Page 3 of Pocket Wife

Small worlds are easy to underestimate from orbit.

The shuttle descends while the Helix vessels drop ahead, three dark shapes cutting through the fading light. Their shadows pass over terraced fields and narrow silver roads. The settlements below are not temporary shelters. They have weight. Barns cluster beside irrigation channels. Wind towers turn in steady rhythm. Lanterns burn along pathways with the deliberate spacing of tradition.

Then I see the gathering.

A festival occupies the central meadow, or has until the sky changed. Hundreds of people stand among tables, lantern trees, harvest displays, and carts filled with produce. Music platforms sit ready. Cloth banners stretch between posts. From above, the scene resembles a woven pattern pulled tight.

The Helix ships move lower.

People stop dancing.

I’ve seen fear from a distance many times. Refugee stations, contested moons, ancestral temples marked for transfer. From above, fear usually becomes numbers. Population estimates. Evacuation efficiency. Security risk.

This is different.

A child clutches a woman’s skirt. Older men step in front of families without being asked. A group near the cider barn gathers close around an elderly couple. At the center of the meadow, a woman stands apart from the first wave of movement, one hand wrapped around a cup she has forgotten to lower.

The shuttle’s magnification identifies her from the local leadership appendix.

Lucy Hartwell. Farmer. Community organizer. Primary civilian contact recommended by Mayor Alden Reeve.

She does not run.

“Specialist,” the pilot says, “Helix command is requesting permission to transmit public notice immediately.”

“Deny.”

Another pause. “They have legal authority to announce their arrival.”

“They have authority to arrive. They do not have authority to frighten a civilian gathering for administrative convenience.”

“I’ll relay that.”

I watch Lucy Hartwell look from the ships to the people around her. Even without audio, I see the decision settle across her posture. She turns first toward the nearest children, then toward the older residents, moving through the crowd instead of away from it.

Efficient, I think.

No. Committed.

The distinction matters.

My shuttle touches down on the ridge above the meadow, separate from the black Helix landing craft. As the ramp lowers, evening air rolls inside, carrying dust, cut stalks, warm fruit, machine oil, and the mineral sharpness of cooling soil. My hearing catches what human ears below likely miss: a child whispering a prayer, a man counting breaths, a woman saying it will be all right.

None of them believe it.

I step onto Jwoon III.

The locals look at me.

I’m accustomed to that. Pi’rell height invites attention. My silver-blue skin, formal travel coat, and Authority insignia do the rest. The settlers see an outsider. Perhaps an official. Perhaps another hand pushing them from the land beneath their feet.

I can’t blame them for the assumption.

A Helix representative crosses the meadow with two security officers behind him, polished boots crushing fallen lantern petals into the dirt. My gaze moves from the officers to the families beneath the honor tree.

The briefing called this a relocation site.

The phrase is already insufficient.