Page 11 of Reaper Said Mine

I glance at him. "That sounded almost tender. Are you dying?"

"I have been dying for one hundred and twelve years. It has proven inconveniently difficult."

"Good. Continue failing."

He grunts with satisfaction and turns his attention back to the feeds. Around us, Guyver Station breathes in numbers: docking queues, oxygen consumption, tariff reports, ammunition inventories, schoolroom allocations, water reclamation efficiency, refugee intake, black-market chatter, Alliance troop movements, Coalition religious broadcasts, Combine trade denials, and a dozen little fires that require stamping before they become the sort that eat hulls.

A young warrior named Krell approaches from the lower pit with a compad clutched too tightly in both hands. His spurs are still short along his jaw, and he has the raw-boned look of a Reaper who grew too fast during hungry years. He lowers his head.

"Speak," I say.

"Report from outer sensor pickets. Alliance scout vessels have increased patrol frequency near the Trask Fold."

Skahar inhales through his nose. "Gobold."

"Very likely," Krell says. "Their transponders are clean, but they fly like soldiers pretending to be customs officers."

That earns a rough laugh from the nearest weapons officer.

"Track them," I say. "Do not harass them unless they cross the boundary."

Krell hesitates.

I look at him until his shoulders tighten. "You have more words in your mouth."

"Some captains ask why we let Alliance scouts creep so close."

"Tell those captains I enjoy suspense."

He blinks once, unsure whether he is allowed to laugh. Skahar saves him by growling.

"Tell them their lord does not start battles just because old soldiers waggle their tails near his fence," Skahar says. "If they require additional poetry, tell them I will provide it with my cane."

Krell’s relief is almost visible. "Yes, Skahar."

I let him retreat before I speak. "You enjoy threatening the young."

"I enjoy teaching them survival. They mistake eagerness for courage. That error fills graves."

"The graves are already full."

"Then stop volunteering more occupants."

I lean both hands on the table, claws clicking softly against the metal rim. The Coalition clauses continue to rotate between us, patient and poisonous. "I know what you think."

"You often guess incorrectly."

"You think I am using these negotiations to jab a knife into Helios ribs and twist until they spend money bleeding."

"I know you are."

"They deserve worse."

"Yes."

The simplicity of his answer pulls my gaze from the holo. Skahar’s face remains stern, the deep folds of his age carved by old battles and older grief. He does not soften when speaking of the Combine. He lost sisters to their hunts, sons to their blockade mines, crew to their experiments, and friends to the slow starvation that powerful people call supply failure when they wish to sleep at night.

"They deserve everything I can do to them," I say.