Did I ever tell you about the night your dear mother for the first time from a great yawning distance strafed me with her nanodrones? The hour was wicked and the air pressure haywire. They used to have that city built into the side of the mountain on the other side of the Great Plain before the succession of devastating rockslides kiboshed further communal misadventures there, and your mother would get in her little tan bonnet and grab her basket and head up from the city to the summit of the mountain, in all her mighty gumption, opening the top of the basket once arrived and letting the nanodrones go from the peak like doves of peace. How she collated her intel I’ll never know. I know what she was after, though. Political leverage. Your mother had a way of worming herself through the masonry and the carpentry. You understand? Out and about in a lighter-than-usual mood, wearing that eggshell-coloured shawl, she was like an airborne virus, a song of songs, except with frightening white teeth capable of temporarily blinding the abnormally sensitive. I never liked having to attempt stripping her of a weapon, I can tell you that. In the heavy times, we usually needed her armed anyway. While all the off-grid nanotechnology hanky-panky never really ate into our marriage or caused me much personal burden, it did sadly eat into her. Literally. I’m afraid you mother was eaten by nanobots, Jennifer. I know, I know. Believe me, it was a shock to me too. I was there. It was an appalling extravaganza of colour.
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