Page 193 of Reaper Said Mine

Krell speaks. “And the fabricated distress call?”

I stare at the Combine transmission as it multiplies through civilian feeds. The words are polished, urgent, designed to make my people monsters before anyone has time to ask who benefits.

“Archive the raw data,” I say. “Send everything to Ursa Ramone.”

Skahar’s cane taps once.

Approval, though he would swallow glass before naming it.

Krell nods. “Yes, lord.”

The files transmit, and I watch them go with a strange, bitter hope.

I have ships. Weapons. Warriors. Territory. Rage enough to set the Badlands singing.

Ursa has questions.

Tonight, I am no longer certain which of us carries the sharper blade.

Outside, another patrol wing launches into the dark, and the station shudders beneath my feet as if Guyver itself understands that war has begun breathing against the hull. I remain at the table until the lights settle, until the reports continue their endless turning, until my own reflection appears faintly in the viewport: a warlord surrounded by power, staring into a trap he helped close around himself.

I do not know whether strength will be enough this time.

I only know that my people are watching, my enemies are moving, and the woman I love is somewhere on this station searching for the truth I may have made too late to save us.

CHAPTER 25

URSA

The shuttle glides through Earth’s inner approach lanes so smoothly it barely feels like movement at all.

Everything around me gleams. The seats. The bulkheads. The polished trim along the viewport. It looks like the sort of transport designed to reassure people that civilization is functioning exactly as intended. Beyond the glass, Earth hangs below in luminous blue and white, wrapped in orbital platforms, traffic beacons, diplomatic stations, and defense arrays that make order seem effortless from a distance.

My hands rest in my lap, but my fingers keep drifting toward the encrypted drive hidden beneath my jacket.

It contains Gnash’s raw data from the fabricated distress call, my cross-referenced Combine financial records, independent shipping reports, Alliance movement estimates, partial Coalition compact language, and every ugly little thread I have managed to pull free before someone decides to cut the whole cloth apart. I have three backups, two deadman uploads, one packet buried in Bellamy’s private queue, and a headache that feels like someone has driven a thin metal spike behind my left eye.

None of that makes me feel safer.

Across from me, an Alzhon businessman watches the holofeed above the aisle as another commentator explains how “Reaper aggression” threatens regional stability. His mouth tightens at every image of Guyver Station. The feed shows old footage of Gnash tearing through Combine security in a docking tunnel, because of course it does. Nobody uses the clip of him ordering medical supplies released to refugees. Nobody uses the market footage of Reaper children laughing under patched banners. Monsters are easier to sell when they never hold anyone gently.

My compad vibrates against my thigh.

Gnash.

Heat rushes through the bond. My throat constricts. I answer before the second vibration finishes.

His image appears in miniature above my palm, distorted slightly by security encryption and the shuttle’s civilian relay lag. He stands in the command center, half-lit by red tactical glow, silver hair pulled back from his face, bone spurs catching the light along his shoulders. He looks enormous even through a hand-sized projection, and exhaustion sits on him in ways most people would never recognize. I see it in the stillness around his eyes, in the restraint of his mouth, in the controlled set of his shoulders.

“You reached Earth space,” he says.

“I did.”

“Were you followed?”

“Probably by every government, corporation, and bored conspiracy hobbyist with a receiver dish.”

His mouth shifts toward a smile and stops halfway there. “That sounds inconvenient.”