“What does that mean?” she puffed. His legs were about the same length as hers, but she nearly had to run to keep up with his stride.

“Jimboomba? Paradise on Earth. Ironic, huh?”

Romy thought of the rivers and ocean, of the red dust and the peaceful vibe. “I don’t think it is far off.”

“I estimate you have one minute and thirteen seconds to spit out your question.”

This wasn’t a conversation Romy particularly wanted to be huffing about out in the middle of the settlement. There weren’t many people milling around, though, so she dove in with both feet.

“It is a little bit delicate. Could you not repeat this to anyone?”

“I’m a doctor,” he replied. “Fifty-one seconds.”

That did little to reassure her, considering her knowledge of his past actions. “Uh—okay. Are there any rules here about touching people?” she blurted.

His pace slowed. Romy held a stitch in her side, thankful for the more reasonable pace.

“You will need to be more specific, skyling,” Houston said.

She peeked sideways at him, but couldn’t tell anything from his expression.

“Well, say if someone wants to touch you. And you don’t want them to. But they still want to. And it makes you . . . uncomfortable. Is there a rule against that?”

Houston jerked to a stop. “Romy, there isn’t just a rule against that. There’s a law.”

I knew it, she thought. There was a reason she’d felt so dirty and creeped out when Lucas touched her. It was wrong.

Romy brightened; there wasn’t just a rule, there was a law. That would stop the soldier. “Like a Mandate law?” she asked.

“The Mandate is the only law.”

“Great!” Everyone here seemed afraid of stepping out of line. “And what is it called? That law?”

“Sexual harassment, or sexual assault,” he answered quietly.

She smiled. It made her feel a lot better, having something to use against the man if he returned. “Thanks, Houston.” Romy ran up the steps to the archive room.

He called to her, “Wait! Romy!”

She looked back from the top of the stairs. “Yeah?”

“Has someone . . . done something to you?”

Her smile dimmed as she took in Houston’s solemn face. But the same thought process whipped through her mind: Houston talking to the soldier; the soldier knowing there was something to hide. Danger for her knot.

She shook her head, recovering a grin.

“No, doctor. Just curious.”

* * *

An unusual thing had just happened.

Scanner in one hand, Romy stared down at the document spread over her partially cleared desk. The e-storage hadn’t given her any choice in cataloguing the material. Instead, the screen now flashed “CLASSIFIED”.

The scrunched paper didn’t look like anything special. It was a permit denying a reproduction request from a man called Tony Debranc. Debranc . . . it was a funny name. Romy wondered what country it was from.