Page 13 of Tracked and Taken

“I’m just observing, Vosk. I’m very good at observing. It’s one of my skills.” Petra ticks them off on her fingers. “Looking at things. Opening things. Knowing when food is about to expire. Noticing when a six-foot-five Draelith tracker has his entire tail pointed at a Head of Station Security from across a room.”

The room goes silent.

Tael’s voice, from the briefing table. Level. “My tail is not pointed at anything.”

“Your tail is pointed in a direction I can see from here.”

“Directions are relative.”

“This one isn’t.”

“Petra.”

“I saved your life once, Vosk.”

“You did not save my life. You ate my protein bar.”

“The protein bar had two hours left. I’m a hero. And I think, as your hero, I’m entitled to report on certain phenomena when they occur within my field of vision.”

“Your field of vision is fifteen feet wide and not accredited.”

I have to say something. I can feel it building in my throat, but I do not want to say anything. Saying anything means acknowledging the scene is happening, and the scene is happening between a chaos-agent ex-courier and a Draelith tracker who is, I note without looking, very deliberately not adjusting his tail in case the adjusting becomes further evidence.

“Petra.” Flossie, from her desk. Warm. Very warm. “Lovey. We’re in the middle of a case.”

“I know. I’m providing color commentary.”

“You’re providing a deposition.”

“I am providing context for the record. Sprout, you catching this?”

“I am not catching this, Petra. I am filing it. There is a difference.” SPROUT’s amber light pulses once. “Under Ambient Observations: Unsolicited. The sub-folder is expanding at approximately three entries per minute.”

I am looking at the datapad. I am looking very hard at the datapad. The datapad contains the name of a man who used my system against me, and the datapad is safe, and I am going to focus on it and not on the fact that Petra Phan is conducting a public wellness check on a Draelith’s tail orientation in the middle of a kidnapping briefing.

Petra, at my elbow now, quieter now. Almost sweet. “You okay, Torres?”

“I’m reviewing the access list.”

“Okay.” She pats my arm once. Brisk. Professional. It is the least professional pat I have ever received. “Just checking.”

She turns to go back to her desk. Stops. Turns back.

Her eyes move to my scar. Because Petra looks at everything the way I check monitors: comprehensively, without asking permission.

“How’d you get the scar?”

“I disagreed with a commanding officer.”

“…Physically?”

“Yes.”

“Did it work?”

“No.”

Petra’s shoulders settle. The grin settles into something else. Something softer. The look of a woman who got fired for opening a diplomatic pouch she’d been told not to touch, recognizing a woman who got fired for opening a commanding officer’s jaw.