As a pilot on what the company termed as “Hot-Seat Duty,” my desk was situated in a small room tucked behind the tool gantry, and it was a shared space. Two “modern-ergonomic” style desks from the 21st century dominated the room, each fitted with a Lockheed-Apple console, monitor and datajack. Suicide was at one desk, a lean youth with a dubious nickname for a pilot. He was jacked in, oblivious to his surroundings.

I don’t have the newest style of jack, just synaptic plug inlets implanted to the inside of my wrists that I use when flying to directly link to the VTOL ’s control system.

I sat down at the other desk, pulled out the console and typed in a quick series of commands. The drone’s recordings were there. An explosion in the background and then a lurching, spinning crash to concrete and a fragmented view of the front of the diner.

Near the end, a blurry shot of a figure leaping. Brown skin, short, athletic. Very fast. I couldn’t make out any details. I froze the image and started to restructure it.