The door to the lead vehicle—a bulky, black jeep with windows tinted black and no markings—creaks open and out steps a man very much like the vehicle. Thick-chested and dressed in a deep black suit with a dark visor over his eyes. His hands look like they could crush Ify’s head. She can tell from their solidity that they’re made out of metal, just like the rest of him. He too closely resembles the kaftan-wearing security service members who’d once cornered Ify in a hospital bed.

The cars are probably filled with men like him, men made to look like pillars so that their very presence demands compliance. Maybe some of them bear shocksticks or lightknives or small-caliber pistols. Maybe they need none of these things.

The man takes a moment to survey the four of them before his gaze settles on Uzo.

Without a word, he takes three too-fast steps to her, and Ify’s body tenses for action. Uzo doesn’t resist when the man takes her wrist and holds her palm up. He puts his palm to hers, and light flares behind his visor, a red ball blazing a comet trail back and forth. Like this, they stand for several long seconds before the man releases Uzo.

“Uzoamaka Diallo.” Then he turns to Ify. “Your sister has been cleared for transport to Centrafrique. Our brief indicated that you will be accompanying her.”

Ify stutters through her relief. “Y-yes. Me and”—she looks around for Grace—“me and my assistant. We were here for a medical mission, and we need to return to the Colonies and—”

Grace steps forward, interrupting Ify, and sticks out her own palm. “Grace Leung,” she says and allows herself to be scanned.

Ify chastises herself, and it isn’t until then that she realizes how nervous she is.

The man returns to his vehicle and opens the back door. “Ms. Leung? Dr. and Ms. Diallo?” He inclines his head to the back seat. “Our brief indicated that your travel request be accommodated immediately. And that your matter is urgent.”

“It is,” Ify says softly.

Grace and Uzo walk ahead, but Ify is rooted where she stands. The two are climbing into the back of the vehicle when Ify feels a hand on her shoulder and turns to find Ngozi staring at her, a new compassion in her eyes.

“Go,” she tells Ify. When Ify doesn’t move, Ngozi leans in close and whispers. “Onyii will be remembered. I will make sure of it.” She pats Ify roughly on the shoulder, then heads to her mech.

She pushes herself forward, one step, then another, until she’s in the back seat with Grace and Uzo, and it isn’t until she sits that she lets herself believe that they’ve been rescued, that this isn’t a trap. That these people are not preparing to betray her.