The room was a decent size, bigger than the quarters back on the Note, but it was clearly a cell. There was a table with a chair, a food dispenser, and a bed. A bunch of flowers on the table gave the room an unexpected splash of color. On the bed, a large person in patterned fabrics had settled down, seated against the wall, their linked hands resting on their stomach, and was taking a nap.

As Tennal came in, their eyes opened.

“Oh, hello,” the prisoner said. “They mentioned a visitor.”

Tennal examined the ex-governor of Archer Station. Their face was soft and rounded, their expression wary and mildly curious. The clothes they wore were strikingly, pointedly civilian: bright, intricate fabrics layered across each other in an explosion of color, and they wore no gender-marks that Tennal could see.

“I would introduce myself,” Birimi said, “but it would be quite strange if you didn’t know who you came to visit. You are…?”

“Tennalhin Halkana,” Tennal said. “Captain, as a matter of fact. This is Lieutenant Yeni. We work for Governor Oma.”

“Oh,” Birimi said. “That’s a pity.”

“Isn’t it,” Tennal agreed. He hadn’t been invited to sit on a chair, so he sat on the edge of the table instead. “It’s not entirely voluntary. Sorry to intrude on you. I expect it’s a never-ending social whirl here—”

“Not precisely, no,” Birimi said, a little wistfully. They didn’t even seem offended. Tennal hadn’t intended to let himself be interrupted. “I do appreciate visits, though. How can I help you? The charges are false, you know. But I suppose that’s a little futile at this point.”

Tennal was taken aback at the gently flippant tone, as if this were an old joke. Surit cleared his throat and picked up the conversation.

“Governor.” His voice was polite: this was full Surit-on-Official-Business mode. “We’re here about your communications.”

“Goodness,” Birimi said. “Remind me what it was that I did.”

While Surit opened a screen and Birimi fumbled with some reading spectacles—most people who didn’t want their eyes fixed used floating lenses; Birimi had their lenses set in artistic wire frames, probably because they were the type of person who would organize a knitting circle—Tennal read the room. He didn’t get a lot from Birimi. Mild interest, recent regret, a thread of worry. Surit was closed off as normal.

“Ah, yes,” Birimi said, squinting at the screen. “That was me. Am I not allowed to talk to rights groups?”

“Not through an encrypted channel,” Surit said gravely. “But if you could decrypt the message—”

“No, I don’t think so.” The refusal was polite but absolute.

Tennal said, “Why not?”

“While I have the deepest respect for General Oma,” Birimi said, “I’m not that keen to give her anyone else’s messages. I’m not sure what she’d use them for.”