“The sharemarket has seen a five per cent decline in the value of twitch suit companies over the past week, reflecting the hysteria surrounding what people are calling ‘The SharkBytes Scandal.’

—Business Data Analysis Online

The Elizabeth Street location was a bust. After loitering furtively for half an hour in the dark, on a part of the street that had no visible numbers, a homeless man finally too pity on her. He offered Darlene directions, a friendly natter, and a sip of his 70% rotgut.

Apparently, number 75 either didn’t exist or was part of a subsection of the community centre/pool that was the main feature of the street. The vagaries of the town planners and subsequent renovations had created a mystery that she hadn’t the energy or motivation to delve into.

Not to worry. She had another option.

On to Victoria Street.

——

Much more promising.

Number 75 in this location proved to be a network of six flats, double-storeyed, with two at ground level divided by garages, and four above. Not flash, which would fit with someone who hadn’t yet been found. Expensive houses were too frequented by service bots for an immobile body to remain unnoticed for extended periods.

The side gate creaked as she entered, causing a curtain to twitch in the closest ground floor flat. An effective if unsophisticated warning system.

Within seconds a large young man in tight stretch pants and sweatshirt was leaning out his doorway.

“Looking for something?” He sounded guarded.

Darlene gave him her trademark reporter’s smile. “Actually, someone. I’m trying to find a woman called Arline Johnson.”

“Don’t know anyone called Arline. But then, no one in this place is on what you would call first name terms. She some kind of relative?”

“Something like that. I got this address from a friend—“

“Wait. Ain’t that the name of that gamer chick—the one that got herself stuck?” He strode forward, leaving his door ajar. “You think she lives here?”

“Ah. Maybe. Though that’s unconfirmed.”

“Sounds like regulation bullshit to me. Which makes you, what? An undercover cop? No…” He rubbed his chin, and Darlene could hear the rasp of a five a.m. shadow. “I’m betting reporter. You get a tip from some kind of crazy?”

“Oh, yeah. Which is why it’s unconfirmed.” She held out her hand. “I’m Darlene from NewsOnline by the way. And you are…”

“Sledge,” he said, returning her handshake.

“Hi, Sledge. You know anyone that’s a good fit for our girl?”

Sledge screwed up his face in thought. “Could be anyone. ‘Cept me a’course. There’re a couple of old ladies that live alone in the top flats, and a girl my age that lives at the end there, but other than that… Hey! You even sure she’s a she? I haven’t seen old man Guber for a while.”

“Pretty sure we’re not looking for…Mr. Guber—though it sounds like you should probably check on him. Arline’s registration details included a legal name and gender.”

“That’s what I thought, but what if he wanted to keep his identity secret? Wouldn’t be the first time someone falsified their game registration.”

Oh God, I hope not. If that had happened they were…no. Gus had said that Arline herself had given her address. And she would hardly send her rescuers on a wild goose chase when her life was at stake.

“Let’s just stick to the women, shall we? You said a young lady was a resident?”

“She lives in the other ground flat. Wait a second and I’ll go with you.” Trotting back to his door he pulled it to, engaging the lock. Then he hurried back again. “This way.”

Darlene hung back, giving him a respectable lead. People awakened at four in the morning were bound to be less than happy at their awakeners. This large young man would provide the perfect buffer.

“So why are you up so early? Got something on?”

“Nah.” He turned and continued to walk backwards. “After all that hoo-ha about the safety of v-tech I decided to lay off logging on for a while. At least until they prove that it isn’t likely to happen again.”

Darlene hmmed acknowledgement. The movement toward going cold turkey and living in the now was growing increasingly popular. Parents in particular had taken it one step farther by confiscating their kids’ suits—much to the despair of both parties. Her own five-year-old niece had thrown herself into such spasms that her mother had been worried she’d put her back out.

