Staggering to her feet, Tikki puts one shoulder to the corridor wall and 
thumbs the Kang’s magazine release. Her free hand is ramming a fresh magazine
home even as the empty one drops to the floor. The fire burning in her back is 
an imperious command—her hands know how to respond. She snaps the slide, points
and opens fire. The deafening reports slam against the walls of the corridor and 
reverberate. The rising calamity of noise becomes an apocalyptic storm of 
thunder, a storm to end all storms. Her big, synthleather-clad attacker staggers 
back against the wall at the end of the corridor. She keeps right on shooting. 
Blood splashes the wall. The killer falls to one knee. She keeps right on 
shooting. A knife or something falls from the killer’s hand to skitter along the
floor. The Kang clicks empty. Tikki rams a fresh clip home, snaps the slide, 
lifts the gun and again opens fire. She’s got at least two more full clips in
her pockets and she’s going to make damn certain that anything, anyone or
anybody who tries to skrag her winds up dead dead dead dead dead.