Not by any of the Io boys; I was pretty sure of that. Because that brave gang will always attack when the odds are five to one in their favor. And not by the police either: They've always left us alone. Someone else.
I circled Jupiter's fifth moon warily, searching a half million square miles of space for the suspected other rocket, but my instruments detected nothing man-made. So I radioed the password and hastily set down in the mouth of a giant natural cave entrance—the airlock of our underground hideout.
While air hissed into the chamber I strapped on my weapons belt and glanced in the doorway mirror. Not—mind you—because there's anything particularly feminine about me, but it's still such a surprise not to find a face full of claw marks that I studied my appearance with a kind of stranger's curiosity. Even without scars, I would hardly call myself an attractive girl.
My black dyed hair had reverted to its original blond shade, and the same shoulder length it had had two years ago when I was matrixed. I had a fifteen-year-old's applecheeked complexion, and thick eyebrows that met above the bridge of my long thin nose and cried out for plucking. My ears were too large and my jaw rather sharply angular. Only my neck seemed gracefully proportioned—long, finely sculptured.
At the rest, sheathed in a black metallic leotard, I could only shrug.
The airlock opened. Chin uplifted, I strode from my ship with python whip coiled in my hand, steel claws jingling at my waist. My name, in case you're interested, is Vera.
At the heavily guarded first corridor I was met by Ginger, a fat fog-throated valkyrie who serves as our security officer.
"We were almost ready to blast you, my dear. Good thing you signalled when you did."
We rapped the knuckles of our clenched fists in greeting.