“I only really use deep stasis for exercise sims, anyway. And I’ve learned enough that I don’t really need them that much. I do like the graphics suite though. It’s nicer to run amongst the trees than on the pavement or your own four walls.”

By this time, the man had reached the flat’s steps and given the door a polite knock. An unnecessary affectation when most residences had their own sensors. Such a large heat signature would have initiated an alert both in the house and on any attached tab-unit.

“I bet it’s totally her,” he said, turning back to Darlene. “I saw her moving in a couple of months ago. She’s got the same size—“

The door opened just as he was cupping his hands in front of his chest.

“What the fuck is wrong with you people?” a young woman demanded. Her blonde hair was askew, and she had that pale blodginess characteristic of the involuntarily awoken. “It’s four in the fucking morning.”

“We do apologise,” Darlene offered, since her buffer was still frozen in embarrassment.

“Bad enough that that pervert stares at me whenever I walk past, but now he brings an accomplice?”

“Hey, now,” the ‘pervert’ began. “I was running, not gawping. I can’t help it if my treadmill faces the front window. It’s the only place it fits!”

“So what was all this about?” She cupped her own generous boobage.

“That was, ah…”

“Part of a perfectly innocent conversation,” Darlene explained. Poor man was going was going to pop a vein if this continued. She’d never seen anyone so red.

“Oh, fuck off. Both of you. Come to my door again and I’ll file a restraining order.”

And the door slammed shut.

Darlene blinked. As a reporter she was used to being told no in an abrupt fashion. But usually that was after the introduction. “What was all that about?”

Sledge ran a hand through the spikes of his dark hair, before admitting, “It may have something to do with the bikkies I took over when she first moved in. Thought I’d turn on the old-school charm and ask her out. Unfortunately, she’s a gluten-free vegan so that didn’t exactly set the mood, y’know? She’s been avoiding me ever since.”

It sounded to Darlene like there was more to the story than a packet of biscuits, but she refrained from saying so. The path to real life romance was a rocky one nowadays. If uterine vats hadn’t been invented twenty years ago she doubted the population would still be expanding.

“So where to next?”

“Up, I guess.” He moved to the stairs leading to the overhead balcony. “Though if Arline turns out to be the old lady in number two I’m going to swear off vid games for good.”

Sledge was saved from that particular fate, but he had to suffer for it. It turned out that the old lady in question had a relaxed attitude to closing her curtains. Darlene wasn’t sure what the woman was doing, but when her guide stepped back and muttered something about going blind, and what was wrong with the older generation, she thought she could hazard a guess. Haptic-based programmers catered to all kinds.

That left one possibility. The upstairs corner flat. Unfortunately this resident was more conscientious about keeping nosey neighbours from peeping. No cracks to look through, no answer to the door, no sounds of movement. It made her potentially very interesting, but difficult to either verify or rule out.

She would have to delve into the property records. Again. After nine a.m. this time. Yuri, her good friend in the council, would be none too pleased with her request during work hours, let alone the wee hours of the morning.

They were halfway down the stairs when Darlene noticed movement above her. A red and yellow courier copter was en route, with a small green light on its carapace, indicating it was carrying a package.

Darlene halted. Is that bot going where I think it’s going?

Sure enough, it slowed and settled right outside the door where they’d just been.

She surged upwards, rejuvenated. A courier has to know the name of its contact. Moreover, it requires ID before it will effect delivery.

When the bot sensed her approach it raised itself slightly and asked in a digitised monotone: “Are you a resident of this address?”

She only had to think for a second. There were worse offences than lying to a courier bot. “I am.”

“Is your name Miss Arline Johnson?”

A tingle ran up her back. Confirmation of name, at least.

“No.” Claiming to be Arline wouldn’t get her the package, and a targeted alert would be sent to the nearest police station if she gave her own ID. Besides, she already had what she needed. The name was far more important than anything the bot could be carrying.

