Sera wrote three numbers before she let Iven put his left forearm against the charging rig.
The first was his last measured capacity: three hundred and eighty. The second was the reserve he had brought into the room after breakfast: three hundred and fifty-four. The third was the station’s permitted transfer rate, twelve charges a minute.
“Capacity, contents, supply,” she said. “People keep making one word do three jobs.”
Iven looked at the sheet.
“Which people?”
“You, when you’re tired. Half the council, when it wants something. Sit.”
He sat.
It was day 1087. The prepared rig stood in a guarded workshop beside its own fuel account, receiving element and stop. Its feed came from the station plant, through a connection whose operators had accepted this particular turn. That supply had work of its own to do afterward. Iven had not brought an inexhaustible generator in his coat.
