Whatever Julian wanted, Sabra suspected, Julian got. The thought buzzed around her brain as she ran the first leg of her morning run, from her apartment to the edge of Lake Geneva. There she stood and caught her breath, looking out over the water. If not for the Jura mountains beyond, it was almost like home.

  That, and the small island: the Garden of Lions. A monument to the heroes of the Golden Age, and a memorial for the Collapse dead. Even on the shore, she could make out the scores of marble statues and intricate gardens.

  She’d wanted to go there once, back when she’d arrived in Geneva, but just hadn’t found the time. That, and Revenant had said it was a place for somber reflection on the cost of duty and not a place for you to make faces while you take selfies with the big kitty cat statue, Kasembe.

  Something about the island helped her think, or maybe it was just the water. She still hadn’t cracked the secrets of meditation, and Blueshift had been about as successful as her father had been when it came to imparting that skill to her—which was to say, not at all. But here, on the shore of the lake, she felt closer to grasping it. Closer than she ever had on Asclepion.

  It was funny, in a way. She’d started her superheroic career because she had wanted to make her parents proud, and old friends with underworld connections had been instrumental to it. One thing had led to another, she chalked up a few wins, and ended up with the name Defiant. It’d mostly been a joke, a way to get under the skin of the foreign custodians whom the IESA had installed. But it had a ring to it, and so it had stuck.

  Sabra took a breath, centered herself, and let her mind slip out toward the horizon. The currents of the future flowed around her, rushing through her fingers. Still, that feeling of imminence. This task for Julian would draw her closer to whatever was lurking in the deep. If he was involved—hadn’t she seen it, a bright flash, in her dreams—then it was better to be closer to him.

  They weren’t friends, though. Sabra was smart enough to see that. Maybe they would be in the future, but not yet. But Defiant and Illuminant could work together as associates. It wasn’t like she had been doing anything else, anyway. Perhaps it’d even give her an excuse to take her suit out for a spin.

  Sabra checked her phone. Still no news from Revenant. She took one last look across the lake, at the Garden of Lions, and was struck by the distinct impression she’d get there one day.

  Ah well, she thought.

  Maybe tomorrow.

  Julian had said that the man who had blown himself up was named Andreas Adams, and that he was homeless. Her father had said that some of the homeless people he knew had gone missing. Sabra didn’t need to be Pavel Fisher to see the connection there. She made a mental note to give the old man a call.

  Sabra pulled on her lucky green hoodie and headed out. When it came to luck, she was pretty sure she didn’t believe in it—pretty sure—and would rather trust in her skills than outrageous fortune, but why not lean on the scales?

  One thing Geneva shared with Asclepion was how walkable it was. Even crossing the whole city wasn’t any great difficulty. She passed by Cornavin station—or what was left of it. People were laying wreathes and bunches of flowers and almost everyone was crying. One of the first lessons her mother had taught Sabra was that crying didn’t solve anything. The pang of empathy behind her ribs flared against a buzzing sense of irritation.

  Her father, on the other hand, had taught her humanity in a phrase: I am because you are. Even on Asclepion, he had given his time and energy to help others. It was why she had ended up on the trail of the Animals. These days, he worked in a compassionate shelter just south of Parc La Grange.

  From the outside, it looked more like a reinforced bomb shelter than a refuge for the homeless. Her father, with his love of history, had explained it once: Switzerland had about half a million shelters and bunkers scattered across the nation, some of them dating back about a hundred years. An immense network of warehouses, medical bays, and command centers.

  It was startling to Sabra—beyond the rock itself, nothing about Asclepion had been older than about twenty years—but Revenant had supported it: the installations of the pre-Golden Age world had become the core of Switzerland’s immense Fortress Network. If the Collapse ever reached the heart of the Functioning World, the Swiss would be ready. Until then, they’d give the less fortunate some places to sleep.

  Some of them, anyway.

  As she approached the shelter, she met an oncoming parade of individuals. They looked more like her than not. One of them spat at her, which was gross, but whatever. Were she in their shoes, maybe she’d spit at someone, too.

