“Working on it.”
I pull the redacted logs into a second window and start picking them apart again. The names are gone, but whoever handled the redactions was focused on removing identities, not hiding the structure underneath.
“The metadata’s still dirty,” I mutter. “Timestamp patterns. Access sequences. Packet sizes.”
The more I look, the faster my thoughts start moving.
“Different file types leave different footprints. Intelligence reports don’t move through the system the same way financial records do. Communication intercepts generate different traffic than personnel files. If I separate those signatures and compare them against the junction activity...”
Percy’s interface shifts from amber to green. The correlation matrix unfolds across the screen before I’ve fully finished the thought. Not because Percy understands what I’m saying. Because he’s already running the same analysis.
“Good.”
The data spreads across the workstation in branching chains of connections. Names are still gone. Those aren’t coming back. But people leave habits behind. They leave routines. Preferences. Patterns.
Redactions hide identities, but they can’t hide behavior.
I watch the model build itself from the gaps. Not names, but fingerprints. The way specific operatives move through the network. The kinds of files they access. The times they tend to work. Little pieces of themselves scattered through the system without realizing it.
The shape of the intrusion sharpens and suddenly I can see it. Not the person. Not yet. But the outline of them. A grin pulls at my mouth despite myself.
This is good. Really good.
It’s probably the cleanest piece of pattern reconstruction I’ve done in years, and I’m still staring at it when something changes.
The door never makes a sound. Maybe he’s learned to move quietly. Maybe he’s always moved quietly and I’m only noticing now. Either way, I know he’s there before I look up.
Heat rolls across the space between the door and my workstation and settles against my bare forearms and the back of my neck. My focus shifts toward him automatically, the same way Percy’s sensors register a signal entering range. Immediate. Unconscious.
“You’re early again.” I keep my attention on the screen.
“You’re smiling at a datapad.” His voice comes from beside me now. “Should I be concerned?”
“Percy is a better conversationalist than most sentient beings I’ve met. Present company included.”
A quiet breath brushes the top of my hair. I freeze for half a second before forcing myself back to the analysis. He’s standing closer than he was yesterday. Or maybe he isn’t, and I’m just paying more attention.
“New data for you. Supplementary access logs for the western junctions,” he says as he settles into the chair beside mine. “They might fill in some of the gaps.”
His scent winds around me and I breathe it in before I can stop myself. I immediately resent noticing it.
The Warrens are full of artificial pheromone blends and recycled air. There shouldn’t be anything distinctive about one person’s scent, and yet my brain picks his out with irritating ease.
Warm. Spiced. Masculine.
Irritated with myself, I rotate Percy’s projection toward him, amber pathways overlaying the blue network architecture. “I found a way around the redactions. The names are gone, but the activity isn’t. Whoever scrubbed the files removed the identities, not the patterns. I can see when specific operatives access the system, which files they tend to work with, how they move through the network. I can’t put names to them yet, but I can distinguish one behavioral profile from another.”
His focus sharpens on the analysis. Appreciation comes first. Genuine appreciation. His posture shifts almost imperceptibly as he studies the data, his attention narrowing with the unmistakable look of someone encountering work that impresses him.
Then it fades.
The change is subtle enough that most people probably wouldn’t notice it, but I do. A stillness settles over him. The easy interest drains away, replaced by something more guarded. The muscles around his eyes tighten as he looks back at the screen, seeing not just what I’ve found, but what finding it means.
You’re very good at your job, Miro. That’s what concerns me.
Amir Okoro standing behind his desk at Helix Corp. A commendation letter in one hand. A security review authorization in the other.
I’d understood what was happening before he finished speaking. The commendation wasn’t a reward. It was a muzzle.
