Page 324 of Reaper Said Mine

She chews thoughtfully, then nods. “Fine. Moderately elite.”

I pay for it before the man can decide whether murdering my security chief would violate the Accord.

The market has changed in other ways too. Coalition medics still occupy one clinic wing, but now they work under neutral oversight beside Reaper healers and local doctors instead of inside emergency military authority. Alliance observers remain in the station, fewer than before, mostly near trade verification posts. Combine merchants are allowed back under strict identification rules, though private security personnel are banned from carrying weapons beyond the docking perimeter. Every faction hates parts of the arrangement, which Skahar insists is how one knows a treaty is functioning.

We pass a newly painted sign near the fountain.

OPEN SIGNAL REGIONAL OFFICE — LEVEL THREE

I stop despite myself.

Rana follows my gaze.

“Still weird seeing it official?”

“Yes.”

“Good weird?”

“Terrifying weird.”

“That tracks.”

I stare at the sign longer than necessary. The letters gleam in clean white against a deep blue field, simple and impossible after everything it took to get here. Open Signal began as a release network, then a legal structure, then a staff list written on the back of a ration inventory while Bellamy argued with a server technician over archive redundancy. Now it has three offices, eight permanent journalists, twenty-two contributing correspondents, two lawyers, one security team, a source-protection charter longer than some planetary constitutions, and enough enemies to make fundraising awkward.

It is mine.

Ours, in the ways that matter.

Not owned by Gnash. Not controlled by Guyver. Not beholden to a corporate board or a military liaison or a politician smiling while reaching for a leash. Independent. Distributed. Protected. Irritating to all the correct people.

The thought still makes my knees feel a little unreliable.

Rana nudges my arm.

“Come on, founder lady. Your warlord is probably waiting upstairs with a terrifying amount of money.”

“He is not my warlord.”

“Sure.”

“He is a neutral territorial administrator.”

“Gross. Go back to warlord.”

I laugh and follow her toward the office lifts.

Open Signal occupies a former shipping brokerage suite overlooking the market ring. The previous tenants fled during the conflict and left behind several expensive desks, three locked cabinets full of contradictory invoices, and a conference table so ugly Bellamy claims it should be investigated for crimes against taste. We kept the table because we are broke in principle if not technically in available resources.

The office doors open to controlled chaos.

Bellamy stands on a chair adjusting a ceiling relay while two junior producers hold the ladder he refused to use. A Pi’Rell archivist argues with a Reaper systems engineer over encryption layers near the server wall. Three reporters share a workstation while reviewing claims from Dakkor families seeking tribunal testimony. A new assistant carries a tray of caf through the room with the wide-eyed caution of someone transporting explosives, which is fair because several people here consider caffeine a legal necessity.

Bellamy sees me and points from atop the chair.

“Do not judge me.”

“I haven’t said anything.”