Neema checked the link at her wrist again; the account still blinked empty. She twitched her sleeve down and her glove up to cover the flash of skin and glanced along the tiled hallway of the Zommart. She knew she shouldn't linger, but the layers of smell in the hall - the sick-sweet base cocktailed from vomit, blood, and shit, the chemical overlay of the cleaning fluids, the perfume pumped into the recycled air meant to disguise it all - always froze her when she first walked in. What was worse, the smell, or that it reminded her of Zana's room?

At the thought of her sister, Neema squared her shoulders. _Just one more, Zana. Just one more._ Between the clusters of suited men and bright-robed women examining the merchandise, a blue uniform snagged her attention. Still swallowing heavily, she immediately moved towards the cheaper Zoms, examining each sales tag as she passed. _Not loitering, officer - shopping._

Her movement attracted the Blue's eye; it was a novice's mistake and she should have known better. She might have pretended she did not hear his call to stop amid the thrum of the Zommart; she might have lost herself in the jostle and slipped away through an unregarded sidedoor. But to do so would be to abandon the Zom she had come to rescue from his sentence, and to abandon the doctor, whose work must succeed.

Her credentials were in order. Neema focused on this thought as she turned back to face the officer. She was glad of the veil which covered all of her face and neck except her eyes, for without it, he would surely see the fear etched into the lines of her face. Even with the veil hiding her, she was sure he would make out the puff of the cloth over her mouth as her breath panted out of her. She slowed her breathing and relaxed her eyes. _My credentials are in order._

He was brusque, his gaze taking her in from covered head to booted toe. 'Code?'

Neema gave it, keeping her voice low and her eyes downcast, but he thrust a finger towards her left hand, which she only now realised was clenched into a fist. She wiped her palm against her robe and raised her arm, holding it out to the Blue. She eased back the sleeve of her robe with her other hand. When she reached the top of her glove, she tugged it up so the cuff hugged the edge of her wrist-link. Then she inched her sleeve up again until it sat against the other edge of the metal band.

Not a sliver of skin was visible to the Blue; if it was, he might very well Tag her for Incitement. That might get her Zommed if she was unlucky or on multiple offences. If he decided she'd shown him skin on purpose, he could Tag her with the full charge, Incitement to Rape, and she would certainly end up on the wrong side of the Zommart. Would the doctor find himself a new volunteer to come and buy her? Her loose robe hid her shudder; she kept her eyes relaxed and guileless.

Her caution seemed to have irritated the Blue. He rapped at her wrist-link hard enough to knock her arm aside, but it beeped to verify the code she had given verbally. He grunted and tapped it into his own wrist-link, a sleek silver band which even had a holographic inset.

'You're from below?' He didn't need to see her record to know that; her robe was as dull as dirt amid the peacock shades of the women swirling about them with their sideways glances. Besides, she wore the face veil on top of the robe and head covering, which richer women did not need to do.

'My family is, officer,' Neema said. 'I have a sponsor and permission to move above.' The sponsor was one of the doctor's aliases; that alias employed a gardener, another alias, who was Neema's husband in the records.

The Blue was intent on the information scrolling off the screen. His reply was almost absent-minded. 'Those kinds of documents can be faked.'

Neema's heart tried to choke her before she understood the slyness behind the comment. The doctor had invited her to create a rich husband for herself, to discard the drab robe of the servant underclass. But she had, for a change, been cleverer than him. Her accent and way of moving would have broadcast the falseness of any rich covering, caused the Blue to look deeper, perhaps tear the tissues of the counterfeit documents protecting her. But who would spend minbi to create a servant's life for themself? Her credentials were in order.

Instead of the guilt the Blue was trying to scare from her, she offered him meekness. 'Please, officer, the boss will be angry with me if I do not return soon.'