  Sabra stepped through the open doorway, glancing at the reinforced metal door, and walked into the shelter. The security guard was something of a surprise, but she gave him a sharp nod like she was supposed to be there, and kept moving. He didn’t challenge her.

  Inside, the walls and floor were painted an institutional beige. Everything was metal and concrete, and none of it struck Sabra as particularly welcoming. The most colorful thing Sabra could see was a blue triangle on an orange background. “I’m sorry,” a woman said, stepping out of an office. “But we only open for occupants past 7PM.”

  Sabra turned to her, shrugged. “Is my father in?”

  “Your father.”

  “Uh, yeah. Esmer Kasembe.”

  “Oh!” Recognition flickered across her features. “You must be Esmer’s daughter! Yes, he is. I think he’s in the kitchen.”

  “Cool, thanks,” Sabra said, and set off.

  She passed by some rooms filled with beds that did not look comfortable, and found the kitchen. It was as industrial as the rest of the place. Her father had his back to her, cleaning a pot in the sink. He sang softly as he worked. He had about six inches on her which meant, even if he was hunched over the sink, he was likely the tallest person the shelter had ever seen.

  “Hey, papa.”

  Her father turned. A moment’s confusion gave way to a broad smile.

  “Little lioness! What brings you here?”

  Now, that was the question. But she’d never lied to her parents, and she wasn’t about to start now.

  “Do you remember what you said, about the missing homeless people?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were any of them American?”

  Her father frowned, thinking it over.

  “American? No, I don’t think so. Why?”

  “I’m just looking for someone named Andreas Adams.”

  Her father shook his head. “No, I don’t think I’ve met an Andreas.”

  Sabra nodded, and thought of what Blueshift might ask next—something practical and direct.

  “Does this place keep records?”

  It did. Her father led her to a back office where she went through the lists. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she could feel something. There was something here, in this room, so close. She knew it like the motion of her limbs, as her fingers flipped through pages.

  But still, nothing.

  “Is this for work?” her father asked.

  Sabra exhaled, and nodded. “Yes.”

  He gave her an easy smile. “Legitimate or illegitimate?”

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Papa!” But she smiled back. Back in the day, when she’d been stealing car radios to impress a girl, he’d covered for her and run interference, but nothing could get past her mother. You’ve tried to raise her on books and compassion, her mother had said, but someone needs to keep the two of you on the straight and narrow.

  “Legitimate, I think. A friend is looking into it. I thought I’d check in with you, just to cover all bases.”

  Her father nodded. “Your friend? I think she came by a few weeks ago.”

  Sabra frowned. “I’m sorry—what?”

  Her father looked about as surprised as she was.

  “A woman,” he said. “It must’ve been a month ago. She said she was looking for you. She certainly looked like one of your friends—you’ve certainly made some interesting ones, of late.”

  Including the man who shot me went unsaid. But from her father’s perspective, that was a compliment.

  “What did you tell her?” Sabra asked.

  “Nothing,” he replied. “Because were she your friend, she wouldn’t need to ask me.”

  Her father hadn’t always been the kind of man to give his time and energy to the homeless of a foreign country. The kind of man who got shot aboard a refugee ship. He never spoke about it, deflected all questions leading to it, but Sabra got the sense his instincts hadn’t dulled.

  “You don’t know her?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so. Does this place have security cameras?”

  Her father nodded, and turned to the computer. Between the two of them, they managed to track down the archived security footage. Sabra leaned back and examined the monitor as her father scanned through the recordings.

  “Here,” her father said. “There she is.”

  The woman was tall and broad, wearing a loose tunic with intricate tattoos down her arms. The monochromatic footage and the camera angle obscured anything else, but the sense of premonition was so strong that only the fact Sabra grabbed the counter to steady herself stopped it from smiting her to her knees.

  “Sabra?” her father asked. “Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine,” she replied. “I’ve just never seen her before in my life.”

  Christ and Allah, who was that woman?

  By evening, Sabra was no closer to having any idea. But whenever she thought about that image of her, Sabra’s mind hummed with the impression of something important. Like the first notes of a half-remembered song.

