Persistent little bastards.
I push back from the table and cross the apartment, bare feet silent against the composite floor. The entry panel glows when I touch it, resolving into the hallway feed.
Three people.
Two women, one Pi’Rell and one human, both dressed in the tidy, serious way of civilians trying to look more official than they actually are. One man, older, Alzhon maybe, with silver threaded through his dark hair and a stack of physical folders hugged to his chest like he doesn’t trust data unless he can drop it on his own foot.
The human woman leans toward the camera. “Ms. Ardent? Sorry for the hour. The transit line delay?—”
I thumb the audio on. “You could have rescheduled.”
“We tried,” she says with the kind of apologetic earnestness that usually means she absolutely did not try hard enough. “But Director Sen waived the conflict window, and we’re only in sector for tonight.”
Behind me, I hear Rhyx mutter, “That sounds like civilian language for ambush.”
I almost smile.
Into the panel, I say, “You’ve got twenty minutes.”
The Pi’Rell woman winces sympathetically. “That is more mercy than we deserve.”
“Correct.”
I let them in.
By the time they reach the apartment, I’ve cleared one end of the table and stacked the most inflammatory proposal drafts into a single pile so they don’t spread like an infection. The room smells like rain pushing in through old seals, tea gone tannic and oversteeped, and the faint savory heat of the broth Rhyx made earlier and insisted I finish before I started “fighting with legislation again.”
He retreats toward the kitchenette when the door opens, not hiding exactly, just making space in a way that somehow reads as both courteous and deeply territorial.
The delegations come in damp from the weather, carrying cold air and the wet wool smell of coats shaken out under transit awnings.
The human woman offers her hand first. “Nera Sol. Independent Civilian Archive Coalition.”
The Alzhon man nods. “Pavel Iri. Casualty Disclosure Network.”
The Pi’Rell woman inclines her head. “Talis Vehr. Statutory Reform Compact.”
I shake all three hands because I was raised with manners, unfortunately.
Nera’s eyes flick to the spread of documents on my table and then to me. “This is generous.”
“No,” I say, sitting back down. “This is insomnia.”
Something in Pavel’s expression softens, like he’s deciding I’m more useful now that I’ve admitted to being a person.
They settle into the mismatched chairs we’ve accumulated from two thrift depots and one relief-network office liquidation. Rain taps steadily at the windows. A transport horn echoes from somewhere down in the streets. The overhead light throws a warm amber pool over the table, but the rest of the apartment stays in softer shadow.
Nera opens first, because of course she does. She has that polished, terrifyingly efficient way of speaking that says she can get a grant approved and a government embarrassed before lunch.
“We appreciate your time,” she says. “All three coalitions wanted to meet jointly because your tribunal performance established a precedent none of us can ignore.”
I lean back in my chair. “That’s a very elegant way to say you want to use my name.”
Pavel lifts both hands. “Not use. Cite.”
“That is a synonym wearing good shoes.”
Talis makes a quiet sound that might be a laugh. “You are difficult in ways I admire.”
