Page 16 of Pocket Wife

Rethan lifts his wrist display and sends a silent command. The drone’s running lights flicker once, then vanish as it retreats toward the ridge.

“You can order it away?” I ask.

“I can record its presence and make it inconvenient.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“No,” he says. “But inconvenience leaves a trail.”

At the next rise, we look back toward the valley. Smoke curls from supper fires. Carts move between homes. Families who were frightened yesterday are now carrying boxes, ledgers, names, proof.

Hope is moving faster than fear.

I want to trust that.

At the far end of the southern road, a second drone rises from behind the trees.

Then a third.

Rethan’s expression hardens into something colder than caution.

I tighten my grip on the witness ledger beneath my arm.

The valley has started speaking.

Helix has started listening.

CHAPTER 8

RETHAN

The central archive answers with a denial stamped in blue.

I read it once, then send the request again under a higher clearance code.

The second denial arrives in six seconds.

Across the records room, Lucy Hartwell has fallen asleep with her cheek on one folded arm and three witness ledgers spread beneath the other. She lasted longer than most of the valley. Long after Mayor Reeve went home, after the clerks stopped bringing tea, after the last frightened farmer carried records back into the night, Lucy kept working.

Now exhaustion has taken her.

I lower the brightness on my display.

It’s an irrational courtesy. The light won’t wake her unless she opens her eyes. Still, the records room feels less harsh with the glow dimmed, and she has earned that much peace.

I go back to the central archive request.

Access denied. Restricted historical packet. Review authority insufficient.

That makes no sense.

The file I requested is not military, diplomatic, or biologically sensitive. It’s a colonial survey index from a small agricultural world most regional officials have forgotten existed. By normal standards, it should be dull enough to be public.

I open the local copies gathered that day. Nara Venn’s testimony. Amadine Pell’s letters. The old planting ledger. A school primer preserving boundary songs. The records should be fragile beside central data.

Instead, they’re more consistent.

That troubles me.