Page 157 of Tracked and Taken

“He sent her a treaty, Tael.”

“My AI sent your AI a six-article diplomatic accord and then negotiated against his own opening position.”

“He did.”

“Tell me she made him bleed?”

“She vetoed Article Six. She amended Article Two. She extracted Article Three-A as a privilege.”

“What was Article Six?”

A pause. The pause of a woman who is choosing whether to give me a piece of information that will make my afternoon.

She eats a noodle.

“I’m not telling you.”

“Natalie.”

“He’s going to need to talk to somebody about losing it. Find out from him.”

“You vetoed a JINX article.”

“SENTRY vetoed a JINX article. I authorized her. The veto was hers.”

“Sweetheart.”

“Yes?”

“I think I love your AI.”

She makes a sound into her noodles that is not laughter but is the sound a Head of Security makes when she is, in the middle of lunch, briefly very happy.

I tell her about Flossie’s budget request. My name is on it as senior tracker on contract. Two more operatives at least. A second room. A copy landing in her admin queue tomorrow morning.

“Approved in principle,” she says, in the tone of a woman adding a line to a docket. “Pending the part where I read it.”

“Copy, Head of Security.”

“And tea at 1830. Flossie’s table. SENTRY accepted for both of us before I saw the invitation.”

“Our AIs are managing us, sweetheart.”

“Our AIs are managing us well.”

She tells me about Morrison. The 0830. The visitor’s chair. The chipped mug. The pre-clearance for joint coordination on BioSystems when SNAG calls. The apology, which by Natalie’s report Morrison has not, in any year of her career, said in any register that meant it.

Then she tells me Florence won the pool at six days, and I put the chopsticks down, and neither of us is surprised, and neither of us is sorry.

“I am not sorry about this.”

“I would not be at this table if you were.”

My tail tightens on her ankle. Slides higher, under the hem, just skin. She lets it. I feel the give in her go all the way up her leg. I leave my tail there and I eat like a male who can wait until 1830.

We eat for a minute in the good silence. Then I look up and I clock the human male at twelve meters.

Civilian kit.