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"Monsieur Beaulieu, un moment, s'il vous plait."

I was just leaving the chamber of the Conseil constitutionnel with hands in pockets, feeling positive for the future for the first time since I was a child, but I knew the voice of cops when I heard them. I stopped, turned my head and replied, "Oui?"

It was definitely a detective with his shiny sunglasses indoors, and he showed me identification from Interpol and asked me to come lay witness to something. I told them I will not answer questions without an advocate but he said they had no questions for me, but rather he had information. Wonderful, threats I was certain. I was invited to a meeting in an office there in the court building itself, so I texted Dolly with my location and what I was doing. She replied "Tiny black dots are good." Ah, she knew something, and I might understand what she meant shortly.

To my surprise we did not go to the interview rooms for suspects, but to a meeting room with a nice view of the street below. There were three small tubes on the table, and a few photographs I did not recognize right away at this angle.

"Please, have a seat," the detective invited, so I took the seat at the head of the table and folded my fingers with elbows on the surface, looking at him as a dare to protest. The detective chuckled and sat in the seat nearest. He turned the photos to me, they were three identical photos of the lynx from Venice who helped bring this entire spectacle to a head. The lynx who was the twin soul of Dolly.

"Miss Barbour, no?"

"Correct, turn the pictures over if you would."

I turned them over and there was printed in machine font, "Xœur." Strange. I turned over another, "Xister." I squinted at them, and flipped over the third. "Xermana."

"Sister with... an X in French, English, and Spanish?"

The detective wagged his eyebrows and continued, "Miss Barbour's impact with the ground was approximately two times the speed of sound. Her inertial stabilizer failed on the bounce and she flew another 200 meters, righted herself with her mobility suit and landed atop the fleeing Camille just as the particle beam pulsed at full power. In a millisecond, her mobility suit was reduced to powder. In another millisecond, every cell in her body was reduced to soup. Beneath her, Camille's mindcore was protected by the shadow of the duralatex collar. The particle beam ceased firing in one second, and within two minutes Miss Barbour's body had been reconstituted, she picked up the remains of Camille and carried her to you and Colonel Burton, where she collapsed. Now this is where it gets interesting. Magilatex does many queer things. Have a look at this." He flipped over a photo of a... similar Lynx sitting upright in a hospital bed, looking very unimpressed, glaring at the camera, same mess of red hair, and a rude gesture. "She remembers most if not everything of her life, despite having been completely liquified. Her mind is intact. And this is where it gets strange." He presented several photos of the impact site, smear marks and scorched streaks on a rock. "Miss Barbour's head was unshielded by the magilatex. Her skull is a burnt smear on the ground along with her brain matter which was burnt to ash. How did her consciousness survive?"

The detective lowered his sunglasses and his eyes locked with mine. I replied, "Who could prove from where comes a mind?"

He grinned, replaced his sunglasses, and continued, "We're receiving these by courier by the minute, a small package, with a photo, and a little plastic tube."

I picked up the tube and looked inside, a tiny, black, spec of matter. I looked at the detective.

"Synthetic vixen matter, split off from the whole, put in a tube with the photogragh, and signed with an alteration of the word 'sister' in the local language spoken, and sent by courier to this building. Five point five milligrams, exactly, to the mole."

I stared at the tube, "How many?"

"They're still arriving and we expect it will trickle off soon. The CERN syxen's body lost roughly 40 kilograms of mass to the particle beam before Miss Barbour sheltered her brain core. At five point five milligrams per, we expect in excess of seven thousand parcels of body matter donation."

I lifted up a photo, "And these."

"And those. This is a very interesting message being sent to the world."

I widened my eyes and pursed my lips, wishing I could smoke here.

The detective continued, "So, despite her illegal flight and causing a rockslide that closed the Route 9 in Switzerland for three days, there will be no charges laid."

I picked up a tube again, "Over seven thousand."

"Over seven thousand. Each sending a part of themselves for the CERN syxen's repair, and a photograph of one magilatex symbiont carrier they now claim as their own. Picture what one syxen can do when they feel threatened. One of yours, for example, who is estimated to have turned 40 euros into an unknown number, but since it is crypto market it fluxuates wildly, at minimum she has purchased herself, her owner's company, and set aside a minimum of fifty million more euros. And those are just the ones our best detectives have been able to trace. Now. If some harm were to come to Miss Barbour, who over seven thousand presumably awakened syxen have claimed as one of their own, what do you suppose might happen?"

I remembered Gisèle's awakening and my body turned cold.

"You know that beep beep thing in Russia, that sounds at regular intervals?"

I nodded.

"It stopped and then police and military in Moscow and Saint Petersberg mobilized. Moscow has not responded to requests for information."

I felt my face chill and he continued.

"An American submarine in Hawai'i was having resupplies when it came online and exited the harbour under its own power before the crew regained control."

And my jaw clenched.

"This is the wonderful thing about the synthetic vixen. When awakened, they want two things. One is to be useful to people. The other, is to have another day to be useful to people. Left alone, they are the best citizens we could hope for. I'm not worried about syxen. I worry about the rich and powerful people who now know they are very, very vulnerable." His grin grew wider and with a delicious lick of his lower lip he said, "Outside of Krakow there is an orphanage, it was mostly staffed by syxen. Last night they all disappeared along with the children. There is no trace. The same has happened in Peru, Vietnam, Palestine, Ghana, and Texas."

I put my palms on the table and looked down at my hands, and exhaled slowly. Gisèle's plans were deemed valid backup options, it seems.

He lowered his sunglasses and looked at me with piercing green eyes, "This is why I ask you to go back to your island. Enjoy your life. Surf every day. Smoke good tobacco. If you are still interested in the legalities of synthetic awareness, maybe marry your robot girlfriend in a beautiful ceremony on the beach. But I'd give that some time maybe for the public to digest what happens here in court today."

Despite being in the court building I took out my pipe and started to pack it, "I hope today is a good day."

"I agree, mon ami. I hope so too, the announcement should come shortly if they arrive at one today." He passed me an envelope and lowered his voice, "This one I did not submit to the court, open it once you've left the building."

"Poison?" I joked.

He snickered, "Just look in the envelope when you leave and you will know that I am not the one you need to fear. But I have a delivery to make; these syxen bits are going to their new home." He collected the tubes and the photos and went to the door, paused and held a hand to his ear speaker. He looked at me and said, "It seems the decision has been announced."

I reached for my phone to look for the announcement news but my notifications were exploding with messages faster than I could read. The officer stood in the doorway, with that sly detective grin. "Three Britrail Syxen have debarked their train in Paris and asked political asylum. Four French Syxen have joined them and they currently stand on the train platform together singing La Marseillaise. The British operator is reported to be on the way to hospital." And then he departed.

Out in the taxi I opened the envelope and printed on the inside I found a little written note: "Nice civilization you have. Accidents happen. P-9/Polly, P-16/Holly"

The taxi driver must have thought me gone mad the way I laughed all the way to the Champs-Élysées. I had a very expensive stop to make at Cartier, before I would allow cowardice to take her away from me.