“The shock wave hit Dakar just under an hour ago, and authorities are still taking stock of the damage. My experience is that the city is devastated. We have reports that many, many of the local structures have not survived the initial shock. The power grid has also collapsed. The hospitals and emergency medical centers are overwhelmed. The Elkhashab Towers are being evacuated as I speak, and there are fears that the north tower may have become unstable. The sky… the sky here —”

Amos tried to lean back in his chair, sighed, and stood up. The waiting room was empty apart from him and an old woman in the far corner who kept coughing into the crook of her elbow. It wasn’t what you’d call a big place. The windows looked out on an uninspiring two hundred meters of North Carolina, bare from the entrance facility to the perimeter gate. Two rows of monofilament hurricane fencing blocked the path to a two-story concrete wall. Sniper nests stood at each corner, the automatic defense and control weapons stiller than tree trunks. The building was low – a single story peeking up out of the ground with administrative offices and a massive service entrance. Most of what happened here happened underground. It was exactly the kind of place Amos had never hoped to be.

Good thing was, when he was done, he could leave again.

“In other news, a distress call from the convoy carrying the Martian prime minister appears to be genuine. A group of unidentified ships —”

Behind him, the admin door swung open. The man inside looked like he was one hundred kilos of sculpted muscle and also tremendously bored. “Clarke!”

“Here!” the coughing old woman said, rising to her feet. “I’m Clarke!”

“This way, ma’am.”

Amos scratched his neck and went back to looking at the prison yard. The newsfeed kept on being excited about shitty things going on. He’d have paid more attention to it if the back of his head hadn’t been planning the ways he’d have pushed to get out of here if they’d sent him, and where he’d have died trying. From the parts he caught, though, it sounded like a good day for reporters.

“Burton!”

He walked over slowly. The big guy checked his hand terminal.

“You Burton?”

“Today I am.”

“This way, sir.”

He led him to a small room with more chairs bolted to the floor and a table too. The table was solidly made, anyway.

“So. Visitation?”

“Yup,” Amos said. “Looking for Clarissa Mao.”

The big guy looked up under his eyebrows. “We don’t have names here.”

Amos opened his hand terminal. “I’m looking for 42-82-4131.”