Page 163 of Reaper Said Mine

“I contain multitudes.”

Gnash steps closer but does not speak.

I accept the call.

Dawson’s face appears above the table, flushed, furious, and framed by the familiar chaos of the IHC-Now newsroom. Behind him, people are moving too quickly. Feeds flash my story across wall screens, not as the network’s exclusive but as breaking coverage they are being forced to chase from outside their own correspondent’s release.

The tiny spark of satisfaction is petty, but I enjoy it anyway.

“Ursa,” Dawson says, voice low enough to be lethal. “What the hell did you just do?”

“I published verified findings.”

“You released a major investigative package without editorial clearance.”

“I released time-sensitive evidence through independent channels because prior editorial direction sought to distort the story.”

His eyes bulge slightly. “You do not get to decide that.”

“I just did.”

The newsroom behind him seems to quiet, or maybe I imagine it.

Dawson leans closer. “Do you have any idea how many calls I’m getting right now?”

“Several?”

“Do not be cute.”

“I am sleep deprived, recently concussed, and being threatened by corporate lawyers across multiple systems. Cute would be ambitious.”

His mouth tightens. “Helios is threatening legal action. Coalition media liaisons are demanding a formal correction. Alliance sources are asking whether IHC-Now stands by your reporting or whether you are operating independently after entering into a personal relationship with a subject.”

“Do you stand by the reporting?”

“That depends on what you give me.”

“I gave you the evidence package.”

“You gave everyone the evidence package, which means I do not control the story anymore.”

“There it is.”

His face hardens. “You think this is some noble crusade. It isn’t. This is power, Ursa. Real power. Helios has commercial relationships across half the human media sector. Coalition access matters. Alliance military briefings matter. You are one reporter on a pirate station with a badly timed crush and an inflated sense of moral destiny.”

Gnash’s hand closes on the table edge.

The metal groans.

Dawson’s eyes flick toward him, then back to me with renewed venom. “And there he is, of course. Your editorial board with spikes.”

I feel the bond tighten, hot and dangerous.

I keep my voice level. “Lord Gnash did not edit my piece.”

“No. He just gave you restricted access, emotional leverage, and a bedazzled soulmate narrative that will destroy your credibility.”

“Bedazzled?”