Page 2 of Reaper Said Mine

"If the dinner is happening while civilians are dying off-screen, I probably am."

"That." Dawson points at me as if he has caught a rare animal in a trap. "That right there. You cannot help yourself."

I meet his gaze. "No, I can. I choose not to."

The room changes after that. It is subtle, but I feel it. A ripple of attention moves through the seated producers and section chiefs. Several of them glance at Dawson, measuring how much damage I have just done to myself. My pulse remains steady, though my stomach tightens with the old muscle memory of consequences.

Dawson folds his hands. "You want major political work."

"Yes."

"You want to be taken seriously."

"I already take myself seriously. I would prefer the network catch up."

His nostrils flare. "You want Guyver Station."

"I want the story."

"No, Ursa. You want vindication. That is different."

His words find something soft enough to bruise. My fingers tighten around the edge of the compad before I ease them loose. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing the hit land.

Dawson notices anyway. Men like him always notice pain when they cause it.

He lowers his voice, and somehow that makes the whole room feel more public. "You were twelve when Horus IV happened. The footage you streamed was extraordinary. Nobody disputes that. You showed courage most adults would not have managed. But courage at twelve does not automatically translate into command of interstellar diplomacy at twenty-four."

"No," I say. "Training does. Experience does. Work does."

"Clicks do."

"There it is."

He shrugs. "Do not look offended. You work in media. The truth needs distribution or it dies in a drawer, and distribution costs money."

"The truth is not improved by turning it into a circus."

"No, but the circus pays for the cameras." Dawson moves around the table slowly, enjoying the way everyone tracks him. "You know what tests well with you? Survivor packages. Anniversary retrospectives. Human cost segments. Soft lighting. Quiet music. That little tremor you get in your voice when a producer asks about your mother."

The room seems to tilt a degree to the left.

My mother's face flashes through me. Her hand over mine. The smell of smoke trapped in her hair. The way she said my name once, not as a warning or a comfort, but as if she were trying to hand me back to myself before the wall came down.

I breathe through my nose and keep my voice level. "If anyone on your production staff asks me about my mother for ratings again, I will walk out during the live feed."

Dawson studies me, and then he laughs softly. "There she is. The icy little legend."

I smile, but there is nothing pleasant in it. "Do I get the assignment or not?"

That brings us back to the only question that matters. Dawson looks around the room, making sure every person present understands he is still in control. Then he lifts his compad and swipes a new file onto the central display.

Guyver Station rotates above the table.

The station is uglier than any official image has managed to make it look. It hangs against the starfield like a weapon someone built from the corpse of a city. Great industrial rings circle a central spine bristling with docking arms, defense batteries, salvage scaffolds, patched armor plating, and lights that burn in uneven clusters. Ships move around it in disciplined lanes. Not chaos. Not the lawless hive every commentary feed keeps describing. Organized traffic. Controlled access. Patrol routes.

Interesting.

Dawson sees my attention sharpen. "Since you are so determined to prove yourself, I am going to give you exactly what you asked for."