Page 9 of Pocket Wife

Corvek’s face loses its polished ease. “You are exceeding a preservation review.”

“I am preserving the subject of the review.”

Lucy looks at me then, really looks, and the anger in her face doesn’t vanish. It changes shape.

I log the order before anyone can interrupt. The recorder chimes once, binding the action to the official record.

Case status: contested pending full historical investigation.

Across the table, Corvek’s hand closes slowly over the incomplete survey file.

For the first time since the ships arrived, Helix no longer controls the clock.

CHAPTER 5

LUCY

By morning, half the valley has brought its past to the cooperative hall.

Deeds lie in stacks along the benches. Marriage contracts sit beside irrigation permits, prayer records, birth ledgers, crop agreements, and brittle family maps nobody has ever needed to defend until now. People who went home shaken return with boxes under their arms and dirt still on their boots, as if proof could be harvested if enough hands work before the suns climb high.

I stand near the door, directing traffic with a mug of untouched tea cooling in my hand.

“Older than your grandmother’s time goes on the left table,” I tell one family. “Recent notices and land revisions on the right. Anything with survey marks, give to Mayor Reeve.”

A boy no older than ten holds up a cracked data tab. “My ma says this has our first orchard record.”

“Then it matters.” I crouch long enough to meet his eyes. “Put it with the old grants. Carefully.”

He nods with solemn importance and carries it away with both hands.

Across the hall, Rethan Veyr examines documents without removing his gloves. He’s been there since sunrise, silent except for precise questions that make people stand straighter or frown harder. I haven’t decided whether that’s helpful or irritating.

Probably both.

Mayor Reeve approaches with a tired expression. “Specialist Veyr wants to inspect the affected farms directly.”

I look past him to Rethan. “Of course he does.”

“He asked for you.”

That makes me pause. “Why?”

“He said records identify land. People explain use.”

I hate that the answer makes sense.

Five minutes later, I lead Rethan down the eastern road with three farmers behind us and a Helix observer following at a distance. The observer’s presence makes every fence post feel watched. I ignore him with effort.

“This is Hartwell lower field,” I say, stopping beside a stretch of sunwheat rolling gold under the twin suns. “My father planted the first rows after the north soil beds failed. Took him six years to make this ground reliable.”

Rethan studies the irrigation channels instead of the view. “The water flow is manually maintained?”

“Mostly. We use sensors for flood warnings, not decisions.”

“Why?”

“Because sensors don’t know when a neighbor’s crop is thirstier than yours.”