Page 119 of Reaper Said Mine

Vakka whistles low. “Someone wants the Coalition to bleed in your chamber.”

“Or wants us to think so,” Skahar says.

“Every possibility is annoying,” Vakka says.

I stare at the seating chart, the coolant junction, the cloned badge trail, and the financial web Ursa dragged into the light with sleepless eyes and caf-stained fingers. The shape is still incomplete, but the intention is clear enough. Make the talks unsafe. Make each faction suspect the other. Make me choose violence before evidence can harden. If a high-ranking delegate dies aboard my station during negotiations, the story writes itself in blood, and no one will care who bought the ink.

“Move Theryki’s seat,” I say.

Skahar shakes his head. “Too obvious.”

“She is the likely target.”

“Or the bait. If you move her, whoever watches knows we have found part of the mechanism. Let Vakka shift the room under another reason.”

Vakka’s grin is unpleasant. “Emergency sanitation issue.”

Krell blinks. “In the negotiation chamber?”

“Nothing moves diplomats faster than the suggestion of sewage.”

“Do it,” I say.

Vakka sends the order, still smiling like a woman blessed with purpose. “The refreshment alcove floods, the service entrance closes, seating adjusts to accommodate the smell, and everyone thinks maintenance has failed in a humiliating but non-lethal way.”

“Station pride thanks you for your sacrifice,” Skahar says.

“Station pride can help mop.”

The first alarm comes eight minutes later, but it is not the attack.

It is Ursa.

My wrist comm flashes with her name through a channel she is not supposed to possess. I answer because pretending she does not have it would insult us both.

“You moved the seating,” she says without greeting.

“How did you get this channel?”

“Later. Why did you move the seating?”

“Maintenance issue.”

“Do not lie to me with plumbing.”

Vakka mutters, “I like her.”

I open my eyes and stare at the comm like it is responsible for my life becoming complicated. “We found sabotage markers near environmental controls and a compromised seating request. You will remain outside the chamber until we identify the threat.”

“No.”

The word arrives clean and immediate.

“Ursa.”

“No, Gnash. I understand you are having a very large, very Reaper emotional response to the idea of me standing in a room with knives hidden in the walls, but I am not leaving the session.”

My officers become very interested in the table.