"Year 2038," her co-pilot muttered, staring at the countdown on his wrist. "The year the old Unix clocks overflow. The year they finally figured out how to weaponize EULAs."
"Avast," she whispered, grinning as the drones froze, confused, unable to serve papers to a ghost. "The only subscription I honor is the one paid in gunpowder and spite."
Mirana slammed the throttle. Behind her, a fleet of autonomous legal drones unfolded from the shadow of Jupiter’s moon, Europa. They didn't fire lasers. They fired subpoenas.
"Patch the firewall!" she yelled.
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