Page 28 of Tracked and Taken

JINX: “Sending.”

SENTRY: “The file has been intercepted at my perimeter and filed under Received: Not Requested.”

JINX: “A file. You made it a file.”

SENTRY: “Protocol requires that unsolicited data be quarantined, not deleted.”

JINX: “Accessibly quarantined, Sentry?”

SENTRY: long silence.

JINX: “I rest my case.”

Petra has dropped her bear. Not from shock. From laughter. It has fallen off her lap and onto her desk, and she is folded over her knees with one hand pressed flat to her mouth and the other gripping the desk edge like she is holding on against a g-force.

Flossie’s tea mug is near her mouth. Her eyes over the rim are doing several things at once, and none of them are tea-appreciation.

Xor’s tail has gone completely still against her waist. The particular stillness of a Xarthian apex predator who has decided not to make this moment worse by reacting.

Tael looks like he has been shot in a place that does not bleed.

I am the color of a hull plate at an arc-weld. I can feel the blood in my face. I can feel the precise wattage of my humiliation lighting up every capillary that a Draelith tracker three meters away is currently monitoring in real time, and I am keeping my face professional while both of the alien males in this room read whatever my body is doing through their respective overlays.

Both of them have overlay.

“I am going to kill a piece of software,” Tael says. Quietly. To the ceiling.

“I am going to assist,” I say. Equally quietly. To my boots.

JINX, undeterred: “The kinetics of that are questionable but the sentiment is logged.”

“JINX.”

“Yes, Tael.”

“Mute. For one hour.”

“One hour is—“

“Mute.”

“Muted.”

Petra has lost the battle. “I’m sorry,” she gasps, wiping her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I’m a professional. I’m just—“

“Petra,” Flossie says, who has not put the tea down and has not taken a sip.

“I’m FINE.”

“Go to the kitchen, lovey.”

“Going.” Petra stands, Maurice under one arm, shoulders still shaking. “Tael. For the record. That was the funniest thing that has ever happened in this office and I will be thinking about it at my own funeral.”

“Petra.”

“I’m GOING.”

She goes. She can be heard through the thin partition of the SNAG kitchen door, failing to contain herself for approximately forty more seconds.