Page 29 of Tracked and Taken

Tael has not looked at me. I have not looked at Tael. We are, by mutual unspoken agreement, going to spend the next ninety seconds pretending that what just happened did not happen, and it is going to fail, and we both know it.

“Well,” Flossie says. Warm voice operational again. Tea finally making it to her mouth. “That was an educational experience. Natalie, you were saying. Your second.”

“My second.” I am grateful for the handhold. I grip it. “Ardent. I’d like him briefed on case continuity before I leave the station. SPROUT, would you ask him to come to the SNAG office?”

“Calling Deputy Ardent now.”

Deputy Ardent walks into the SNAG office at 1952.

I called him off dinner, which is obvious from the moment he comes through the door, because he has not changed. Dark hair cropped short. Deep brown eyes. Civilian black t-shirt that fits the way things fit when they have been owned long enough to know the body wearing them, and the ink on his right arm fully visible from the sleeve down: interlocking black hexagons, precise as deck plating, running wrist to elbow and on up under the sleeve to the shoulder, with one hexagon in the middle of the forearm band left empty. Bare skin in a field of ink. I have never asked him why. He has never offered. It is the only untidy thing about Ardent, and it is untidy on purpose.

The rest of the sleeve I have seen twice in four years, both times in a med bay. I know because I have eyes, and I am, tonight, still a woman. I am also, tonight, the Head of Station Security briefing her second in front of a Draelith tracker who is currently doing something with the muscles of his shoulders that I am going to pretend not to notice.

Ardent clocks the room in two seconds. Flossie: nod. Xor: nod, slightly deeper, one professional reading another. Petra, who has re-emerged from the kitchen with suspiciously composed eyes: a half-smile. Tael, in the reinforced chair: Ardent pauses on him for exactly the time a Junction One deputy pauses on a civilian contractor, then continues to me.

“Boss.”

“Ardent.”

“You called me off my dinner.”

“I assume the dinner’s fine. It’s steak. It will hold.”

“The dinner will hold.”

“Walk me through.”

“Station handover. Seven to ten days, possibly more. I’m going to Velarkis on an active trail. Flossie and SNAG are coordinating from here. You’re running Junction One.”

“Running it, or running it to the ground.”

“Running it, Ardent.”

“I can do that.” He drops into the empty client chair, the one with the crocheted seat cover I refused to sit in. He does not comment on the chair. This is one of the things I like about Ardent. “Give me the delta from this morning’s standing orders.”

I give him the delta. Harkin in Level Two. The Corsairian captain on Thursday. The fuel hauler dispute. The new night-shift kid who needs de-escalation coaching. Two questions. Both tactical. Both are good.

“Harkin’s handlers,” I say. “They contacted him two days ago. Advance paid, job pending, something they want moved, and they told him they would be in touch about timing. That thread stays live while I’m gone.”

“Parameters.”

“Watch, don’t spook. The arrest stays off the public log; as far as the dock is concerned, Harkin is on medical stand-down. SENTRY flags anything that moves on his channels, his locker stays sealed until forensics clears it, and the bays get swept.”

“Swept for what.”

“Bay by bay, quiet, nothing that reads as a search from the concourse.” I take the folded forensic summary out of my jacket and put it in his hand. “Any hull that came in on a maintenance flag and has not filed a departure. Any cargo whose manifest weight and volume disagree. And anything carrying the compound — Harkin’s residue profile is in there, and any dock officer with a field kit can run it in under a minute. A bay comes back positive, you seal it and you comm me. You do not open it.”

“And when the timing call comes.”

“Nothing moves and nothing gets touched. You comm me, and we decide whether it runs as a controlled delivery.”

“Watch, don’t spook. Sweep quiet. Comm you before anything moves.” He notes it the way he notes everything: once, without ornament. “Done.”

“Draelith tracker,” he says. To his tablet. Not looking up.

“Ardent.”

“I’m asking.”