Page 30 of Tracked and Taken

“Don’t.”

“Not operationally, Boss. I’m just making sure. You’ve filed more complaints about SNAG operatives’ docking bay access than I can count, and now you’re on a ship with one of them for seven to ten days. Professional due diligence requires I confirm you are not in particular distress.”

“I’m not in distress.”

“Your braid is tighter than usual.”

“My braid is regulation.”

“Your braid is a cry for help wearing a uniform.”

“Ardent.”

“Fine. Noted. Struck from the record.” The grin that follows is small and warm, the specific grin of a man who has known me long enough to know which buttons do what, and has elected tonight to press only the ones that amuse him. “Safe travel, Boss.”

“Daily comms. Weekly reports for Morrison. Anything smells wrong—“

“Goes to you. I know.”

“Thank you.”

“Come back, Boss.”

“Planning on it.”

He stands. Nods to Flossie. Nods to Xor. Gives Petra the half-smile again, which Petra returns with the expression of a woman who is filing him under a category she will discuss with Flossie later and is not my business.

His eyes pass over Tael on the way to the door.

Tael’s eyes pass over him.

Neither of them moves. Neither of them speaks. But across three meters of SNAG office carpet, two apex predators have just conducted an entire conversation in the specific language of rivals who have sized each other up and come to independent, private conclusions that they will both decline to share with the class.

Tael’s tail, against the reinforced chair, has gone rigid. The working configuration. Not the spiral. Not the lazy coil. The configuration I have now, apparently, learned means something, and what it means, right now, appears to be no.

Ardent leaves.

The door closes behind him.

Nobody in the SNAG office says anything for approximately three seconds.

Flossie clears her throat. Warm. Professional. Utterly not fooling anyone.

“Right. Lovey. 0600 at Bay 12. I’ll have SPROUT uplink confirmations before transit corridor acquisition. Pack for a week. And,” she looks at me, and her warm eyes do one more thing, “pack like you’re going to a contested sector, Natalie. The uniform will paint a target on you before you clear the dock.”

“I know.”

“Civilian.” A beat. “Layered. Nothing that says Junction One anywhere on it.”

“Understood.”

I get out of the SNAG office with my dignity approximately thirty percent intact, which is better than I expected after the JINX incident.

My quarters at 2130.

The duffel bag open on the bed.

I have packed the professional layer: forensic kit, second comm unit, medical kit, water purification tabs, field rations for seven days, tac boots, a backup sidearm in its case, extra clips, regulation hair ties (two), the flask of black coffee that is not regulation, and the protein bar with my name on it in three languages.