LUCY
By morning, half the valley has brought its past to the cooperative hall.
Deeds lie in stacks along the benches. Marriage contracts sit beside irrigation permits, prayer records, birth ledgers, crop agreements, and brittle family maps nobody has ever needed to defend until now.
People who went home shaken return with boxes under their arms and dirt still on their boots, as if proof could be harvested if enough hands work before the suns climb high.
I stand near the door, directing traffic with a mug of untouched tea cooling in my hand.
“Older than your grandmother’s time goes on the left table,” I tell one family. “Recent notices and land revisions on the right. Anything with survey marks, give to Mayor Reeve.”
A boy no older than ten holds up a cracked data tab. “My ma says this has our first orchard record.”
“Then it matters.” I crouch long enough to meet his eyes. “Put it with the old grants. Carefully.”
He nods with solemn importance and carries it away with both hands.
Across the hall, Rethan Veyr examines documents without removing his gloves. He’s been there since sunrise, silent except for precise questions that make people stand straighter or frown harder. I haven’t decided whether that’s helpful or irritating.
Probably both.
Mayor Reeve approaches with a tired expression. “Specialist Veyr wants to inspect the affected farms directly.”
I look past him to Rethan. “Of course he does.”
“He asked for you.”
That makes me pause. “Why?”
“He said records identify land. People explain use.”
I hate that the answer makes sense.
Five minutes later, I lead Rethan down the eastern road with three farmers behind us and a Helix observer following at a distance. The observer’s presence makes every fence post feel watched. I ignore him with effort.
“This is Hartwell lower field,” I say, stopping beside a stretch of sunwheat rolling gold under the twin suns. “My father planted the first rows after the north soil beds failed. Took him six years to make this ground reliable.”
Rethan studies the irrigation channels instead of the view. “The water flow is manually maintained?”
“Mostly. We use sensors for flood warnings, not decisions.”
“Why?”
“Because sensors don’t know when a neighbor’s crop is thirstier than yours.”
His gaze lifts to me. “That is inefficient.”
“It is also why nobody here starves.”
He absorbs that without argument, which annoys me less than it should.
We continue past orchards where glassberries hang in clear clusters, past low houses with festival ribbons still tied to porch rails, past a field where two girls help their grandfather cover seed trays.
Everyone stops working to watch Rethan pass.
Some stare at his height. Others stare at the Authority insignia.
A few look at me as if I’ve invited danger to walk beside me.
I keep my chin level.
At the Odell farm, Mrs. Odell meets us beside the repaired well pump. Her eyes are red, but her apron is clean and her voice steady.
“My husband’s buried on the hill,” she tells Rethan before he asks anything. “His father too. The relocation paper says burial sites will be cataloged and transferred. What does that mean?”
Rethan’s expression remains composed. “Usually, remains are exhumed under supervision and reinterred at the destination site.”
Mrs. Odell flinches.
I step in. “That will not happen.”
“I described procedure,” Rethan says. “Not approval.”
“Procedure can still be cruel.”
“Yes,” he says after a moment. “It can.”
I’d expected resistance. Agreement leaves me with nowhere to put my anger.
At the next farm, Torren shows him the cooperative grain stores and explains how one poor harvest in Upper Fen is balanced by surplus from three other settlements.
Rethan asks about storage rotations, transport routes, seed ownership, and who controls emergency distribution.
Not once does he ask what the land is worth.
By the time we reach the schoolhouse, I’m no longer sure what to do with him.
Jessa stands on the steps with several children behind her pretending not to listen. “If Helix moves us, they split the placements by household size. My students could be scattered across four districts.”
Rethan turns toward the children. His face doesn’t soften, exactly, but his voice lowers. “Prepare copies of school records and household locations. Educational continuity may support cultural cohesion.”
Jessa blinks. “Does that help?”
“It may.”
After we leave, I wait until the children’s whispers fade behind us. “You could have said yes.”
“I do not offer certainty where none exists.”
“No. You offer tiny pieces of hope and make people guess how much they weigh.”
He considers that. “Would false confidence comfort them?”
“For an hour, maybe.”
“And after?”
I have no answer that doesn’t make me sound reckless.
We walk in silence until the road curves toward the ridge.
From there, the valley opens beneath us: fields, barns, wells, orchards, smoke from breakfast fires, neighbors moving between homes with borrowed tools and borrowed courage.
I’ve seen that view thousands of times. With Rethan beside me, it looks suddenly fragile.
He stops at the overlook. “Helix’s impact statement refers to this area as low-density agricultural usage.”
I give a humorless laugh. “That sounds clean.”
“It is inaccurate.”
I meet his eyes.
Rethan keeps his gaze on the valley. “Low-density does not mean low-value. Agricultural does not mean replaceable. Usage does not describe attachment, obligation, memory, or dependence.”
This time, I have no sharp answer ready.
“So,” I say, because silence has become dangerous, “are we still just emotional locals with messy paperwork?”
“No,” Rethan says. “You are organized locals with messy paperwork.”
I laugh despite myself.
It surprises him. I see that too.
At the foot of the ridge, the Helix observer raises a comm device and turns away, speaking too low for human ears.
Rethan’s head angles slightly.
“What is it?” I ask.
His gaze moves to the valley road, where three black Helix transports have appeared near the southern fields.
“They are not waiting,” he says.
The transports don’t slow at the public road.
They cross the boundary into Hartwell lower field.