Page 95 of Fought and Found

“Was.”

“As of this morning, she is a former courier, because I have terminated her employment after she opened a sealed, classified, red-tagged diplomatic pouch bound for the Corsairian Embassy.”

I look at Petra. “Why?”

“It was making a noise,” Petra says.

“Diplomatic pouches don’t make noises,” Morrison says.

“That one did.”

Morrison closes her eyes. One breath. The breath of a woman who has managed pirate incursions, alien bonding incidents, and weaponised Christmas presents and is somehow being undone by a girl with a stuffed animal.

“She has the best infiltration instincts I’ve ever seen in a courier.” Morrison’s voice shifts. The love-language voice. The one that means she’s giving me something she cares about and disguising it as a problem. “She can talk her way into any room and come out with everyone thinking she was supposed to be there. She picks locks I didn’t know could be picked. She finds things nobody is looking for because she opens doors nobody told her to open.” Morrison looks at me. Blue eyes. Steady. “That’s a liability in a postal service, Florence. In a recovery company, it’s the point.”

I look at Petra. She’s standing in my office holding a box with a stuffed animal in it, her jacket patches still warm from the job Morrison just took from her, and underneath the grin there’s something I recognize. The look of someone who has been told she’s too much and is waiting to hear it again.

“What’s the animal’s name?”

Petra blinks. “Maurice.”

“Maurice can sit next to Gerald.” I point to the ceramic figurine on my monitor. “You’re hired, Petra. Sit down. Have some tea. We’ll sort out the rest after I finish the interview you’re currently interrupting.”

“I’m — hired?” The grin falters. Something real underneath. “Just like that?”

“Morrison doesn’t send me people by accident. And I need someone who opens things.” I hold her gaze. The warm voice. The real one. “Welcome to SNAG.”

She sits. In the second client chair. She puts the box on the floor, sets Maurice on her knee, and looks around the office with the expression of a person who has just been given something she doesn’t trust yet but desperately wants.

Her hand drifts toward my tea canister. Xor’s gold eyes track the movement. His tail, still around my waist, twitches once — not aggressive, alert. The territorial catalog of a predator noting a new variable in his mate’s space. Petra catches the look. Her hand stops mid-air.

“Sorry,” she says. “I touch things. It’s a whole — I’m working on it.”

“Tea is communal,” I say. “Everything on my desk is not. We’ll establish boundaries.”

“The lock-picking tools stay in her box,” Xor says. Flat. Non-negotiable.

“They go everywhere with me,” Petra says. Then, reading his expression with survival-instinct speed: “But I will absolutely ask before deploying them on company property. Starting now. Immediately. Consider me reformed.”

“I have scanned the new arrival,” Sprout announces, descending from the ceiling. “Petra Phan. Lock-picking proficiency: exceptional. Risk assessment: significant. Impulse control metrics: concerning.” The orb bobs. “I anticipate excellent data production.”

Tael Vosk, who has been watching this entire scene from the reinforced chair with visible delight, raises one hand. “For the record, I was in the middle of saying something important about procurement when the chaotic woman with the stuffed animal arrived.”

“You were,” I say. “And we’ll come back to it. But first —“ I look at Morrison. “Was there anything else, or did you just come to ruin my professionalism?”

“One more thing.” Morrison’s tone shifts. Operational. “The Torek case. The missing Xarthian.”

“You know about —“

“Sprout has been broadcasting biometric data to my console since 1430. Apparently two predator species in a small room produces what it’s calling ‘exceptional cardiovascular theater.’” Morrison doesn’t smile. Morrison never smiles. But the corners of her mouth do something adjacent. “Torek disappeared from a Junction One docking berth. Which means the transit logs, the security feeds, the docking bay access records — all of that falls under station security jurisdiction.”

“Torres.”

“Torres. My Head of Station Security.” Morrison pauses. The pause is surgical. “I’ve already asked her to come down and discuss coordination protocols.”

“You’ve — Morrison, this is my operation. You can’t just summon your staff to my office without —“

Morrison looks at me. The Look. The specific one — eyebrows level, chin slightly lifted, the expression that says I have been running this station for twenty-three years and I will manage the handoff at my own pace, Florence, and you will accept the help I am offering because it is help and because I said so. The Look that has ended arguments with dock managers, customs officers, and one memorable Corsairian ambassador.