  Was she one of Julian’s people? Maybe, but probably not. Because if his people were already working on it, then why would he need someone else? And, more to the point, the mysterious woman had visited her father a month before the bombing. Whoever it was, whatever she wanted, it wouldn’t be related to the bombing. Not if she’d struck up a conversation with her father.

  Just who was she, this woman who Sabra had never seen in the flesh, yet knew of her enough to know where her father worked, but had never approached her directly?

  What did she want?

  A knock at the balcony door. Sabra turned and there Revenant stood, golden inlays burning in the night. Even were all the stars to go out, she’d know her by that simple sight. Sabra opened the door and realized that, not for the first time, her mind was beginning to decide that the distinct tang of Revenant’s thrusters was not unattractive.

  Revenant stepped inside, tapping her knuckles to Sabra’s bicep as she passed. “Got you something,” she said, and turned, producing a tub of ice cream from behind her back.

  “I’ve heard that one of the virtues of ice cream is that it is a food one can use for either celebration or comfort. I’ll put this in the freezer until we’ve figured out how you’ll be eating it.”

  “Awesome,” Sabra said. “How’ve you been?”

  “I was indisposed with debriefings and repairs until twenty-seven minutes ago,” she replied, shutting the freezer. “How’re you?”

  The thought to tell her about her underworld job rose in Sabra’s throat, but she crushed it down. It was not a conversation she wanted to have. Not yet. “Fine. Keeping busy.”

  “And your parents?”

  “Managing. But no changes.”

  “I’ll transfer some additional funds to your account.”

  “Rev, you don’t have to—”

  “Yes, yes, you’re very proud, Kasembe, but no lioness prospers alone.”

  Sabra smiled and stepped over to draw Revenant into her arms. She endured it like a put-upon cat.

  “Hey, Rev, I’ve got a question.”

  “Yes, you could eat that whole tub in one sitting. No, I don’t want to watch.”

  Sabra laughed. “No, actually. I have something I’d like you to look up. Do you think you could do that for me? Y’know, with your IESA credentials?”

  “I could, but everything I pull from the SOLARIA database requires me to lodge an indication of necessity. Unfortunately, ‘my girlfriend asked me’ is not likely to qualify. But I can compile information from other sources.”

  “I think we can just start with the empowered register. I’m looking for—” Oh, how to put it, “—a woman.”

  Revenant, looking up at her, cocked her head.

  “A woman,” she said, in her usual tone.

  “It’s not what you think!” Sabra replied, laughing. “She came by the shelter my father works at and, well, she was asking about me. Dad showed me some footage, I’ve got no idea who she is.”

  “I see. Did you get a copy of the footage?”

  Sabra shook her head. “I didn’t think about that, sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. Description then, Kasembe.” And, after a moment: “Please.”

  “Tall. Not as tall as me, but close. Muscles. Dark hair; skin color might be, I don’t know, light brown? Lighter than me. But she had these really distinctive tattoos on her arms. Black, like there was more ink than skin.”

  “Hmm,” Revenant replied, which could’ve meant anything.

  “Do you have something?”

  “Not yet. It sounds like I’ll need to check more than just the public IESA registry. In the interests of thoroughness, it will take some time.”

  Sabra glanced back toward the bathroom, and smiled broadly.

  “Well, I’ve got an idea how we can kill some time.”

  Sabra took her t-shirt by the hem as she made for the bathroom, tugged it over her head, and threw it across the living space. She thought she noted a shift in Revenant’s armored feet.

  “It occurs to me,” Sabra said, “that there’s something we haven’t done.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. Revenant stood by the kitchen counter, hands clasped behind her back. “And thus, did Alexandra weep.”

  “Come on, you’re waterproof...”

  “Sabra, I am not going to fuck you in the shower.”

  There it was, that gentle frisson that erupted from the back of her neck and down her arms and spine, forcing her to clench her fists. “Aren’t you?” Sabra asked, laughing. To hear Revenant cuss like that—it was like having an angel spit in her face. She professed such a lack of humanity, but Sabra wasn’t so sure.

  So, she shimmied out of her jeans and turned the taps and set the water for something close to hot, letting steam billow out through the bathroom and cloak her. More for effect than anything else—Revenant’s sensors wouldn’t be beguiled by anything as basic as water vapor. She stepped into the shower, turned toward the shower head and let the water cascade over her face.

