The Pedestal by Daniel Wimberley

where I landed, rocking from one wounded buttock to the other as I try to pinpoint where my plan went wrong. My next move is unclear. Logic dictates that I wait right here, because eventually she’s got to come out—and when she does, she’ll have no choice but to walk right past me—but my gut is chiming in, and not merely out of hunger.
    Something is wrong , it whispers.
    How could I have missed her coming in? I’ll cede that I’m hardly trained at this detective stuff, but I watched the entrance very carefully, and I simply can’t imagine how she managed to slip past me. That ship has sailed, unfortunately.
    I’m not about to allow the next to follow suit.
    Using my pocket terminal, I edit its notification settings to alert me of any activity on Mitzy’s daygrid. Then, I do something I’ve never before considered an option: I put a formal proximity trace on Mitzy’s NanoPrint. Proximity traces aren’t really prohibited, but they’re greatly frowned upon. I’m sure a few million stalkers and jealous ex-husbands think they’re great, but the rest of us find them a little unsettling. Nevertheless, my desperation outweighs my shame for the moment, so I sit back to wait.
    As it turns out, I don’t have to wait long—at least, not when compared with the waiting list inside.
    A half hour after my gymnastic exit from the Palagio, my pocket terminal begins to vibrate like mad. I get my feet underneath me as a small crowd exits the restaurant and spills onto the stairs. Not a crowd, really, just five people who are loud enough to give a crowd-like impression. Among them, there are two smartly dressed men arm-saddled to gorgeous ladies, and a fifth, unaccompanied woman, who is pretty, though considerably less so than her peers. I scan their faces, though it’s obvious that Mitzy is not among them. At their approach, I’m forced to step aside to allow them passage down the stairs. All the while, I keep a frantic eye peeled for my quarry, who ought to be here, yet somehow is not.
    I check my terminal and discover with mounting frustration that Mitzy has somehow gotten past me again. Her daygrid has updated, reporting that she’s headed to a nearby nightclub, just a few blocks down the strip. I step toward the shuttle queue but think better of it—I’m in a hurry, and to be honest, I could use a little break from sitting—and begin walking in a brisk stride down the strip, passing by lurid posters and beckoning marquees. When I finally approach the club ten minutes later, my trace reports that she’s already inside.
    Following her trail, I forfeit an ungodly number of credits just for the privilege of walking through the door. It’s dark, lit primarily by strobes in opposing corners. The music—if I can call it that—is loud enough that my ears might well begin shooting blood at any second. The flickering lights are messing with my vision a little, but it looks like—yes, I see something. In the corner, seated at the bar without her beautiful friends, is the pretty lady from the Pelagio, nursing a watery drink through a long straw. Actually, though I perceive her to be alone, she’s all but surrounded—yet completely ignored. At first I can’t make sense of what I’m seeing: a pretty lady in what appears to be a thriving singles bar, without a bite on her lure? She seems sad, resigned. She’s swaddled in the sort of melancholy that makes her all but invisible to those around her, and though nothing about this situation makes sense, I feel my heart ache for a beat. I check my pocket terminal to confirm my suspicion, and sure enough, it’s her.
    Except that it isn’t.
    At once, my empathy turns cold. Instinct tempts me to swarm in and expose this little con of hers—and if I choose to do so, I’ll be completely within my rights; nexus fraud and identity theft are tantamount to murder these days—but something tells me that’s not the right move. So instead, I squeeze alongside her at the bar and