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... te."
"If you bow," she replied, completely straight-faced, "I will dock your rations."
He exhaled, exaggerated. "Rations include coffee. Docking is a war crime."
Then he tilted his head—barely a motion—and addressed the space beside her shoulder. "Transfer plan?"
Numbers slid into his lenses, invisible to her, but she could see the effect in his eyes—how his gaze steadied, how some internal clockwork clicked into place behind his lashes.
< Rigid plan as ...
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