  A hand between her shoulder blades shoved her against the tiles. How quietly she could move, Sabra thought, when she put her mind to it. The tiles were cold against her cheek, but that wasn’t why her skin prickled. How stimulating it was, that she had just about thought she’d failed. That she’d found her limit.

  Revenant’s lips grazed her ear.

  “The previous statement,” she whispered, “was false.”

  “I don’t like the way she looks at you,” Revenant said, later.

  Atop her bed, with her cheek to Revenant’s sternum, like she could hear some sign of her starfire heart, Sabra stirred. She stopped tracing the subtle angular geometries that demarcated sections of Revenant’s left arm, let her gaze follow Revenant’s line of sight through the doorway to the kitchenette, seeking the source of her displeasure. It took her a moment.

  “My toaster?”

  “Mm,” Revenant replied. “I don’t care how well she toasts your bread—she’s nothing but a chrome-plated hussy.”

  Sabra laughed, sitting up. “You left me alone, babe—a girl has needs!”

  Revenant raised her right arm. Her fingers folded back into themselves, hand splitting along those lines, panels opening along her forearm, complex mechanics unfolding into position, turning her wrist into a barrel that glowed with the same intensity as her eyes. It spun up with an ominous hum.

  “Wouldn’t be the first toaster I’ve terminated,” she said. But an expression flickered across her face then, and she paused, and Sabra reached over to grab at her arm-cannon and drag it toward her.

  “You wanna talk about it?”

  Revenant’s arm shifted back into its humanoid configuration—panels sliding back into place, barrel receding, hand spinning back into place at the wrist joint. She flexed it once, then took Sabra’s hand in her own. “No,” she said. “You haven’t unwrapped Samantha’s gift yet.”

  Sam had bought her—them—what she’d called a gift for the new couple. A power drill, which she’d wrapped by slapping a pink bow on it. It sat on top of her bedside table, where Sam had left it. Revenant had said it would’ve been an excellent gift—had she been something a hobbyist could take apart in their garage.

  “Do you think they’re okay?” Sabra asked. “Jack and Sam.”

  “They’re staying out of trouble. Anything else is not our concern.”

  Sabra nodded, yawning, and let a finger trace one of the panel lines on Revenant’s left leg, down to the point near her knee joint where skin abruptly gave way to metal and armor. Her skin didn’t feel quite like skin, and Revenant resented the term. It isn’t skin, she had said. Think of it more like cladding.

  “We should get some sleep,” Revenant said, not that she needed it.

  It was something she said because Sabra cherished the few times they got to sleep together. The sex was one thing, sure, but the quiet moments were another. Revenant didn’t need to sleep, but she did need time to run diagnostics, compose reports, and process intel. And sometimes, that time could be spent in her bed.

  “You’ll be here when I wake up?”

  “Unless something comes up,” Revenant said, closing her eyes. “Sleep well, Sabra. I’ll be processing some reports. Call me if you need me.”

  And with that, she closed her eyes and went silent. The lights and indicators on her headpiece shifted into another set of patterns. Her attention, for lack of a better term, was elsewhere—mostly. Aware, but not quite sensate. Once, to test her, Sabra had waved her hand in front of her face as she ‘slept’, only to be admonished for rudeness the next morning.

  Sabra set her head back down between Revenant’s breasts, and was aware that her chest did not rise and fall. It was the sort of thing she only really noticed now, confronted with the thought that her girlfriend wasn’t human. Just faking it for appearances.

  Just pretending.

  These were the thoughts that come to Sabra at night. When she was alone in bed or with an ear to Revenant’s chest, imagining she could hear a low purr or a subtle, oscillating hum. Some secret sign of her starfire heart.

  She’s not like you. She’s smarter than you. She finds you entertaining, like a pet. When she makes you smile or laugh or come, she’s calculated some strategy to do exactly that. She’s merely toying with you, Sabra. Because she’s one third of a lost tripartite deity with the face of a woman, the heart of a sun, and weapons that give gods pause.

  Do not, Blueshift had said, anthropomorphize her.