"It’s for a bunch of rakkies in from Essex who think they’re going to have fun slumming in the Smoke," her brother sighed, trying to prevent a scene. “Who cares about white human trash? Sanjay won’t put any rat poison in it. Promise.” His lopsided grin asked for comprehension, but her head was in her hands now, her broad shoulders heaving a little as she fought back the sobs. Her brother knew better than to touch or approach her, giving Rani time to master these powerful emotions with her own strength. This wasn’t the moment for the usual reproaches about her being away from home; for once, the words died on his lips.

She inhaled deeply and brushed away the traces of tears from her face. “Maybe they wanted to kill me because I’m not white. Maybe they wanted to kill me because I’m an ork. I only did what I did because they came at me with blades and hammers. But I killed someone not twenty minutes ago, and I don’t feel good about that. And when I get home I find my brothers cooking up drugs to feed the habits of a bunch of trancers.” She sighed deeply and sank back into the chair, resigned and weary. “Sod it. I’m seventeen years old, and just now I think I’ve had enough of the world. Or at least the East End of bloody London.”

Feeling too hopeless to talk, Rani climbed the stairs to her room. She kicked off her heavy combat boots, pulled off her woolen socks, and looked at the upturned palms of her hands with their flexible immunoneutral pads below the skin. Not many of her kind could afford such a fusion of biology and tech. The twenty-first century had made it possible, but it couldn’t make it cheap. Imran had paid a lot to protect her.

That’s one advantage of being an Indian, she reminded herself; a smartgun link is harder to see on me than on a whiteskin. Makes me a lot harder to kill than most of my cousins. The ones still alive know that. The others found out too late. She pulled the padded jacket over her head and shoulders, making a mental note to repair the tear along the right shoulder in the morning.