“No, we saved their ass,” Hassan said. He’d been on point at the time, not a desk man. “Protesters, on the other hand, send bots in their place because they’re cheap. If they’re a well-funded cause, they’ll use ones with exteriors that look standard but have guts made of smart-metal. Keep your weapons loaded with sticky pellets and your bullets stowed.”

“Is this typical?”

Welga almost laughed at Ammanuel’s expression. When she’d started shield work, she’d been as naive about its realities.

“Yes. Human shields cost more, but we’re good publicity for our clients,” Hassan said. “When we get hurt, people feel bad about it, and they see our pain as a penalty for the client. We humanize them. Protesting is the art of agitating for your cause without causing real harm, which would be bad for the protesters’ reputations. They want attention and donations. We want to show that our client is only defending themself and feels the protesters’ pain.”

“We don’t ever shoot to kill, not protes, not exfactors,” Welga said. “That would create a lousy image for our clients. The camera swarms catch everything, and the public—barring a few sick exceptions—doesn’t like to watch real people die. We always carry basic field kits. Just because the protesters send bots doesn’t mean we don’t get injured. The audience likes to see us struggle. Makes it more exciting to watch. The primary thing to remember is that we aren’t going into combat. We’re performing a service, key word perform. We need to fight pretty, we need to destroy our attackers, we need to bleed—a little—and we need to keep the client clean. Oh, and remember to smile for the cameras. You get more tips that way.” A reminder blinked in Welga’s visual. “Go time on zips.”

She fished her pill case out of her pocket. The rectangular box had worn down at the edges, but the initials S.M.B. were still clearly engraved on the metal cover. It had been a gift from Welga’s grandfather to his wife, and Grandma had pressed it into Welga’s hand when she moved to a nursing home.

I’m done with candy, she’d said. You use it for whatever you want.

Fifteen years later, it still smelled faintly of mints.

“Don’t waste your time on that stuff,” Hassan said. His basso rumble held the lilt of a smile. “Ammanuel has some gifts for you all, courtesy of Jackson’s research team.”

“You’re putting us on experimental stuff?” Welga said.

“Not experimental. Cutting-edge. It’s been tested.”

Ammanuel shrugged and then loosed the grin playing around their lips. In their outstretched hand lay three white pills that looked like every other zip: round in shape, about four millimeters in diameter, thin enough to lie beneath the tongue.