Page 11 of Pocket Wife

“It is inaccurate.”

I meet his eyes.

Rethan keeps his gaze on the valley. “Low-density does not mean low-value. Agricultural does not mean replaceable. Usage does not describe attachment, obligation, memory, or dependence.”

This time, I have no sharp answer ready.

“So,” I say, because silence has become dangerous, “are we still just emotional locals with messy paperwork?”

“No,” Rethan says. “You are organized locals with messy paperwork.”

I laugh despite myself.

It surprises him. I see that too.

At the foot of the ridge, the Helix observer raises a comm device and turns away, speaking too low for human ears.

Rethan’s head angles slightly.

“What is it?” I ask.

His gaze moves to the valley road, where three black Helix transports have appeared near the southern fields.

“They are not waiting,” he says.

The transports don’t slow at the public road.

They cross the boundary into Hartwell lower field.

CHAPTER 6

RETHAN

Ifind dried soil along the seal of my glove two hours after the Helix transports withdraw from Hartwell lower field.

I notice it in the records room beneath the cooperative hall, surrounded by ledgers, cracked data tabs, cold archive cases, and the quiet fury of a valley that has come too close to losing patience. The soil should be irrelevant. A trace particle, no different from thousands gathered during field inspection.

Yet I keep looking at it.

The order halting Helix activity has held, for now. Their transports left after I transmitted the violation notice directly to regional oversight. Corvek responded with a formal objection inside seven minutes. Two attorneys sent supplementary objections after that.

Helix moves quickly when delayed.

So do guilty parties.

Across the table, Lucy Hartwell sorts another stack of family records with sleeves rolled past her elbows. Dirt marks one fingernail. Ink stains the heel of her palm. Her work is not graceful, but it is relentless. Every few minutes, someone opens the archive door and hands her another folder, ledger, or storage chip. She thanks each person by name.

I’ve cataloged six hundred and twelve documents since morning.

Lucy has remembered who owns nearly all of them.

“This one is wrong,” I say.

She looks up. “Which one?”

I turn a municipal transfer record toward her. “Farm parcel A-Seventeen. The file says ownership passed from the original grant family to Breccan Resource Trust ninety-one standard years ago.”

Lucy frowns and leans over the table. “That’s the Kest field.”