The medic-bot announced that it had finished poking and scanning her body. Its findings appeared on a screen at the end of its arm. As Welga and the nurse read it, Olafson entered and looked over Welga’s shoulder. He pointed a slender brown finger at the second of three red flags. The first indicated that Welga needed a multiday course of skin juvers and microbials for the new burns. The second outed her seizures and continued anomalous neuromuscular synaptic activity—using those exact words. The third said her forearms must remain immobilized for the next thirty-six hours while her fractured bones knit and set. She’d have to leave her sleeves rigid for the duration.

The nurse spoke first. “Your genetic history indicates a possible predisposition to adverse effects from certain neurological modifiers. We’ll have to restrict your pill access until your condition is cleared.”

Welga gave Olafson a baffled, indignant shrug. “My flow restrictions are old news.” I have no idea what’s going on. Truth. Sort of.

“Thank you,” he said to the nurse. “I’ll authorize an emergency override of the flags and get the director’s approval, as well.” He turned to Welga. “I’m sure Officer Ramírez will look into this once the urgency of present conditions abates.”

“Of course,” she promised.

The medic-bot extended a tray that held a box full of drugs and pills marked by date and time. Next to the container sat a microcard.

“A three-day supply,” the bot said. “And a prescription to dispense the remainder from any device.”

Olafson escorted Welga to the briefing room, a windowless rectangle with an oval table at the center. Twenty people filled the chairs around it. Others stood. She and Olafson leaned against the rear wall. The director took a position up front with a giant flat-screen behind her. Catherine Rice had a crop of iron-gray hair and wore a pantsuit in navy blue. Sharp brown eyes nestled above high cheekbones with a healthy tan.

More people entered. Welga winced as someone bumped into her side.

Director Rice raised a hand for quiet. “First, I would like to formally introduce everyone in this room to each other.” She named them individually before uttering the code word for the project: “Organica.”

Welga recognized some of them, including Anne Crawford. She sat in her wheelchair near the door, her hair still a waterfall of stick-straight blond. The forensics lab tech had helped Welga and Captain Travis put together the final clues before the Marrakech operation. She’d make a good asset for this team.

More than a few eyebrows rose when the director mentioned Welga’s name, but they kept their faces turned to the front of the room. No surprise—this was a disciplined group.