Page 26

Months earlier, when I had once complained that everyone on Zuna seemed to have someone watching where they ate, slept, worked, or mated, Sera’n had said, “Not everyone.”

I had asked who watched him.

“No one.”

The answer had been too flat to invite another question.

I hadn’t asked one.

Now I wished I had.

“Merik.”

The younger technician stiffened.

“Yes?”

“When did you get here?”

“Twenty-eight minutes ago.”

“Was this like this?”

His gaze flicked toward Sera’n’s workstation.

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t think that was strange?”

His hesitation told me he had.

“Sera’n has been reassigned.”

The words landed differently than they should have.

“Reassigned?”

I looked at the open terminal.

The half-finished comparison.

The unprocessed specimens.

The pendant sitting in my palm.

No.

Sera’n would have complained about a reassignment for three days before letting anyone touch a single file. He would have created transition notes, labeled every unfinished task, argued with whoever replaced him, and left instructions nobody had asked for. That was the Sera’n I knew. He did not vanish between work cycles and leave his station looking like he planned to return in ten minutes.

“That isn’t what happened,” I said.

Merik didn’t answer.

I turned fully toward him. “Reassigned where?”

“I was not told.”

“When?”