“THERE IS THE small matter of Riefenstahl.”

Four forms slanted in rapt diagonals around the screen as the deck scrolled through the illegible rapid fire of its boot-up sequence. One of the uniformed beings stooped to input a string of machine code. System sound kicked in with a hiss and the screen pulsed with the contents of Riefenstahl’s user library and case notes:

CASE HISTORY:
RIEFENSTAHL / ITEM 1:
PLAYBACK: Tocsin Bray’s Softdiary entry: 25/12/293; 07:40. “A tall guy who looks like a Rep agent — wearing a dark suit over a polyexo — has been watching my apartment for several days. He carries a Samsonite that contains some curious, shiny objects and a drawstring pouch like a memento from a Pesek prison therapy class. I don’t know what he wants of me. What’s so interesting about my apartment window? It’s starting to get under my skin. He stands in the same position for hours. He’s out there right now, lurking in the shadows between the faulty neon of the SENOI Psilocybin Omelette House and the pretzel seller’s cart with the misspelt ‘pretzle’ sign on the corner of Chin Chew Street. He’s even making bit-part appearances in my Dreams.” Entry ends.

Confidentially, several years ago I, Riefenstahl, began to doubt the non-existence of God.

I considered my hiding places to be quite clandestine until I heard the female’s diary; although on that particular occasion I had noticed the blinds parting, caught the curves of her Skin silhouette, the penumbra of her cropped hair as I stood there in the shadows chewing on a betel leaf. Her appearance exploded under my exo like a cardamom pod under the tongue — the sudden, unexpected thrill of discovery. I smiled then and knew I had her.

But I don’t like her being up there in those rooms all alone. Who knows what she’s up to.

*