The Five Stages of Grief
by Michelle Ann King
The news breaks at half past ten in the morning. At first I just snort and dismiss it, because
faking her own death is exactly the kind of thing she does all the time. But it's coming from
multiple sources, including some usually reliable ones, with witness reports and footage of what
does actually look very much like a body. Her body.
The queue to see Insight is three miles long as usual, so I disable the security to her building
and go in via the roof.
She looks alarmed when she sees me. "Safeguard? What are you doing here? Is something
wrong? The Prime Minister's coming in at twelve, is there--"
I put up a hand to stop her. "No, it's nothing to do with that. I'm here because I need to ask
you about Surekill. I need to know what happened."
Her concern morphs into a smile. "Oh yeah, I heard about that. Fantastic news, huh?"
When I don't respond, the smile fades a little. "I mean, I'm sorry it wasn't you that got her,
but it's still--"
"Just tell me what happened, Insight."
"Okay, yeah. Give me a second." She closes her eyes and makes a series of tiny hand
movements, as if plucking something out of the air. "Okay. It went down pretty much as they
said on the TV. They weren't on her radar--they weren't on anyone's radar, they're just kids--so
she didn't take them seriously."
She opens her eyes again and shrugs. "Basically, they just got lucky. That's the way it goes,