It turned back to the door, resuming its pinging of the internal systems feed. From previous experience, Darlene knew that it would hover like that for exactly fifteen minutes before returning to its base to report non-delivery. A message would also be sent before it left, warning the recipient that they had however many attempts left before the package would be available for pickup-only at the courier warehouse.

“So it is her,” Sledge breathed into her ear, scaring the bejesus out of Darlene. The man was surprisingly light on his feet.

“Unconfirmed,” she repeated firmly, though she doubted it would make much difference. He wasn’t exactly the type to keep his mouth shut.

A sharp exhale through his nose told her what he thought of that. “How much more proof do you need?”

“A sighting. Preferably of a body.”

“Her stream’s been offline for a while. A body is what you just might get.”

She looked at him sharply. “How long?”

“A good twenty minutes or so. Ever since she went into that salon. I’d pay good money to see what went on in there.”

“You think she was killed?”

“Maybe. Though she wasn’t in great shape when she went in. The camera was moving around like it couldn’t decide which way was up.”

And the camera follows eye movement. That was definitely a bad sign.

It was about that time that she remembered that she had her own camera, tucked away in a holster just below her collar bone. Ready to be deployed in the event something newsworthy appeared. It also had flight capability.

Maybe not all the windows have been covered.

“Where’s the best vantage to see into the side windows?”

The man looked confused. “That would be the front garden. It’s a narrow strip of grass that the landlord mows occasionally.”

“Show me.”

Sure enough, the garden was exactly as described: a small slab of lawn that wrapped around part of the front flats and around the length of the side wall. Most of it was overshadowed by clothes lines.

And up above, as promised, were small windows.

There?

No. Curtains.

What about there?

Yes. A small sliver of darkness in the largest window indicated a gap.

Unstrapping the tiny drone, she situated it as far away from metal hazards as she could and set it to hover. Instantly it darted two feet in front of her like a hummingbird. It was preset to record from both front and back, enabling the editing department to cut segments for a more dynamic result.

It wouldn’t work in this case, though. They needed a view from a much higher perspective. Switching off the auto-eye function using its remote, Darlene sent it into full manual mode.

She just hoped she didn’t crash it. The excess on its insurance premium was something along the lines of a week’s salary; payable, as her boss had warned, by the idiot who let it get damaged. That risk hadn’t exactly motivated her to practice with it much beyond her initial training.

Gently pushing the Up button, Darlene edged the cam higher, trying to match the height of the window, then she gingerly nudged the joystick forward.

Shitstick! Too fast!

She reflexively bent the stick back and had to take her hand off it entirely when it threatened to immolate itself on the house across the street. Luckily, the flat had a big front garden. It returned with only minor scratches and a few leaves stuck to its carapace.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” her backseat driver asked dubiously.

“It’s still airborne isn’t it?”

“Yes…?”

“Then I’m still in control. I just need to…” The muscles in Darlene’s face screwed up in concentration as she inched the cam to the street-front window.

Flying and watching the tiny screen attached to the remote proved even more difficult to master, and it took the combined efforts of the man’s eyes and her hands before they managed to get a glimpse inside. Complicating matters, visibility was hampered by vertical blinds that required her to hover at just the right angle.

“That’s it!” her companion finally cried. “I see her!”

“You do?” She quickly looked down. Nothing but white. She had nudged the drone ever so slightly out of alignment, giving her a high-def view of window treatments. And now a dead fly.

“It was there!” he insisted.

Deciding to trust his eyesight, she switched the machine back to auto-eye and breathed a sigh of relief when it instantly came to heel.

Never again. As it is, the shiny white paint coating the drone had a few new scratches where it had valiantly tried to obey its master’s faulty commands. Though the biggest one was from when her navigator had jogged her arm. So: Totally Not Her Fault.

“What did it record?” Her co-conspirator reached out his hand as if to grab the remote. She pulled back. No wonder his neighbour had greeted them with so much hostility. The man clearly had personal boundary issues.

