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thumb of Corp. She wouldn’t give Jet the satisfaction. “Tell me what to do, Dad. You fought them. You stood up to Commander Courage and the Prestidigitator. Owl Girl. Velocity. All of those fossils from the glory days.” She reached across the table and gripped Lester’s hand as the guard’s footsteps drew closer in the hall. “You want me to learn what it is to be rabid? Fine. Tell me what to do to hurt Corp.
Really
hurt them.”
    “Enough with this rob-from-the-rich bollocks,” saidLester. “I’ve got a bloke. He can help us hit them so hard and fast, they’ll still be teaching units about you in fifty years.”
    “I want to do it,” Iridium said. “Today made me certain. Jet’s forgotten everything that may have been between us. She’s just another drone, and next time I’m pretty sure she’ll kill me.” Admitting that Jet might be better at
anything
caused a distinct twinge, but Iridium could still feel the shadows feeding on her, taking out everything inside her and leaving a husk …
    “You’ll have to fight dirty, Callie,” said Lester, as the latches on the door hissed open. “Dirty and mean. There can be no quarter with Corp. Make no mistake about that.”

CHAPTER 6
JET
    Sometimes, it seems unfair that an extrahuman would take on mere mortal criminals. What chance does a standard human, a normal, have against someone who can fly, or can bend steel, or can dazzle you with light? But then again, as many extrahumans would tell us, life isn’t fair.
    —Lynda Kidder, “Origins, Part Eight,”
New Chicago Tribune,
May 14, 2112
    Y ou have
got
to be kidding me,” Jet muttered. It figured. The way her day was going, she was about to get mugged.
    As the street tough approached, cracking his knuckles and grinning like a shark, Jet blew out a cleansing breath. If he was more than sixteen, she’d eat her goggles.
    Which Iridium had shorted out.
    She grimaced at the thought. Ops was going to rip her a new orifice for letting Iri get away. Because no matter how Jet tried to rationalize her reactions, that was exactly what had happened. She’d had the woman trapped, and she’d gotten sucker punched when she thought Iri had been hurt.
    screaming she was screaming so sweet so succulent so
    Shut up.
    She clenched her gloved fist. Compassion was death. Next time, she wouldn’t hold back. Iridium was rabid, pure and simple. Like her father.
    The voices giggled, agreed that next time things would be different indeed.
    Jet bit back a hiss. She needed the white noise of her comlink. Where in the Dark was her Runner?
    “Looks like we’ve got us a winged hero,” the gangbanger said, all teeth. “You lost, hero?”
    Jet stood tall. Never mind her aching jaw and sore body; never mind the whispers that had nearly driven her to do something inexcusable to a woman who’d once been her friend. She was in control.
    In the next two seconds—as the teen took two more steps forward—Jet directed herself through the ABC exercise taught to all second-year Academy students, from Introduction to Peacekeeping: analyze, battlescan, confront.
    Analyze.
    Seven toughs, dressed in black leather dusters, black work boots, black fingerless gloves. Faces studded with silver rings in intricate patterns. Clothes and jewelry marked them as Grendels, the gang that lorded it over New Chicago from Grids 3-6, the northern boundary of what the street-savvy residents referred to as Wreck City. Grendels were troublemakers, mostly; into vandalism, petty theft, carjackings. Assault. Some links to the Undergoths and other seedier elements of the city’s Rat Network that ran the black and gray markets. But for the most part, Grendels were all bark, no bite.
    Battlescan.
    They’d moved into a phalanx stance, blocking the alley. Body language and open coats suggested concealed weapons. Leader at point, hands dangling at his sides. Still grinning, his lips and nostrils were littered with silver hoops. Sevenagainst one—either intimidation