Page 25 of Reaper Said Mine

"I know."

"Then cover them."

"I will."

Theryki’s golden eyes sharpen. "And Gnash?"

I turn back toward the shipyard, where workers in magnetic harnesses crawl over the cruiser’s exposed frame while Reaper patrol ships drift beyond them in disciplined arcs. Every force in this room thinks it can push him, use him, contain him, bait him, threaten him, or seduce him into becoming the version of himself most useful to their side.

They are all circling the same man.

That means the story is not smaller than I thought.

It is much larger.

"Gnash can deny the interview as many times as he wants," I say. "I did not come this far because the first door was likely to open."

Gobold laughs again, though this time there is grudging approval in it. "You may be less useless than most press."

"Careful, General. That almost sounded like praise."

"Do not get sentimental."

Wilcox sighs. "Please do not encourage him."

Theryki lifts her glass toward me in a delicate little salute. "Welcome to Guyver Station, Ms. Ramone. Try not to believe the first truth you find."

I meet her gaze and feel the shape of the battlefield settle around me, not with weapons fire or marching soldiers, but with smiles, clauses, tariff disputes, old debts, and people who have mistaken a living station for a prize to be won.

"I never do," I say.

Then I turn off the diplomatic charm I do not have much of anyway, step toward the next cluster of liars, and start asking questions.

CHAPTER 4

GNASH

The diplomatic audience chamber was designed to make smaller creatures remember where they stood.

Three walls rise in black armor-glass, revealing Guyver Station’s shipyards, cargo lanes, and defense rings in a sweeping industrial panorama. Reaper patrol craft drift past in disciplined patterns beyond the glass, their running lights flashing red against the bruised gases of the Badlands. Below, magnetic cranes swing damaged hull plates through showers of golden sparks, while repair crews in harnesses crawl over freighters, gunships, and scavenged transports with the stubborn patience of insects rebuilding a corpse into something that can fly again. The chamber floor is polished metal scarred by old claws, boots, and burns, and the long central table is made from a section of Combine cruiser plating my engineers cut free after we took the station. I insisted on leaving the old serial numbers visible along the edge because symbolism is cheaper than decoration and far more useful.

The room carries the chill of station climate control and the faint taste of recycled air sharpened by engine heat. Somewhere behind the walls, coolant pumps throb in slow rhythm. The ambassadors waiting outside can hear the shipyards if they listen closely enough, and I hope they do. It is good for polished people to hear work happening while they prepare to lie.

Skahar stands beside the table, leaning on his cane and studying the empty chairs as if they have already disappointed him.

"You are late," he says.

"I am in my own chamber."

"That is not how time works."

"On Guyver Station, it is."

He turns his cloudy eye toward me, and the little implant in the other socket whirs. "You kept Theryki waiting twenty-two minutes. Gobold has been waiting thirty-six. Wilcox has been pretending not to notice for thirty-five."

"Excellent. We shall begin when Gobold reaches forty."

"You are enjoying this."