Page 209 of Reaper Said Mine

URSA

Neo Boston glitters beyond the cracked blinds in hard morning light, all silver towers and clean transit lanes, while inside our little rented room the carpet is stained, the air recycler clicks every few seconds, and three compads lie open beside a growing collection of empty cups, legal pads, and half-eaten food nobody remembers ordering. My eyes feel gritty from too little sleep, my shoulders ache from hours spent hunched over evidence, and my throat carries the bitter aftertaste of the fifth cup of caf Bellamy swore would help and absolutely did not.

The exposé sits in pieces around me.

Financial records.

Fleet movements.

Fabricated distress calls.

Coalition emergency compact language.

Alliance reconnaissance orders.

Combine shell companies.

Reaper casualty reports.

Private security contracts.

Every faction has left fingerprints somewhere, and the shape emerging from the mess is uglier than any single villain. That should make the story stronger, but it also makes it harder to sell because people like their wars clean. They want one monster, one victim, one righteous side, and one obvious solution that fits inside a headline.

This story refuses to behave that politely.

Bellamy stands near the wall display with his shirt untucked, his hair sticking up on one side, and a stylus clenched between his teeth while he drags evidence blocks into sequence. Senator Vale’s military analyst, Commander Reva Pelt, appears on a secure holo-window from an undisclosed location, her stern brown face lit by the blue glow of classified fleet data she keeps insisting she is not technically leaking. Across the table, Milton Saye, Bellamy’s ruined-poet diplomatic counsel, nurses a cup of something that is probably not caf and glares at treaty language as if it owes him money.

“This section is too gentle,” Milton says, tapping the Coalition compact file with one long finger. “You describe it as opportunistic stabilization, which is lovely if one enjoys perfume on a corpse. The better phrase is conditional sovereignty capture.”

Bellamy removes the stylus from his mouth. “That sounds like something only six people would understand, and five of them are unpleasant at dinner parties.”

“It is precise.”

“It is embalmed.”

I lean back in the chair and rub the heel of my hand against my tired eyes. “We need both. Use the precise phrase once, then translate it into normal language.”

Milton’s expression curdles. “Normal language is where nuance goes to die.”

“Normal language is where readers live,” I tell him. “If we want pressure, people have to understand what is being stolen without needing a law degree and a drinking problem.”

Bellamy points at me. “See? That is why she gets the dramatic tragic reputation and I get asked to make charts.”

“You get asked to make charts because your charts are good,” I say.

“My charts are gorgeous.”

“They are emotionally needy, but yes.”

Commander Pelt clears her throat from the holo-window. “While you two preserve workplace morale through insults, I should mention that the Alliance has reclassified the Badlands corridor as a provisional containment theater.”

The humor leaves the room.

I sit forward. “When?”

“Four hours ago.”

Bellamy swears softly.