Page 153 of Tracked and Taken

I do not smile where the office can see it.

The bond does the rest. A low pull behind the mark. Warm. Hers. For a second I feel her pulse in my throat and the ghost of her against the tile, and I have to set the mug down before I crush it.

Flossie ends her comm, sets her tea down. Her hair has escaped the pin at the back in two directions.

“Tael, lovey.”

“Flossie.”

“I have, between 0900 and now, taken three intake calls. Two sub-network referrals from a Korrhai pair on Velar Prime, one from a Sshari single who walked off the freight liner at Junction Two with a name and no documentation, and a sixth case from yesterday whose paperwork I have not yet finished.”

“Six open.”

“Six open, lovey. In a month.”

“You opened this office just weeks ago.”

“Four weeks ago tomorrow, lovey.”

A pause.

“You need another operative.”

“I need at least three more operatives. It’s a shame that Lorri girl didn’t work out. For the best though. I have you on contract and Xor on case support and Petra on whatever is current, and I have a referral pipeline that is, by Morrison’s take, going to triple in the next quarter, not counting the BioSystems downstream.”

Petra, from her desk, without looking up: “And the kettle.”

“And the kettle, lovey.”

“The kettle is operational support.”

“The kettle is, Petra, an emotional support appliance.”

“It is also operational. SPROUT.”

SPROUT, from the speaker: “The kettle has logged seventeen distinct uses this morning that I am, under this office’s own standards, obliged to file as operational.”

Flossie sighs.

“Tael, lovey.”

“Florence.”

“I am writing the budget request to Morrison this afternoon. I am putting your name on it as the senior tracker on contract and I am asking for at least two more operatives and a second room. I am giving you the courtesy of a heads-up because the document is, by tomorrow morning, going to land on Director Morrison’s desk with a copy to Junction One station security administration, which is — “

“My mate’s office.”

“Your mate’s office, lovey. I would prefer she not learn the contents from her admin queue.”

“I will tell her at lunch.”

“Thank you, lovey. And you are both at my table tonight. Tea. 1830. Sentry has already confirmed your mate’s calendar, so do not attempt the schedule excuse.”

“Yes, Flossie.”

I write for three more minutes. I do not write as fast as I should. Her pulse keeps arriving in my hands.

The door of the office cycles. Petra goes through it on what is, by her stride, a coffee run. The kettle clicks. The fairy lights buzz. Xor turns a page at his standing station.