Her lips were pressed tight. “I suppose their equipment could be down. Maybe they’ve moved further into the mountains. I hope nothing’s happened to them. I’m sure they’d answer if they . . .”

As far as I knew, Jenn had never met these relatives. I tugged the edge of her vermilion sleeve. “This is new, yeah?” I could usually suss out her mood by how much color she had on. If bright, she was working hard to keep it up. “I really love it!”

“Never say ‘new’!” She’d showered and changed into her personal version of den chic—scraps of cloth pieced together in a crazy quilt, an explosion of color against the faded tints of the media loft. Jenn favored loose, what she called ‘organic’ shapes, stitched with more formal, repeating patterns in contrasting yarns. “Don’t tell, okay? I’ve been keeping back the occasional choice bit of fabric.”

So! I wasn’t the only one. Probably everyone stole a little now and then, and I was just late to the game. Whew! “How do you know all the bits will go together?”

“That’s the fun challenge.” To Jenn, color coordination was a native language. She focused on the computer. “Oh, this is so slow, and I get so friggin’ frustrated! But wait . . . you do stumble across some weird shit when you’re deep searching. Check this out.”

New images filled the screen.

“What’s that?” I asked mostly to buy a moment, so I wouldn’t gawk too hard—at a half dozen naked people dancing around a pile of burning wood rubble. “Is that . . . ?”

“Storm Worshippers. Got to be.”

“They really do that?” I leaned in closer but there wasn’t that much to see. At bottom right, a timing record ticked along. “Dated last week?”

Jenn nodded. “Like the old CCTV surveillance system, ’cept I think it’s handheld. Maybe a cell phone.”

“Stormies taking video of themselves?”

“Don’t think so. There’s more.” Tapping away, Jenn made a noise in her throat, somewhere between a grunt and a growl. “I had it just last night . . . ah, here we go.”

Now we saw what looked like an uptown checkpoint—barbed wire and concrete barriers. A well-dressed couple was arguing fiercely with a trio of armed guards, waving some kind of documents in their stony faces. Before we knew it, the guards were aiming weapons at them, not just stunners or Tasers, but serious military gear. The couple retreated, the man scowling, the woman in tears.

“Wish there was audio,” Jenn murmured.

“Where is that?” The buildings were too generic for an ID. “Is it real?”

“Hard to say. Every so often, these vignettes pop up. Could be uptown, could be just over the river. It’s like someone’s doing their own local bad-news briefing.”

“But why?” I didn’t ask how, ’cause that would be beyond me. “What’s the point?”