I cross to the console and call up the security assessment of Beatrice Watson’s apartment. The report emanates above the desk in clean blue lines. I read it once. Then again. Then a third time, because surely Earth standards cannot be this low. Residential building: aging infrastructure. Locks: insufficient. Windows: vulnerable. Elevator: maintenance record inconsistent. Fire escape: accessible from adjacent structure. Neighborhood threat profile: moderate. Interior layout: limited defensible space. Bed: unstable frame. Mattress: compressed unevenly. Bookshelf: untreated wood, overloaded,wall anchor absent. Couch: compromised frame, exposed springs, questionable stain history.
I stare at the final line.
Questionable stain history.
My mate slept near this.
I contact Halem. “Did your team assess the couch personally?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
A pause. Halem is choosing words. That is never good. “The couch is unsound.”
“How unsound?”
“An adult Layn male sitting on the left side would likely experience partial collapse.”
“My mate is not an adult Layn male.”
“No, Your Highness.”
His voice remains perfectly neutral. I distrust it. “But?”
“But the couch also harbored allergens, foreign fibers, and one metal spring protruding through the lower cushion.”
My hand closes into a fist. Halem says nothing. Good man. “She planned to return there tonight,” I say. “She said she might go home later to collect clothes, check mail, and touch normal.” That shouldn’t irritate me. Shouldn’t make me want to burn the building down to the ground because it’s not here. My mate wants normal. I understand this. I hate it. Normal did not protect her from bullying or slamming her head on a glass ceiling. Normal gave her cheap locks, an exhausted mattress, and a couch that should have been retired with military honors.
I open the residence planning interface. “Prepare the east study.”
“For what purpose?”
“Beatrice’s books.”
Another pause. “All of them?”
I look at the apartment inventory. “Yes, all of them. I want her to have her things.”
“Even the, um, couch?”
“No, that couch is going to be put out of its misery.”
His stoicism cracks on a laugh. “And the rest?”
“Her personal documents are to be secured in the private archive. Not corporate. Mine.” I stop when the inventory images expand, revealing small clusters of her life arranged around the apartment. There are many mugs. Some with slogans. One is shaped like a cat. One with chipped ceramic and the faded Athena logo. My attention fixes there. The chipped one appears near her laptop in three different social media images that were included with her assessment. In one, her fingers rest on it while she reads. In another, it sits beside marked pages and a half-eaten sandwich. Humans leave clues everywhere and are surprised when one reads them.
“The mugs are to be packed individually,” I say. “The chipped Athena mug comes to my desk.”
Halem’s brows raise. “Your desk?”
“Yes. Anything sentimental is to be preserved,” I continue. “Books, papers, photographs, clothing, notes, cheap objects of unclear purpose. If your team is unsure, keep it.”
“And the furniture?”
“I’ll replace the bookshelf. The couch and bed are not coming. She has slept with them long enough.”
“I will inform the relocation team.”