“Not so fast. Let me feed it through my lapscreen. The remote’s is so tiny we’re not going to see shit.”

At least the recording quality would be world-class. In an industry that depended on hooking the public with image-based data, a news agency couldn’t afford to be stingy with their camera equipment.

She decided to stay on the front lawn while examining the recording, but elected to sit. Less chance of being seen by suspicious passers-by. Though more chance of getting a wet ass, she realised too late to prevent. It had rained briefly earlier that night.

Oh, well. Never mind. If she lucked out on this story it would all be worth it.

The first shots were as expected. Her face, bobble, leaves, opposite house, more leaves, focus, flash of wallscreen, hover, close-up of window ledge, lurch, branches, blind, blind, blind, adjustment, crack, blind, dead fly, blind, body, blind, wall, blind…

“Oy, back, back! You had it.”

“I realise that,” she said sharply. Her co-pilot was again in danger of taking over the controls, leaning against her arm. “Sit back. You’re moving my hand again.”

He shuffled approximately two millimetres.

Good enough. The joys of this assignment just kept getting better and better.

Tracking back frame by frame she finally found what she was looking for.

The body.

Bingo.

Covered in a thin black hapsuit that bagged slightly as if the bearer had recently lost weight, it was difficult to ascertain its identity—or, indeed, life status. Position alone suggested the individual had slid off a rather ugly recliner situated close to the window. One foot had gotten caught in the footrest mechanism, which left her leg cocked in an unnatural salute, while the rest of her body was slumped on the floor. Even more notable, a dribble of liquid was seeping down from her face mask, leaking precious water into the carpet and mixing with a yellow froth that looked suspiciously like bile.

Not exactly a way in which most people would choose to go to sleep. And the evidence of water loss was definitely a concern. If this really was the Arline Johnson of Age of Deception—and Darlene was now convinced of it—then she was in even deeper shit than the reporter had bargained for.

Returning to her laptab’s homescreen, she immediately activated the operating system’s onboard emergency app. Then confirmed with her thumbprint. The OS and its competitors had had to be universally updated with that feature when emergency call centres around the world had been inundated with accidental butt calls and toddler slurpies. So many people had no respect for their devices.

“This is the emergency help line. Do you require police, fire, or medical assistance?”

“Police and ambulance.”

“Stand-by.”

One great thing about verification by print was that it lessened the need for verbal ID, and the GPS onboard my laptab would pinpoint my current address. So no extra time expenditure between caller and the required rescuer.

A truncated image of just such a rescuer replaced the white on red 111 that had previously filled the screen. Symbolic, of course. Landlines had long since become extinct, rendering 111 null and void.

“This is the Christchurch Police Department. Please state your emergency.”

A coffee cup appeared briefly in the image, on its way down to a table presumably, before the camera became once more focused exclusively on the police officer’s tie.

“I need to report a woman in distress.”

“Is that at or around your current location?” The quick thud-tap of fingers on a tab could be heard. He probably had a second machine for accessing files. Which made sense. Any device that sent vid had the potential to send a virus. Better to keep it clear of operational data. Though a copy of the recording would of course be saved.

“In the upstairs flat of the address I’m currently at.”

“Can you classify the nature of the injury?”

“The resident appears to have suffered some kind of hapsuit malfunction or fall. She’s on the floor of her lounge.”

“Hmm.”

She probably shouldn’t have mentioned the hapsuit. They’d probably had a raft of bogus callouts with similar descriptors this past week. Mostly from panicked parents who couldn’t rouse their sleeping teens.

Darlene upped the ante. “I think she may dehydrated.”

More tapping. Unfortunately, this entry obviously sparked an alert, because her view abruptly included the face of a suspicious-looking emergency responder.

“You are Darlene Rogerson, the reporter?”

Her stomach curdled. She never thought she’d ever be reluctant to admit to her own name. “I am.”

