She breaks off into a sprint, crashing through people on the side of the road, not bothering to apologize, nearly tripping over a sizzling hot dish outside a restaurant stall. Grace. As she gets closer, she looks for the crowd that will have inevitably gathered, but nothing has broken the steady stream of Abujans. The shouting is getting louder, less insistent, more frightened. Ify hurries until she sees large men on either side of Grace, one holding her arm in a vise grip while the other has his finger pressed against his temple, face angled to the sky. Like he’s talking with a commanding officer. They wear all black, black visors over their eyes, and stand a full head taller than the tallest person for miles. Their boxy, muscled frames tell Ify that they are Augments, if not fully cyberized. They don’t carry guns but have shocksticks and wrist restraints hanging from their hips.

“What’s going on?”

Grace sees Ify, and Ify’s heart drops at the bottomless fear in her assistant’s eyes.

“Let her go! What’s the meaning of this?”

The officers, with the pattern of the Nigerian flag emblazoned on their shoulders, ignore Ify. One of them slips wrist restraints from his hip. All thought leaves Ify as she smacks them away. In one swift motion, she puts herself between Grace and the arresting officer, forcing him to look down at her. For a long second, he’s silent.

“I am an Alabastrine official on diplomatic business, and this is my assistant, and you will unhand her now.” She can feel herself being scanned, both officers instantly pulling up her credentials on their retinal displays. For several moments, no one moves. Not Ify, not Grace, not the police officers made of steel.

Then the officer holding Grace lets her go, and she falls onto the ground. “Grace Leung was found in violation of Article 263, subsection 10, of the penal code, relating to violations of memorial integrity—”

“Memorial integrity? What?”

“According to witness and surveillance reports. Punishment to comprise a fine of 250,000 naira or five years’ imprisonment—”

Grace lets out a whimper, and Ify shouts, “What?!”

“Subject to the ultimate judgment of the state magistrate.”

Outrage overpowers any fear Ify feels, and she raises herself up to the machine. “As Alabastrine officials, we are outside your jurisdiction and therefore not subject to your penal code.” She spits the words out, hating herself even as she does. What does she look like, using her status as an outsider to trample on her own country’s laws? Still, she looks around for anyone to stop and at least pay attention to the commotion. Someone to lend a hand or to record the encounter on a device in case anything were to happen. Someone to leap in and help. But it is as though she and Grace are invisible. As though there is no one but them and the police. Them and these machines.