Swarms in Imagination
The Nobel was dead. Shocking news — but not as shocking as the image he held in his hand: a still frame, grainy and damning. It showed the Protectorate — chief advisor to the royal — mid-altercation, the crack of a neutron pistol frozen in time. Enter the investigator. She didn’t look like a detective. More like a seer, or one of those wandering subjects paid to uncover lies. She