Page 187 of Reaper Said Mine

Skahar’s cloudy eye shifts toward me. “That sounded like wisdom. I dislike it when you do that without warning.”

“I will try to remain foolish for your comfort.”

“See that you do.”

The small exchange eases the room for half a breath, but the reports continue rotating, patient and merciless. Ursa’s words from the observation platform have not stopped moving inside my skull. What if Zune wanted you to kill him? The question has claws, and every new intelligence packet gives it more flesh.

I gesture toward the financial column. “Put Zune’s travel and security movements beside the Combine withdrawals.”

Krell obeys. The data aligns.

My stomach does not turn. Reapers are not built for such delicate human expressions of disgust. Instead my rage condenses into something cold enough to think with. Zune’s private vessel arrived under minimal escort, though his rank entitled him to more. His security rotation changed twice before docking, each time reducing the number of personnel closest to him. His communications with Combine outposts increased in frequency but decreased in content, as if his people already knew what he intended to say before he said it.

He came to my station like a rich fool.

He may have come to my station like bait.

The realization does not wound my pride first. That comes later, a dull pressure beneath the ribs. What hits me first is the practical shape of the trap. If Zune lives, he obstructs negotiations and provokes unrest. If Zune dies by my hand, the Combine gains a martyr, the Alliance gains justification, the Coalition gains urgency, and every frightened neutral power begins choosing sides before I can force them to admit who lit the fuse.

I close one hand until my claws scrape my palm.

“Lord Gnash,” Krell says carefully, “there is more.”

Skahar exhales through his nose. “There is always more. Bad news breeds like dock rats.”

“Speak,” I say.

Krell shifts the holo to a map of Reaper-held lanes beyond Guyver’s immediate defense envelope. Red icons bloom along the routes. “Three outer salvage holds report harassment by unidentified vessels. The Kharrek clan lost a fuel tender near the Ash-Maw Nebula. Survivors say the attackers used Alliance formation discipline with no transponders. A refugee convoy from Ybessa turned back after detecting mines in a corridor we cleared two weeks ago.”

The table groans beneath my grip.

“Casualties?”

“Fuel tender crew lost twelve. Refugee convoy lost no one, but they abandoned two life-support barges because their captains feared pursuit.”

“Where are the barges?”

“Adrift near the old Helios beacon line.”

“Send Blood Argument and Harrow-Third to retrieve them. Full escort. No heroics. If someone wants those barges as bait, they can enjoy disappointment.”

Krell pounds a fist to his chest. “Yes, lord.”

He turns to relay the order, but the command center doors open before he takes three steps. Ambassador Theryki enters with four Coalition officers behind her and enough composed concern on her scaled face to poison a well. Her robes are deep blue today, formal but restrained, the color of a diplomat pretending she did not dress for the funeral she hopes to exploit.

Every Reaper warrior in the room turns toward her.

Theryki notices the weapons, the tension, the reports, and me. Her gaze is quick enough to gather meaning without appearing to search for it. That is one of her dangers. She sees too much and pays with too little reaction.

“Lord Gnash,” she says. “I came as soon as my staff received confirmation of Alliance fleet movement.”

“I did not send for you.”

“No,” she replies. “You rarely do sensible things before being forced.”

Skahar’s broken mouth curves. “Careful, ambassador. I am old enough to find rudeness nostalgic.”

Theryki inclines her head to him. “Skahar, your continued survival remains one of the station’s more alarming achievements.”