“Do the numbers always look that offended?”
Wren lifted her eyes from the storage manifest.
The visiting Gamma stood on the opposite side of the service table, holding the corrected route schedule she had given him three minutes earlier. He was younger than Theron and older than Soren, with a gray travel coat, a Silverpine insignia at the collar, and the relaxed expression of a man accustomed to being welcomed before he had earned it.
“Only when someone enters them incorrectly,” Wren said.
Gamma Adrian Holt looked down at the manifest. “Then I owe them an apology.”
“You owe Ashveil twelve fuel units and an updated vehicle weight.”
His laugh was brief and surprised. “I was told the administrative collaborator was precise.”
“You were told correctly.”
The midday logistics review had b