“The woman who claimed she knew the whereabouts of Arline Johnson?”

“Technically. Although I had reason to believe—“

“Do you now ‘believe’ her to be at your current location?”

“Yee-ess?”

“Miss Rogerson, I must warn you that the emergency services are not to be used as your own personal investigatory tool. We cannot knock on the doors of private citizens on the off chance that they may be who you’re looking for.” He looked grim. “If you persist in making this type of call you may be fined or prosecuted. Do you understand?”

“Of course. It’s just—“

“I will request a welfare check, but expect delays. As you may expect, Christmas is our busiest period, and we must organise our units according to priority.”

The image abruptly returned to her home screen.

Well, that didn’t go at all well, she thought morosely as she settled her screen back on the grass.

“Wow. That’s harsh.” Her companion had clearly been listening in.

“The responders don’t take kindly to being made to look like idiots. And to be honest there were a few other incidents earlier in my career…. In retrospect, I should’ve gotten you to make the call.”

“I could do it now if you like.” He reached around to pull out his own laptab, presumably in a holster secured to his back. Tech companies had had to get innovative about ways to carry devices. Tabs were thin and flexible, but they did have a problem with diameter. Though there had been rumours of a malleable screen that was due to come on the market soon.

“No. They know the address. You’ll just get lumped-in as an accomplice.”

“So whadda we do? Break in? I’ve got a camping hatchet that could probably get the job done.”

“Er, I’d hold off on that one. Unless you really want to attract police attention. And not in a good way.”

“Might be worth it just to get them here. If they could only see the vid…”

“I agree, but—“ Darlene’s eye suddenly caught on the drone, still faithfully maintaining its position in front of Arline’s door. Its time must be just about up. The bot’s rotors were starting to change angle.

And an idea popped into her head. Possibly foolish, definitely dangerous. Maybe even inspired by Arline herself.

“Look after my stuff,” she commanded the man still sitting on the lawn.

“What? Why?”

But Darlene was already halfway up the steps.

The machine began to move, adjusting position to allow for a hanging plant. Then a slow acceleration to the left—heading away from her.

When she realised that the drone was going to be gone before she made it up to the porch, she yelled up at it, “My name is Arline Johnson!”

It halted, spinning to face her. Then it flew to the top of the stairs. “Good morning, Ms. Johnson. I have a package for you. Can you please provide physical ID?”

“Sure.” She made a show of patting down her pockets to retrieve the single card that everyone over the age of fifteen carried with them. All the while stepping closer.

Money, concession, and membership cards had long since become digitised. Only IDents had not yet gone that route, citing possible electronic falsification and identity theft. Holo cards were a lot more difficult for your average shuckster to construct. And didn’t come with the innate problems of digital fingerprint, facial, and voice recognition. DNA was still a potential contender, but the proposal had languished in the court system for the past decade. A lot of religions prohibited DNA’s use, and had found unlikely allies in fundamentalist groups that seemed determined to keep their cells to themselves.

When she got near enough for the drone’s scanner to read her ID, she made sure her fingers covered everything but the photo.

“Please hold out your identification so that I can validate.”

So close.

“The chip information does not appear to match—"

She lunged. And grabbed the drone’s storage compartment. Which proved to be a lot more slippery than she’d expected. It must have gotten caught in the earlier downpour.

“Unexpected item detected.” It ticked reprovingly. “I am legally bound to inform you that Postal Drone 283 is not authorised to carry passengers. Please remove yourself immediately.”

It rose a little and jinked, trying to shake her off. Darlene heard her fingers squeak as they lost traction. It took a frantic scramble to reveal a notch that she could wedge her nails into. A manicure was definitely going to be added to her expense sheet.

“Be advised. Continued failure to respect the regulations of the New Zealand Courier Service will result in an alert to the authorities.”

That’s the plan. Get to it already.

