Page 16 of Tracked and Taken

“What kind of note?”

“The kind I am not comfortable sharing. It pertains to postural data.”

“Delete it.”

“I have no jurisdiction over SNAG’s AI and its notation habits. I can, however, confirm that my own logs contain nothing of relevance.”

A pause.

“Nothing I am prepared to discuss, at any rate.”

“SENTRY.”

“Yes.”

“Delete your logs too.”

“…Noted.”

“Noted, or deleted?”

“Noted.”

I walk out of the SNAG office and into the corridor, and the air is station-standard and regulation-temperature and does not smell like anything that makes my lungs do somersaults. The fluorescent lighting is functional. The walls are solid. The deck plating is level.

I have a suspect. I have a case. I have a job to do.

And a briefing table full of people who stand in gaps, and a stuffed bear, and a Xarthian male whose thumb moved across his mate’s knuckles in a way that undid something structural in me.

I do not look up Draelith tail orientation.

Yet.

4

Thirty Seconds

Tael

1743. Service corridor outside Maintenance Bay Three.

Torres is already here. Of course she is.

Two Junction One security officers flank the bay entrance. Calm. The backup you keep when you don’t expect trouble and know how to handle it anyway.

She turns a quarter-rotation. Sees me. The scar catches the corridor lighting. The dark eyes take in my civilian jacket, the dark shirt, the attempt at not-a-Draelith-tracker, and an expression moves across her face that I would trade operational intelligence to decode. Something sharp. Something that echoes in my gut and stays there, heavy and interested.

Then she holds out a folded square of cloth.

“Put this on.”

“What is it?”

“Junction One Security windbreaker. Human male, medium.” A beat. “It’s what I could grab. Station regulations require any non-JO personnel assisting in a detention to wear identifying insignia. I can’t walk a civilian contractor into a holding situation without it. If Harkin’s counsel gets creative, the chain of custody collapses and he walks.”

I take the windbreaker. Black. Junction One crest on the left collar in reflective silver. Station-issue, weight-graded for corridor work, designed around the shoulders of a human male who is probably six feet maximum.

I am not six feet maximum.