Welga called up their publications, but she couldn’t read four words without having to look up meanings. She split her visual into thirds, one for the articles, one for a glossary, and the third for annotations from gigsters. Thanks to the flow, her attention moved smoothly back and forth as she integrated the information.

Jun-ha Park had a genetic disorder that had nothing to do with drugs or pills, but at the same time, couldn’t be helped by those means. He wasn’t the only child to show the disease’s symptoms, but it was rare enough that the world had limited data to develop treatments. The little funding that went toward researching it came from family members and philanthropists. They encased him in mech-suits to help him function, but the drugs to facilitate that interaction had exacerbated his condition. After the boy died, the father sued and won a good deal of money for that oversight.

The mother had kept a journal while on Earth. It probably wouldn’t tell Welga much more than the public records, but she put in a request for access in case it held any useful information. The medical researchers who’d worked with Jun-ha had experience with biomechanical integration. They had studied his complications in depth. And they had access to genetic material that resembled the Machinehood android, at least in certain rare segments. Were they the connection? Selling a minor’s DNA sample was illegal, but enough coin could make breaking the law worthwhile. One member of the medical team lived within the United States. A second resided in Europe, the third in China. Those two were out of her country’s jurisdiction, but she could visit the American doctor.

She placed a request to authorize travel to the domestic researcher, a white man named Mitchell Smith. He lived in an old house in New Jersey, half a day’s drive away. She could get there and back before the agency had the Maghreb operation ready to go.

A small, sharp pinch on her neck penetrated Welga’s concentration. Olafson stood next to her. She tried to speak, but her vocal cords and mouth didn’t want to produce words. By the time those muscles worked, her brain had dropped out of its flow state. Her thoughts came with a fuzziness around the edges.

“What the hell? You flushed me!”

Olafson glared. “Because you’re restricted from flow use. If you want off this operation, just say so. Otherwise, don’t pull stupid shit like this!”

“It’s one time, and it’s a fucking global emergency. Can’t I get an exception?”

“I’ve already given you one for zips. What the hell do you need flow for anyway? We have analysts to do the heavy thinking. You’re supposed to be prepping for engagement in the Maghreb.”