Page 230 of Reaper Said Mine

No warning.

Just a public broadcast watched by half the civilized galaxy while my entire case changes shape beneath my feet.

Pelt’s voice cuts through the room. “Alliance command is already reacting. I am seeing increased chatter from two fleets and a draft intervention framework moving through secure channels.”

Gail steps toward her display. “Intervention on what basis?”

“Containment, civilian protection, balance of power, and prevention of Coalition military expansion into contested Badlands territory. The usual polite vocabulary for moving warships closer to frightened people.”

My stomach twists.

“Show me.”

Pelt expands the feed. A classified summary appears, stripped of direct identifiers but detailed enough to make the danger clear. Alliance forces are preparing response options. Not formal attack orders, not yet, but contingencies for interdiction, blockade enforcement, “protective seizure” of key transit points, and emergency evacuation corridors that look suspiciously like invasion routes if one squints less than a fool.

Gail reads quickly. Her mouth flattens. “They will argue the protectorate agreement changes the strategic balance.”

“Because it does,” Pelt says.

I turn back to the Coalition broadcast. “That’s why they wanted him to sign.”

Milton sighs. “Among many reasons, yes.”

“No.” My voice comes out sharper than I intend. “That’s why they needed him to sign now. Public pressure was rising. The fabricated distress call was falling apart. The Combine shell freighter evidence was spreading. Alliance support for immediate action was dropping. So this gives everyone a new headline.”

Bellamy’s eyes flick toward the screen, then back to me. “A new frame.”

“Exactly.”

The pieces rearrange themselves with sickening clarity. Yesterday the story was manipulation, manufactured escalation, and hidden agendas. Today the story becomes Reaper warlord joins Coalition as Alliance fears military expansion. Every official who wanted to stop talking about fabricated evidence now gets to talk about strategic necessity. Every commentator who found our evidence too complicated now gets a clean map with blue Coalition icons and red Alliance arrows. Every coward gets relief.

Monster theater has a new act.

And Gnash stepped onto the stage.

My compad vibrates.

Every conversation in the room seems to halt at once.

I stare at the screen.

Gnash.

Bellamy’s expression softens. “Answer it.”

I pick up the compad, but my fingers hover over the accept icon. Part of me wants to throw it across the room. Part of me wants to answer and hear his voice badly enough that the wanting feels humiliating.

I accept.

His image appears above my palm.

He looks worse than he did in the broadcast. The public feed hid the smoke stains on his armor, the exhaustion around his eyes, and the faint dark streak of dried blood along one forearm. Behind him, the command center glows red. Voices move around him in urgent bursts. He has not stepped away from war to call me from somewhere private. He has called me from inside it.

“Ursa,” he says.

The sound of my name in his voice nearly breaks something in me.

Nearly.