“My management style is effective.”
She’s right, which is infuriating.
The rest of the day is heavy in the useful way. I spend two hours on structural supports for the modular residences outside the capital ring—prefab units meant for families in transition, patched into livability by volunteer crews, donated materials, and stubbornness.
One of those units is ours.
Modest. Slightly outside the densest transit lanes. Two rooms and a central living space, with a narrow strip of ground behind it where something green might survive if Selene ever decides she trusts plants again.
I have been converting it piece by piece.
Anchoring shelves higher and sturdier because ordinary civilian construction underestimates what weight means in a household with Vakutan reach. Reinforcing door tracks so they slide smoothly without sticking. Adjusting the bathroom grab rails after the first set arrived installed by idiots. Building a low storage bench under the main room window. Adding soft-edge guards to corners because the child will come eventually, and I have seen enough accidental injuries in every species to know optimism is not a safety plan.
That evening, after depot hours, I stop by the residence before returning to the city flat.
The air outside the unit smells of damp earth, cooling metal, and the faint sharp sweetness of the scrub plants someone cultivated along the shared path. Sunset has gone copper and violet along the horizon, the light catching in the rivet heads of the support beams I installed last week.
Inside, the place is quiet.
The floor panels are still bare in sections where I’m replacing worn seams. A toolkit sits open beneath the window. Newly mounted wall braces cast clean shadows across the far room. The child-safety latches I fitted to the lower cabinets click softly when I test them.
I run my hand over the frame of the smaller room and imagine it occupied. Not decorated. Just lived in. Clothing piled somewhere it should not be. A blanket dragged into the wrong corner. Selene’s notes overtaking one surface while my work gloves ruin another. A child eventually making nonsense of all clean arrangements.
The thought settles through me with a weight that does not feel like fear.
Outside, a groundcar passes on the lane beyond the low wall, tires hissing over wet stone. Somewhere nearby, someone is cooking with too much garlic. The scent drifts in through the cracked vent and makes the quiet space feel less theoretical.
My comm slate vibrates.
Civilian liaison alert.
Not command. Not security. Civilian liaison.
I answer at once.
A middle-aged Pi’Rell woman appears in projection, wrapped in a weather cloak and the sort of administrative calm that suggests she can move mountains with filing procedures.
“Mr. Varos,” she says.
I still have not gotten used to that. Mr.
“Liaison.”
“I’m contacting you regarding memorial-day arrangements. We have reviewed attendance risk models and revised the civilian access corridor.”
I set the toolkit aside and lean against the wall. “Tell me.”
She brings up the route map. “No military escort presence at primary approach. We are maintaining civilian marshal coverage only, per your request. Secondary extraction routes remain open but visually discreet. Press barriers adjusted to reduce crowd compression.”
I study the route. Clean enough. Honest enough. No theatrical security display to turn the memorial into another battlefield of optics.
“And Ardent’s arrival path.”
“Separate from principal dignitaries,” she says. “Direct civilian family corridor, with optional private waiting chamber.”
I think of Selene’s likely response to “optional private waiting chamber” and nearly smile.
“She will hate that phrasing,” I say.
