She twitched a ring, dialing the lights up to Twilight Three, and looked around the cop shop. She’d been there once before, when Constable Barca had given her year a tour of the premises. That had been a pointed adult hint about how to stay out of trouble. Things were different now, the offices and detention areas and waiting rooms all gaping like empty sockets in a skull. The administration thought they knew all about teenagers, but they were wrong. She’d seen the locked cupboard in the ready room and got Pete to front a question about it: sticky foam and pepper gas, breathing masks and handcuffs in case of civil disorder. In case of riot, break glass. Old Newfie was mostly peaceful; there’d been just one murder and only a handful of fights in the past thirty years. Admin thought a SWAT team was what you sent to deal with a wasp’s nest in a ventilation duct. She paused at the locked cabinet, dumped the satchel, and grabbed something that looked more useful.

Claws rattled on the floor outside the office, and paused.

IMPACT: T plus 1392 days, 17 hours, 30 minutes

“What do you mean, she’s missing?” Constable Ito said irritably. “Can’t you keep your children under—”

The tall, stooped man ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “If you had kids — no, I’m sorry! Look, she’s not here. I know she has a shipboard badge because I pinned it on her jacket myself, all right? She’s not here, and I’m afraid she might have gone back home or something.”