Page 168 of Reaper Said Mine

Skahar rises with careful slowness. “Then there is work to do. The story has blood in the water now, and sharks with money swim faster than honest people prefer.”

I pick up my compad. “Let’s make them swim in daylight.”

Gnash’s hand brushes mine as I turn back to the table. The contact is brief, deliberate, and steadying. The bond warms beneath my ribs, not drowning fear or fixing anything, but reminding me that I am not alone in the cold.

Outside the archive room, the station continues moving through dangerous space. Dockworkers shout. Children sleep. Diplomats whisper. Corporate men sharpen statements and call them principles. Somewhere, Zune is deciding how far he is willing to go to make me stop.

He can take all the time he wants.

I already have a second file open, a longer evidence chain building across the screen, and a truth with too many teeth to keep locked up.

CHAPTER 22

GNASH

Zune arrives on Guyver Station wearing the smile of a man who has never paid the full price of anything.

His shuttle docks under commercial privilege instead of diplomatic seal, which tells me three things before he ever steps through the airlock. He wants distance from formal negotiations if blood touches the floor, he wants the ability to claim private business if accused of interference, and he wants every delegate aboard my station to know he can walk into my territory without asking permission through the channels they respect. The docking bay smells of hot fuel, sterilized shuttle air, scorched dust from the landing clamps, and the sour chemical polish wealthy humans use on luggage that costs more than most refugees’ annual food allotments. Station lights glint off the silver at his temples and the expensive black fabric of his suit as he descends the ramp with two corporate security men behind him and a legal aide carrying a case sealed with Helios markings.

I watch from the upper catwalk.

Vakka stands beside me with one boot on the rail and her hands folded over the stock of a pulse carbine she is technically not aiming at anyone. “Permission to make docking difficult.”

“You already made docking difficult.”

“I made docking thorough. Difficult is when I ask his luggage personal questions.”

Skahar leans on his cane at my other side, old face expressionless beneath the orange bay lights. “He wants you to see him.”

“I see him.”

“He wants Ursa to see him too.”

My claws curl around the rail. Below us, Zune looks up as if he feels my attention, and for one brief moment our eyes meet across the industrial noise of the bay. He does not look frightened. That is either courage, ignorance, or the armored confidence of a man who believes consequences are for employees and planets without good lawyers.

“He has no diplomatic protection,” Vakka says.

“No,” I reply.

“Good to remember.”

Skahar’s cane taps the deck once. “Good to resist remembering too loudly.”

Zune’s party clears inspection after Vakka’s people delay them long enough to insult every button on their coats. He does not complain where cameras can see him. That is another message. He is not here to perform outrage yet. He is here to gather, pressure, and choose the stage of his next performance.

Ursa is in the secure archive when he arrives, building her second release with the ruthless focus of a surgeon removing rot from living flesh. She refused my suggestion that she remain in guarded quarters until Zune left the station, then looked me dead in the eye and said, “Do not make me regret trusting you not to take over.” I would rather be shot again than admit how effectively that stopped me.

My wrist comm vibrates before Zune reaches the guest corridor.

Vakka glances down at hers, then goes still.

“What?” I ask.

“Zune’s aide has requested a private meeting with Ms. Ramone.”

“No.”

“That was my first draft too.”