she had to carry Connor again.