Page 3 of Big Bad Red Protector

I know before I turn.

She is in her customs uniform, data tablet in hand, wearing a look that says she prepared this argument before leaving her quarters.

"Container manifest logged for bay nine inspection at oh-seven hundred," she says. "My division was notified thirty minutes ago. I'm here for the customs review."

"This inspection is under active security jurisdiction."

"And the cargo entered through a registered docking bay, which makes it a customs matter until you find something that reclassifies it." She glances at the containers with the same focus I saw at the checkpoint—quick, specific, already moving. "You won't object to me observing."

She says it as a statement. Not a question.

My officers are watching with the careful blankness of men who know better than to react.

"Stand behind the perimeter line," I say, "and keep your observations to yourself until I ask for them."

She moves to the perimeter line. She does not keep her observations to herself.

"The third container's seal is wrong," she says, less than two minutes later.

I don't respond.

"The Coalition seal on the lid panel is standard issue, but the base seal is an older pattern. They discontinued that stamp format four years ago. If this cargo was packed recently, both seals should match."

One of my officers turns to verify. I do not look at her when I give the order to open the container.

The interior is packed with compressed equipment components, exactly as the manifest describes. But the weight differential logged by the automated scan is not accounted for by what I'm seeing. I move to the secondary panel on the container's inner wall and press the release housing manually. The false floor beneath the primary packing layer takes three seconds to locate.

Empty. Recently emptied, by the trace residue scoring the base. The cleaning agent used is military grade.

Thrav crouches beside me. "Biological residue indicators are reading trace positive. Something organic was stored here. Recently."

The missing Coalition official departed the station four days ago. The official record says he left voluntarily. There is no departure confirmation from his own office.

I straighten.

Nina Torres is standing exactly where I told her to stand, at the perimeter line, watching my officers work with the careful attention of someone memorizing everything she sees. She has not moved. She has not asked another question. She is simply watching the container's false floor with an expression that tells me she already understands what it means.

She found the seal discrepancy in under two minutes.

My officers have been doing this work for years.

I pick up the data chip from the false floor's edge—the only item remaining inside—and seal it for evidence processing without looking at her again.

"The customs review is complete," I say. "Your presence is no longer required."

"Is the cargo being reclassified as a security matter?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll need to file an incident report under IHC station authority." She taps something on her data tablet. "Protocol twelve."

She cites it correctly.

I dismiss her and return to examining the container while my officers begin the full trace sweep. The bay fills with the quiet efficiency of practiced security work.

I don't let myself think about the seal discrepancy again until she's gone.

Then I think about it precisely once—about the speed of it, the certainty—and close the thought down before it can become anything useful to her.