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fighting, that there’s a meeting in, oh, two minutes.”
    Crap. “I’ll be there as soon as I drop these packages off at the Sixteenth. Out.”
    Jet tapped her comlink, replacing Meteorite’s voice with the white noise of a waterfall. It wouldn’t be enough to keep the Shadow voices at bay, not forever. But for now, it would do.
    She summoned a floater of Shadow big enough to hold White Hot, Were, Slider, and the thief, then she called up one for herself. It took a moment to create a graymatter leash to connect the two floaters. It took a little longer for Jet to massage away the headache.
    Dragging the unconscious rabids and gibbering human on the disc behind her, Jet flew to the Sixteenth precinct, just inside of Grid 16—what many people referred to as Wreck City.
    Iridium’s city.
    Jet deposited the four people in front of the building, wondering if Iri was fighting against the madness infecting New Chicago and the rest of the Americas or reveling in it. Then again, Jet admitted to herself, she really didn’t want to find out.
    After leaving a note for Commissioner Wagner, Jet was going to take off to old Wrigley Field for the meeting—she was already late, and the last thing she wanted to deal with was Frostbite’s grumbling. But after tucking the note into White Hot’s shoulder strap, Jet noticed that she had an audience. Civilians, ranging from early twenties to late seventies, based on outward appearances. None of them looked hostile, which was something. A few seemed curious. And one or two actually looked relieved. And blissfully, there was no media.
    “Hey,” one of the civilians said—an auburn-haired man in sunglasses. “Littering’s a crime, innit?”
    She couldn’t help it; she smiled. “Just dropping off a care package for Commissioner Wagner, citizen.”
    The man grinned. “You don’t think he’d maybe prefer some freshly baked cookies next time?”
    That actually made her laugh. “Next time,” she said, “maybe someone will be as thoughtful for me.”
    And with that, Jet rocketed away.

CHAPTER 4
    IRIDIUM
“I lost a daughter. My work, every second of my life, are geared toward making sure no other parent has to experience that void inside them.”
—Interview with Matthew Icarus on 60 Minutes,
January 19, 1970
    I ridium’s warehouse crouched back from the street, like a shy animal or a sleeping bum, grit and dirt and teeth on the outside hiding what lay within.
    She hit the code for the door—an old-fashioned keypad that couldn’t be sliced by any hack with a wireless rig. You had to get up close and personal to break in, and an equally ancient biometric scanner ensured that anyone besides Iridium or her assistant Boxer would get a healthy jolt from the city power grid.
    Inside, Boxer sat with his back to the door, his shoes off, his feet in their mismatched socks propped on the shipping crate Iridium used as a table. A holo played on the wall, 3-D film explosions painting the wide, high space in sunset.
    “Sitting on your ass is a good way to get a cap in it,” Iridium said.
    Boxer jumped up, knocking over his soda and redimeal. He cursed. “Sneaking up on me’s a hobby for you, ain’t it?”
    “Your own fault, old man. You didn’t used to be so sloppy.” Iridium grabbed her own meal from the freezer and shoved it into the cooker before she sat opposite Boxer. They’d developed a routine since they’d made their agreement—Boxer worked for her instead of gang running, and Iridium provided food, shelter, and the occasional 3-D film night.
    Boxer wasn’t a brother, or an uncle—he was just Boxer, Academy washout, cranky old man, and the closest thing to a friend she had.
    “I figure we ain’t worried about the Squadron anymore.” He shrugged. “Why do I need to guard the door?”
    “Maybe because of the unmitigated chaos just beyond our doorstep?” Iridium got up again when the cooker chirped and pulled her meal out by the edges, peeling back the film and