Page 188 of Reaper Said Mine

“I eat diplomats when my bones ache. It keeps me vigorous.”

One of her officers stiffens. Theryki does not dignify that with a glance, which tells me the officer is either new or expendable.

She steps toward the table. “You are facing coordinated pressure on multiple fronts. The Coalition can help.”

There it is.

The hand extended over the pit.

I show my teeth. “How fortunate that your help arrived wrapped around a contract.”

Her golden eyes remain steady. “Emergency assistance does require formal structure.”

“Occupation also wears formal clothing when it wants to dine indoors.”

“Do not make the mistake of refusing a shield because you dislike the arm holding it.”

Skahar leans heavily on his cane. “Do not make the mistake of offering chains polished bright enough to be mistaken for armor.”

The Coalition officers bristle. Theryki lifts two fingers, and they settle. Her control over them is quiet, absolute, and irritatingly elegant.

“I am offering fuel, medical ships, sensor support, and defensive coordination,” she says. “I am also authorized to propose an interim emergency compact that recognizes Guyver Station’s territorial administration during the present crisis.”

The room changes around those words. Even my oldest officers feel it. Recognition has weight. Reapers have been monsters, raiders, plague, infestation, nuisance, threat, and strategic complication. We have been many things in other people’s mouths, but recognized rulers of territory is a different blade.

I feel the hunger move through my warriors because I feel it in myself.

Theryki sees that too.

“What conditions?” I ask.

“Limited joint command integration for defensive purposes. Coalition observers placed within primary strategic operations. Shared sensor access. Temporary tariff exemptions for Coalition military and humanitarian assets. A nonaggression guarantee with automatic renewal until the crisis ends.”

Skahar laughs once, sharp and ugly. “The crisis ends when the Coalition says it ends.”

Theryki looks at him. “The crisis ends when fleets stop moving toward this station.”

“Then your compact could outlive my grandchildren, if I were cursed with any.”

I lift a hand before the two of them carve the room into pieces. “And if I refuse?”

“Then you stand alone while the Alliance frames you as an unstable warlord, the Combine bleeds your outer holdings, and every neutral merchant decides your corridor has become more expensive than profitable.”

“Fear makes you eloquent.”

“Reality makes me efficient.”

I circle the table slowly. My warriors part for me. The deck vibrates beneath my feet with the launch of another patrol wing, and the sound rolls up through my bones like distant thunder. Outside, one of my converted gunships limps away from Dock Seven with fresh armor plates welded over old scars. It should be in dry repair for another week. Tonight it flies because choices made in conference chambers have teeth that find the poor first.

Theryki watches me. She is careful to keep her chin level, though instinct tells her to lift it against my height. I respect that much. I would respect her more if she were not so talented at turning desperation into paperwork.

“You prepared this quickly,” I say.

Her expression does not change. “The Coalition prepares for contingencies.”

“Before Zune died?”

“Every competent government prepares for violence when volatile parties gather.”