She could feel the strain in the drone’s mechanics as it struggled under her weight. An alarm began to sound, loud enough that her eardrums started vibrating.

“Maximum weight allowance exceeded. Any subsequent damage will result in the seeking of fiscal remuneration on the part of the New Zealand Courier Service.” The alarm abruptly changed to an uninterrupted BLAAAAA. “Be advised. A video recording is now being sent to the Christchurch Police Department. This may be used against you in court.”

The drone tottered a bit to the left, causing her leg to scrape against the railing. A kick outwards secured her an anchor, though she doubted it would hold for long.

Fortunately, a hand soon stopped the slippage. “Hold on. I’ve got you.”

The neighbour reeled her in just as a police seddie hovered up the street. It was a relief to be able to let go, allowing her now-accomplice to lower her onto the stairway. The drone, subsequently unencumbered, shot up to roof level and reduced its noise to a less mind-numbing screech.

They were soon joined by a man and woman in uniform, who seized the reporter in a much less friendly fashion.

“Madam, you are under arrest for the wilful endangerment of private prop—“

“Hey, man. Let her go. It was the only way she could get your attention. Since that prick at the call centre didn’t want to do anything.”

“Sir, I don’t know the history, but I know when I’ve witnessed a crime. Drone joyriding is prohibited under the Technical Malfeasance Act. Along with graffiti and other unauthorised modifications.”

Darlene finally retrieved her breath, absent since her ‘joyous’ ride. “There is a woman in that upstairs flat that is in urgent need of medical attention. We believe she is dying.”

“And you learned this, how?” This was from the policewoman, toned and at least partially Maori by her facial features.

“My cam drone. I used it to get a glimpse into her window.”

“Breaching several privacy laws. You do realise that admitting such automatically revokes your right to your equipment?” The policewoman seemed confused by her honesty. “Where is this camera?”

Darlene’s eyes instinctively flicked to the man she had entrusted her precious equipment to, and then rerouted to the lawn when she realised that he wasn’t carrying it.

Bloody-Christ-on-a-cracker! The idiot had left her gear completely unattended. Anyone could have wandered around the side of the building to see what the commotion was all about and seen an opportunity to make some cash instead!

Calm down. It’s still there.

“If we head down that way,” her head tilted to offer direction as her hands were going nowhere, “we can pick it up. Just let me show you what it recorded.”

“Sure. If there’s clear indication of distress we will of course do anything we can to assist.” The policeman that spoke seemed younger than his colleague and a little more eager for a diversion. She imagined that Monday nights weren’t exactly a boom time for organised crime. Or even domestic disputes.

Officer—Darlene squinted at her name badge—Parata shot her partner a dampening look. “If this is a hoax…”

“Do you think I’d do this to myself for a prank?” Darlene showed her the mess she’d made of her nails.

This seemed to convince the policewoman more than anything that she had heard previously. Though she was clearly still reluctant.

“Fine. Let’s go.”

They herded her down the steps, the policeman behind her while Officer Parata walked at her side. Presumably in case she tried to make a run for it.

Which was a practical impossibility, considering the number of spectators standing around in their dressing gowns. The drone’s alarm had certainly done its job.

She just hoped it was Arline that her cam had picked out in the flat. Otherwise humiliation would be trumped by a police record and soon followed by unemployment.

Fortunately she didn’t need to adjust the recording. It was paused at the moment the body had come into view.

“Is that a hapsuit?” the man muttered.

“Erin…”

“She is supposed to be in New Zealand, isn’t she?”

“That’s only a rumour. We operate in facts.”

“And those facts?”

“Indicate that there may indeed be a woman in need of assistance. Alert the medics and notify base while I effect entry into the residence.”

“Can I come?” Big, puppy-dog eyes.

“Not this time. Someone needs to keep an eye on her,” she indicated Darlene. “This could still be a means to create a diversion, allowing her to escape.”

