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he needed solitude. If he could disconnect from his reeling emotions and disjointed thoughts, he’d be able to formulate his plan. He needed to focus. There would be many more questions other than the obvious ones the officer had just asked.
    How had this happened, indeed?
    He had to be prepared. He had to have an answer. Admin would come looking for him any minute. He wanted to pre-empt that event. He sat at his desk, carefully took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. It came to him like fog clearing. He had seen death before, once. There had been another case like this—a woman with no external ID, no microchip, no file on record, nothing to check, nothing to cross-reference, nothing to refer to. That woman had died within minutes of admission.
    He frowned. Had she? His memory seemed to be slipping again. He knew the other woman had died in the same way as his current Jane Doe had finally gone—like dominoes, tipping one event over to thenext, rushing through a sluice, following its prescribed course to the inevitable end: tachycardia, ventricular fibrillation, asystole, arrest. No response to de-fib. No response to cardiac stimulants. No response to his plethora of measures and techniques. No response to anything at all. Her heart stopped beating—no known cause. And that was something that didn’t happen—not any more. No one had died of anything, least of all cardiac failure, for over two hundred years.
    Past advances in medicine had achieved what everyone had been desperate for—eternal life. Unfortunately, it hadn’t improved anyone’s disposition in the long run. No one was any more or less content. The fountain of youth, it turned out, was not a fountain of joy. It did not equate with feelings of happiness, exhilaration or inner peace. It certainly didn’t bring about the idyllic life that was anticipated. And now this—a rent in the fabric of their plastic immortality.
    He stiffened. It would hit the news in moments and it was him they would want to interview, again and again, until it made sense. It was him they would turn to for clarification. And if that clarification was not given, it would be him that they would want to hang.
    How much can I tell of your extraordinary tale, my mystery woman? He realised he was hoping for a response. How peculiar. The room remained dim and silent. Not a word in his mind from her lilting voice. Her voice? Had he ever heard it?
    Can’t talk to me any more? Or is it that you won’t? He shook his head. What was he saying? He brought up her chart on the computer screen and began to write. I’ll tell your story myself, without you, if that’s your plan. But don’t be cross if it doesn’t come out quite the way you wanted.
    He chuckled, patronising his inner voice. Had he thought he could goad her into connecting with himfrom a place beyond life? It was as if a part of him believed she was there, in the room. He could taste it, just as he could taste a dinner before it was served. But the emptiness prevailed, leaving him chilled, uncertain. She’d been unique.
    His mystery woman had unusual qualities in her physicality, and he was not even sure she was human. Humanoid, of course, but Homo sapiens born and raised on a twenty-fifth century Earth? He didn’t think so. That bit of information would not be on the record though, not without a great deal more research into the plausible alternatives and a deeper study of her DNA. Nor would he mention her extraordinary body art, though how that would remain undisclosed if she went to the donor ward, he wasn’t sure. Could she even go to the donor ward if she were dead? He’d have to look that one up. Perhaps the body art would somehow provide an answer and stand as a warning. He dismissed the thought.
    The tattoos had intrigued him deeply, and it felt like a betrayal to use them as an explanation for her death. Still, he’d have to find a way to account for them as well. It would raise a stir. For one thing, she