Three months later

"Good morning, agents." The crisp voice, over every dorm room tannoy, "Agent Richards and Trainee Lei, report to the briefing room at 1100 hours. Specialists Corelli and Kotto, report at 1400 hours. Today, fulfil your potential."

Fulfil your potential. The maxim scrolled over every steel doorway on Agency Alpha Base, the answer to every grim eyed instructor. The end to which the rafts of training plans and ranks of training simulators led on. Agents knew their mission objectives, never the reason for any mission, and certainly nothing more of ultimate ends but 'stability'. To be the best conceivable killer, hardest of the hard, was the just cause with which the Agency filled hearts and minds. Hungry young mercenaries, ex-soldiers and former shadowrunners, Fighter among them, took to it like catnip for tigers.

Fighter had been awake for twenty minutes, however, when the synthetic voice of the Knowbot program for onbase efficiency had announced reveille. In her small dorm, she moved through the Tai chi forms she'd practised almost every morning since her father's death. Her bare leg stretched out, shifting deliberately like a branch in wind. Her roommate Sandra, on the next bed along, rolled her slim elvish body over and batted her eyes.

"Just how long can you hold that pose, hotshot?"

"All day."

"Can I watch all day? Pretty please?" They shared a friendly grimace, "Good luck with 1100 hours, darling. Fulfil your potential, and that."

Despite her unfortunate history with another bisexual elf lady, Fighter got on quite well with Specialist Agent Sandra Creighton. Big, guileless violet eyes and self-possessed shyness were handy that way. Her Specialism was Juliet. The Knowbot's digital dictionary of spy-speak had told Fighter that meant sleeping with the enemy. All she let herself think about that was, it presumably worked.

Her other roommate was Specialist Agent Anya Kotto, a bosomy ork decker with dark skin and rainbow braids. She hopped out of her bunk, pulled on the grey fatigues they all wore, and 'Heya'-ed Sandra. She departed into the echoing metal corridors, whistling a popular tune, without looking Fighter in the eye.

-0-

"There she is! The Troll Hunters' breeder! Think this is gonna feel good!"

Towering over the huge shining horns of his bike, the troll ganger bore down like a screaming stampede. Fighter rolled, the machete in his claw whomphed over her head. He shot past, looked back, she threw a knife at his mirror-shades. The first of the trogs crashed and burnt.

She'd bloodied the Halloweeners' painted noses, but they hadn't only hit back at her straight. They'd paid a few half-starved punks from the Ork Underground to geek her. Then, once Fighter had killed their killers, they'd put it around to the Ragers and Bloody Screamers that she was a trog killer. A female Runner, raped by trogs (the ork gangs hadn't thought that anything outrageous), on a revenge crusade to wipe the monsters out. Then, as her Cred had grown, Humanis Policlub had caught the rumours and lies. They'd shot up the squats of some ork families, in her name.

The trogs had marked her for death. She'd punched out enough furious trog gangers, when she hadn't been caged up in hiding for weeks on end, that it scarcely felt good anymore, or even right. She'd smacked around a few Humanis street recruiters bawling about sub-human rapists as well, but her heart hadn't been in that either.

"I do surely hope that, as fellow agents, we can respect each other." Anya had said, as soon as they'd met, "Even if techies like me stay onbase, use our heads, instead of charging out to break other people's."

She was another Seattlite ex-shadowrunner; maybe she'd heard rumours. Fighter didn't ask, just smiled with no warmth.

"Want advice, omae? Never mention respect, if you want it. You have to earn it."

'You' have to earn it. Anya had called her a cheap Humanis thug, and no trog on the base (barring one) had spoke a pleasant word to her after that. Which was all she expected, and entirely fine by her. She could work with them, just about, if she had to, but that was it.

All that really got to Fighter, still, was that Ilsa had left her, after months of gang heat back in Seattle. No hard feelings on either side , only sadness on Susan's. As for Ilsa, she had taken the rational course. Susan knew she would only go on to better.

-0-

As for Fighter herself, she felt very far from the street now. There was definitely a gnawing hunger for action–a Run to really do something–as the Knowbot updated her sleek new Comm with the day's nutritional plan. She spooned portions from the dispenser, took her tray to a mess hall bench. On the bright side, her proper morning workout had been novahot, better than coffee with beans. She'd been training her body since she was six, in the Barrens, using rocks as makeshift weights. Running up and down tower block stairs, punching the wall until her knuckles callused. Now, she had a holo-sparring range, weight machines that cost more than her old flat, and a yearlong fitness plan. She felt like the street girl who'd hooked up with a CEO and gone from scrounging meals to daily pedicures. It was hard, intense, the best.

Apart from the One Worst Thing, three months to totally focus on training had been better than she'd imagined. At first she'd thought, and said, that putting an Adept like her through firearms training was true Corper 'hammer-the-stickout-nail' idiocy-but she had learnt. An agent needed the skills to use any possible advantage in any set-up; to adapt, survive, fulfil their potential. She still couldn't hit water from a boat, but she'd learnt infiltration, observation, mission tactics and disguise. Corp politics, security protocols, very basic Spanish and German…she hadn't imagined there was so much to learn. Couldn't think how she'd survived, knowing nothing but how to punch.

Anya had laughed at her, early on, for not knowing the difference between A.I. (which hadn't even been invented), and the base Knowbot (which only seemed to think, "Like some ignoramus racists round here, get me?"). For that matter, she hadn't known the difference between the UCAS Senate and Congress. She had to learn to fulfil her potential; she'd scrolled down computer screens in the School for months, almost as ravenously as she lent into the treadmill on endurance runs.