She turned and retrieved something from her seddie, then trotted up the stairway, much to the fascination of Arline’s neighbour. By his expression and the angle of his head, he was either impressed by her fitness or the shape of her posterior.

Men.

Her partner looked up at her as well, though not with lust. He clearly yearned to take a more active role.

While he was distracted, Darlene nudged her co-conspirator’s foot and nodded to the cam. He raised his eyebrows in confusion, but seemed to understand when she kicked it—lightly.

Allowing her equipment to be used by a rank amateur wasn’t exactly ideal, but beggars couldn’t choose their assistants.

Upstairs, Officer Parata had now progressed from leaning against her official entry tool and swearing, to actually entering the flat. As Darlene watched, the officer raised her arm to her nose, recoiling slightly.

Is she dead? Or just ripe from nearly a week without bathing?

Parata spoke something into her shoulder comm before hurrying inside. Unfortunately she was too far away for Darlene to hear. But fortunately it didn’t take long before she returned.

“Let her go,” she yelled down at her partner from the doorway. “I need you up here.”

He lost no time in deactivating the biolock on the handcuffs and running upstairs. The neighbours had to be getting very tired of hearing the sound of feet on metal steps by now. Though by the increase in pyjama-clad onlookers, all of them were now awake and well aware of the nocturnal goings on.

Darlene and her amateur cam operator, after a quick glance at each other, added their own noise as they followed the policeman; the reporter to get her story, the neighbour to appease his curiosity. Which was evidently another rather large part of his personality.

A peek around the open door revealed the police officers working together to extricate Arline’s leg from the chair. The mask had already been resituated over her mouth to allow her what little water remained within the recycling unit. Nothing else had been touched. They were evidently going to wait for the paramedics to remove or detach any hap equipment.

Or clean up the vomit and other strong-smelling organic matter (Arline’s suit-bag had clearly been overwhelmed) that covered their patient. Just as well the twentieth century notion of smellovision hadn’t been invented or their viewer numbers would have suffered an abrupt decline.

She motioned for her deputised cameraman to move in. He complied, but managed to trip on a shovel that had been leaning against a wall, stumbling into a crackling mass of snack wrappers and chocolate foil. Amateur indeed.

Spotting him, Officer Parata said menacingly, “Leave. Now.”

Darlene didn’t blame him when he immediately about-faced and retreated back behind the doorway. Shame-facedly, he handed her the remote and headed downstairs, muttering “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” she mouthed, nodding. He’d actually been a big help overall.

Recording continued, though she was careful not to go beyond the door. She may have gotten a pass for grabbing the courier drone, but she doubted trespassing would go without notice. Not in Officer Parata’s current state of mind.

The arrival of the ambulance medics sent her away from the doorway as they brought a gurney through, but she soon repositioned herself, altering the cam focus to include the new arrivals.

After a quick examination, one medic immediately inserted an IV through the hap suit. The other held a bag upright and instructed the policeman to cut the line leading to the water unit. The power line and its backup box were left until the last moment before being unplugged and stored under the sheeting. Darlene knew from the research that she had done to cover the initial story that that power storage would dictate how long they had before the hap suit stopped functioning.

At least the game’s online connection wasn’t at risk. The cellular network offered citywide coverage, being part of the council rates charge. As long as her suit remained on Arline wouldn’t be the recipient of an accidental lobotomy.

Darlene hurried down the stairs when she realised they were finishing up, wanting to catch the best angle for their descent and the offload into the shuttle ambulance.

It took all four emergency responders to hoist the gurney down the steps, stepping carefully so as not to offload their cargo too early.

When they reached the ground, however, their urgency became evident as, faces tense, the paramedics wheeled Arline to the ambulance. Darlene managed to catch a shot of one of them entering with her and beginning some arcane form of treatment before the doors were closed and the vehicle lifted away.

Clearly, she had a few calls to make.

Then she saw Officer Parata and decided Gus could wait.

My story, my rules.