The beams from helicopters penetrated the night skies like knifes through flesh, mercilessly seeking unbelievers; people who believed the RS were not the gods of the written word and sought enlightenment from reading not being force fed mass pulp.
Acceptance of the RS guaranteed publication on your work, this help did not guarantee sales and that is why the helicopters searched by night the areas were the patrols could not reach in daylight.
Many of the areas were accessible via back road systems only, this would mean the patrols would be travelling along dirt tracks on long forgotten roads and open to attack; or so the RS was led to believe, the truth was far more acceptable, but why challenge what gives you some peace?
The most irksome thing to the RS about an indie is not the rate of sales as the rate is so low but the fact people look for their work and are willing to risk severe penalties and prison for repeat offences, to get new writing; not only this the popularity was spreading like wild fire.
The stranger hid behind his car, the new car was fitted with anti-location software but neither his case nor the laptop were; he knew it was a big risk but the rewards for this find would be huge - not only had he found a new writer but his was the leader of the new wave, one who didn't bow to pressure and created one of the largest shocks with a book which out sold the top RS team - this find could mean a lot to the indies and if caught with the material, the punishment would be beyond imagination.
The beams criss-crossed the area 'They know I'm near,' he thought, 'yet they daren't leave the area without finding met," the stranger held his breath as the beams drew closer, 'with all this light I hope the software doesn't get fried."