Page 315 of Reaper Said Mine

I watch notifications multiply across the displays. I watch the galaxy react in real time. I watch powerful people realize that the secret they've spent years protecting is gone forever.

The truth is out.

And no one can stop it now.

CHAPTER 38

GNASH

The treaty hall smells of polished metal, old smoke, expensive fabric, nervous sweat, and the bitter tea Ursa insists keeps journalists from murdering fools too early in the morning. Guyver Station has never been built for ceremony, and no amount of temporary diplomatic lighting can fully disguise the scorch marks along the upper walls, the patched deck plating beneath the conference table, or the faint vibration of repair crews still working two sectors away. Beyond the tall armored viewport, the Badlands glow in bruised violet and silver, less like a battlefield now and more like a wound beginning to close without anyone being foolish enough to call it healed.

Representatives from half the known powers sit around my table.

Coalition officials in formal blue and gold occupy one side, their faces smooth with the practiced composure of diplomats who know their own government has been caught with dirty hands. Alliance officers and civilian negotiators sit opposite them, speaking quietly among themselves while pretending not to watch the Reaper guards lining the room. The Helios Combine delegation looks the worst, which gives me a small and unworthy pleasure. Their lead negotiator is not Zune. Zune is still dead, and I do not regret that the galaxy is spared his voice, but I now understand the cost of how he died.

At the far end of the room, Ursa stands beside a portable media console with Rana, Bellamy, and two independent recordkeepers. She should be resting. The doctor has said this at least six times. Ursa has responded with language I would call rude if I did not find it magnificent. Her bruises have faded, but she still carries herself carefully when she thinks no one watches. I watch anyway.

Skahar leans close to me and murmurs, “You are staring at her instead of the people pretending to determine the future of the region.”

“I can do both.”

“You cannot. You look moonstruck and murderous, which is romantic but diplomatically uneven.”

“I am considering calling the entire agreement off just to avoid your commentary.”

“You would miss me within the hour.”

“I would notice the improved air quality.”

His broken mouth curves. “Lies come easily to rulers.”

Across the table, Ambassador Theryki folds her hands. Her scales gleam dark green beneath the lights, and the jewels at her throat are modest enough to suggest humility without actually risking it. “Lord Gnash, shall we begin?”

I look at Ursa.

She gives me the smallest nod.

Begin.

So I do.

“We begin with the simple part,” I say.

The Combine negotiator, a thin human named Marreck Valez, blinks with visible suspicion. “There is a simple part?”

“Yes. No one here gets everything they want.”

Skahar grunts approval. “Already better than most treaties.”

General Gobold’s replacement, an Alliance vice admiral named Serah Gant, sits straighter. She is Vakutan, older, scarred, and far less theatrically stupid than Gobold. That alone improves the room. “That is not a framework, Lord Gnash.”

“It is a warning against fantasy.”

Ursa moves one hand across her console, and the primary display illuminates above the table. Evidence chains appear in disciplined sequence: Combine shell vessels, Coalition emergency-dependency clauses, Alliance containment doctrine abuse, private military contracts, fabricated distress signals, civilian casualty reports, and the negotiation logs that made too many powerful people sweat through formalwear.

The room stiffens.

Good.