Page 152 of Reaper Said Mine

“I ask like a reporter who has run out of patience.”

“I will give you everything I can.”

“And I will make clear what is proven, what is probable, and what remains unverified.”

He inclines his head. “Truth with teeth.”

“Exactly.”

The briefing room door chimes with Vakka’s code before sliding open. She steps inside without waiting, looks between us, then at the projection still glowing over the table.

“I assume from the deathly mood and lack of broken furniture that the news is bad but actionable.”

Gnash looks at me.

I look at him.

Then I turn to Vakka. “We need to force every faction into the light.”

Her grin spreads slowly, sharp and delighted. “Finally. A briefing worth attending.”

Outside the sealed room, the gallery continues murmuring with gossip, ambition, and poisoned courtesy. Theryki is recalculating. Gobold is probably complaining about something loud enough to dent a wall. Wilcox is watching for the first sign of collapse. Zune’s people are somewhere in the station or just beyond it, moving money through dead channels and hoping war remains a useful abstraction.

They are all about to be disappointed.

I came to Guyver Station for an interview no one else could get.

Now I have a bigger story, a warlord beside me, and proof that the galaxy’s most dangerous people are once again treating civilian lives like acceptable math.

This time, I am not twelve years old with a compad and no one to help lift the concrete.

This time, when the walls start shaking, I am going to make damn sure everyone sees who pushed.

CHAPTER 20

GNASH

The station feels different after a decision is made.

It isn't safer or calmer, but it is clearer.

The evidence Ursa uncovered has stripped away the last comfortable illusions. The Coalition is maneuvering. The Combine is maneuvering. Somewhere beyond the walls of Guyver Station, powerful people are treating instability like a useful commodity and war like an acceptable investment. The future has become sharper around the edges.

Oddly enough, that clarity brings a certain peace.

The command center is nearly empty when I finally leave it. Most of the senior staff have dispersed to begin the work. Vakka is already tearing through communication records with the enthusiasm of a woman who views conspiracies as personal insults. Skahar vanished two hours ago, which usually means he is frightening someone into honesty. Security teams are repositioning throughout the station. The machine has begun moving.

I am alone. At least for a few steps.

The corridor outside command is dim and quiet. Shift change passed an hour ago. The air smells of warm metal and recycled oxygen, with faint traces of machine lubricant drifting from maintenance shafts overhead. My shoulder brushes a bulkhead as I walk. Fatigue settles into my bones, heavy and familiar.

I find Ursa sitting in an observation lounge overlooking the docking ring.

She has claimed one corner of a worn couch beneath a broad viewport. Beyond the glass, station traffic drifts through the dark like slow-moving constellations. Cargo ships, patrol craft, merchant transports, and salvage tugs move as tiny lights across a sea of stars.

A compad rests on her lap, but she isn't reading it. She is simply staring into space.

For a moment I remain in the doorway, watching.