Page 34 of Reaper Said Mine

"Guyver Station is the story even without Gnash."

That earns me a sideways look. "You expect me to believe that?"

"No. I expect my notes to prove it."

We pass a row of metalworkers repairing support brackets beneath a mezzanine. The heat from their tools washes over my face, dry and sharp, and sparks scatter behind portable shields. One of the workers is human, one is Grolgath, and two are Reapers. They argue over brace angles in the universal language of people who believe everyone else is bad at their job.

"What have your notes proved?" Vesk asks.

"That reported violence along the trade corridor dropped after Gnash took the station."

"Because raiders avoid us."

"Because some raiders joined him."

"Also true."

"Because tariffs became predictable enough for merchants to price risk accurately."

He snorts. "Merchants love sounding oppressed while counting profit."

"That also appears true."

A little more approval enters his voice. "You noticed."

"I notice many things."

"Yes. That is what makes you annoying."

Before I can answer, a woman calls my name from a repair bay opening. "Ramone! You still want to talk routes or did station security finally scare you back to the fancy levels?"

Vara Dint is a human freight broker with a cybernetic left eye, a voice like gravel in a fuel drum, and hands tattooed with route numbers from three jurisdictions. She sits behind a counter built from stacked cargo cases, eating noodles from a tin bowl while six manifests float around her in uneven holo-windows.

I lift my cup. "Security has not committed to scaring me yet."

Vesk’s spurs shift along his shoulders. "Do not tempt me."

Vara laughs. "He's all polish and procedure now. You should've seen him before Gnash started handing out regulations. Used to throw smugglers into empty tanks and let them think about their sins."

"That happened twice," Vesk says.

"Three times if you count the Alzhon spice runner."

"He requested privacy for meditation."

"He was screaming."

"Meditation varies by culture."

Vara points her chopsticks at him. "See? Regulations made him boring."

I activate my compad with her permission and lean against a cargo case. "You said yesterday you would show me pre-Gnash loss rates."

"I said I might if you came back without acting like a holonet ghoul." She flicks two fingers, and a route map appears between us. Red markers cluster along the Badlands corridor before gradually shifting to amber, then green over the last eleven months. "There. That is five years of shipments. Lost cargo, ransom events, forced rerouting, escort premiums, bribe fees, the whole ugly hymn."

Vesk looks at the chart as if he would rather not appear interested and fails.

I enlarge the latest period. "Loss rates dropped thirty-two percent?"