My comm slate vibrates in the breast pocket of my work jacket.
I pull it out expecting another supply request.
Instead the display reads:
Coalition Civic Liaison — Private Visit Confirmed
Of course.
I look toward the upper catwalk where the visitor checkpoint overlooks the depot floor. A dark-uniformed figure waits there with an umbrella tucked under one arm and the patient posture of someone accustomed to being admitted everywhere eventually.
Lena sees where I am looking and grimaces. “That one yours?”
“Unfortunately.”
She glances at the insignia. “Coalition.”
“Yes.”
“Do you need me to invent an equipment fire?”
I consider it. “Tempting.”
“Say the word.”
I hand back the manifest tablet. “I’ll survive.”
“That is not the same as saying no.”
“No,” I admit.
She grunts. “Fine. If they start talking like committee people, throw yourself off the catwalk. I’ll catch you with a forklift.”
“Comforting.”
“It’s what I bring to the workplace.”
I climb the metal stairs to the catwalk two at a time. The grating rings under my boots, hollow and sharp over the loading bay noise. Rain lashes against the high windows beyond the platform, turning the glass into a blurred wash of gray light and motion. From up here the depot looks almost elegant—lines of cargo flow, bodies moving in purposeful arcs, the accidental choreography of people trying to hold each other up without turning it into ideology.
The Coalition visitor turns as I approach.
Councilor Iven Dareth.
Human. Mid-fifties. Civilian cut uniform, but with the unmistakable polish of someone who has spent too many years speaking on behalf of military structures while insisting he personally is not military. His hair is iron-gray at the temples. His smile is careful and almost warm.
“Rhyx,” he says.
“Councilor.”
He glances down at the depot floor. “This is very industrious.”
“That is one word for it.”
“Useful work.”
“Yes.”
His eyes come back to me. “You look well.”
