Page 29 of Claimed by the Ghost Warrior

Crouching beside the low storage unit, I pulled out the small container that held the last of my Earth things: a cracked identification card, a cheap bracelet, a photograph so faded I’d stopped looking at it because remembering hurt more than forgetting. Everything was still there. They hadn’t come to steal—they had come to search. But for what? The files I supposedly copied? I hadn’t copied anything.

My hand went automatically to my wrist unit. Sera’n. The thought came before common sense: ask him what to do, whether this was normal, whether I was being paranoid. Then the memory returned—the empty workstation, the pendant left behind, the unfinished samples sitting exposed. There was no Sera’n to call.

I sat back on my heels. That thought should have comforted me. Instead it scared me more, because if whoever was doing this believed I had something, telling them I didn’t wasn’t likely to help.

My wrist unit chimed, and I nearly threw it.

“Jesus.” The incoming notification carried the official administrative seal, and for one stupid second I thought maybe Sera’n had contacted me. It wasn’t him.

TALIA MERCER

REPORT TO CENTRAL ADMINISTRATIVE REVIEW.

CLASSIFICATION STATUS REASSESSMENT REQUIRED.

My lungs forgot how to work. I read it again, slower.

Classification status. Not laboratory review, not records inquiry—my classification. The same designation that had determined where I lived, where I worked, and what happened to me after my prospective match died. The thing Sera’n’s petition had changed.

I stood slowly, and a second line appeared.

REPORTING IS MANDATORY.

Then another.

ESCORT WILL BE PROVIDED IF REQUIRED.

That final notification did it. No. Absolutely not.

I backed away from the wrist unit as if it might physically reach out and seize me. Maybe there was an innocent explanation—maybe Sera’n truly had been reassigned, maybe someone had searched my quarters believing classified material was missing, maybe administrative review meant exactly what it said. Maybe if I walked into that office like a good little human, I would answer a few questions and come home.

I looked around the room: the shifted shirt, the open drawer, the belongings someone had touched while I wasn’t here. Then I thought about Sera’n’s unfinished specimens, his fear, his private transmission—my altered record.

I had spent too much of my life obeying because someone with authority told me obedience was safer. Earth had taught me that lesson. Zuna should have finished teaching it.

I pulled my travel bag from beneath the sleeping platform. Not much: clothing, water, credits. The Earth things went in last.

My wrist unit chimed again.