Page 179 of Reaper Said Mine

Three hours later I'm buried beneath documents.

My temporary office overlooks one of the station's administrative sectors. Dust, machine oil, and stale caf linger in the air while data windows float around me in layered stacks containing financial records, shipping manifests, communication logs, and market reports.

Most people imagine investigative journalism as dramatic confrontations and explosive revelations.

Most of the time it's reading—thousands of pages, millions of words, endless details sifted in search of the one thing someone hoped nobody would notice.

My eyes burn from staring at screens.

Then something catches my attention.

I freeze.

"What the hell?"

A shipping authorization expands across three displays.

At first glance it's routine.

Then I notice the date.

Three weeks before Zune arrived at Guyver Station.

I pull up another file, then another, then another.

My pulse begins to climb.

Cargo movements. Private security contracts. Emergency evacuation provisions. Financial transfers.

Every record connects back to Helios Combine assets, and every one of them was approved before negotiations ever began.

I start cross-referencing data, linking timelines and expenditures. The pattern emerges slowly, then all at once.

The Combine expected something to happen.

Not necessarily Zune's death. The evidence doesn't support that.

But they anticipated a diplomatic collapse.

They prepared for it, budgeted for it, and positioned themselves to profit from it.

I stare at the numbers crawling across my screens.

The implications make my skin crawl.

A knock sounds at the door.

I barely hear it before the door slides open.

"Ursa?"

I look up to find Ambassador Wilcox standing in the doorway.

She looks exhausted. Dark circles shadow her eyes, and her usually immaculate appearance has given way to wrinkled clothing and hastily pinned hair.

"You look worse than I do," I tell her.

Wilcox lets out a tired laugh.