She'd still refused to get a datajack implanted, and damage her Essence; the Agency had surprisingly acquiesced without comment. Alpha Base had ranks of datapoints and excellent simsense training facilities. Almost all trainees and agents spent at least two hours per day on rows of cots, learning and refining every knowledge or skill a modern secret agent might need. They took nearly another hour in meatspace to playback, analyse, and contemplate, trained their bodies at least as hard as she did, and the process made monsters.

Several agents on Fighter's table–three humans, one dwarf–talked with her about training as they ate, succinctly but earnestly. They all wished her luck with the meeting at 1100. Agent Ptacek, the veteran Runner from Calfree-a stunningly composed and beautiful woman, who Susan wanted to be when she grew up-said she had no doubts at all that Fighter would fulfil her potential.

Agent Jack Richards–the fair-haired and surprisingly young Canadian who'd done his best to teach her firearms–smiled and nodded reassuringly. Susan looked away, as something weird and warm stirred under her stomach.

Three months, confined to Alpha Base. The Agents and Trainees were a small group, all stronger than the best Runners she'd known before, and they trained together. She was the rookie, without a datajack. There wasn't closeness like with Harry or Ilsa, but they respected her efforts, and she was ready to fight by their sides to the death. Above even fulfilling her potential, it was the drive of her heart to do her best by her comrades. Catch up machine learning by sheer will and grit. Be her best, a true agent, at their side.

-0-

Before the briefing, whatever that meant, Fighter had holo-sparring, School and the Room. Steppin onto to the less-used meatspace sparring range, she spotted an immortal part of combat training that would likely never be digitalised; two agents pinning a bloody-lipped trainee in the corner, hissing something about respect. She spoke to them politely; the agents groused out. The even newer trainee seemed so stunned that he barely thanked her, though it had felt natural to Fighter as breathing out with a punch.

It always burnt off any worries, to kick-punch-strike-chop her path through illusionary enemies on the white-floored range. Exercises in the School were tougher for her, planning and puzzling her way though imaginary missions that the Knowbot spat out at a furious rate. Although every scenario centred on kidnappers, traffickers or the worst of the mob, which was a good motivation. The Agency might never disclose the reason for any mission, but she'd heard things. The names of world leaders and top CEOs whose deaths she knew remained obscure; data steals that had set out the shape of the modern Matrix. She wasn't sure if the Agency had truly ended the Eurowars, or pulled strings behind the Lost Election, but thinking of the missions she might Run for them was intoxicating.

Then there was the Room. Whenever she thought of her training, Fighter recalled the room as clearly as a living being, another teacher. Instructor Madigan would send her into something like a metal-walled junk store. Activate any of four different locks. Grimly announce that she had twenty, fifteen or five minutes to get out, before they switched on the gas.

Sometimes there were wires for lock picking in old clothes or coat hangers. Keys hidden in the ventilator, to unlock anything but the door. UV-flashlights locked in drawers, to reveal the doorcode under a table–but lacking batteries. Broken radios, with live batteries, and a clue if you repaired them…every time was another problem, a different challenge. Without panic or wasted movement, but with the haste of a swimmer dropped in the ocean, Fighter reconnected the small generator; enough power to reactivate either the lights, the door keypad, or the extractor fan…

The first month, she'd failed more than half the time. She had got better, the Room had got harder. She was fairly sure there had been no solution, a few times–she'd still kept searching, until Madigan dragged her out unconscious. Whatever the challenge, by whatever means, she fought to break it. Escape to freedom, as the Agency demanded of the best.

-0-

Mr Nagendra, the chrome faced man, was in the briefing room at 1100 hours. Mr Oldman, who'd been introduced once to Fighter as Agency Director, never left his office. Fighter and Richards stood at ease, Nagendra sat behind the computerised desk.

(Apart from Oldman and Nagendra, Fighter knew of no one who'd been with the Agency more than five years. All Agents were North American, except a couple of Specialists–but from the little she heard, missions could be anywhere in the world. Could target anybody; Corps and mob that should be invulnerable, mid-level companies there seemed no reason to destroy. Neither of the bosses seemed like Corp or military; UCAS Intelligence was her present best hypothesis)

"Good morning, Trainee Lei. Agent Lei, I should say."

"Sir? I…"

"Initial training more usually takes six months, not infrequently a year, but your instructors and the simulations are in agreement. You are ready to be deployed. My compliments."

"It is an honour."

In the moment, Fighter felt every groan, shock and strain of what she had fought through-and beaten. She savoured the moment, the distance behind her, and joyfully blessed her father's spirit.

She brought her heels together, gave a moderate bow. Richards grinned, Nagendra's expression didn't change.

"Hm. A salute is more traditional, but useless fuss regarding arbitrary conventions is inefficient. Although–speaking of traditions–you will report to the submarine bay at 1300 hours for your graduation party."

"Yes, sir. Ah, will this be a tea-and-paper-hats party? Or an escape-and-evasion-through-urban-warzone party? If I can ask?"

"It is traditionally a surprise party."

Nagendra deployed his very small smile, and Fighter grinned back. She felt utterly ready to be surprised by nothing.

(3 months without leaving a vast windowless underwater habitat, off the coast off she-didn't-know-where. Sprawling as Alpha Base was, claustrophobia had put her through hell for the first month. She'd remembered dragging Ilsa, crushed and poisoned–the fire demon, the basilisk–but she had held one thing in mind and clung to it. She had beaten them all, she had come out of the cave. Stronger.)