Page 35 of Reaper Said Mine

"Forty-one if you pull out that one stupid convoy that ignored lane assignments because their captain thought Reaper traffic control was a philosophical suggestion."

"What happened to him?"

Vara smiles around her noodles. "He paid the fine."

Vesk adds, "Then he paid the second fine for complaining about the first fine while armed."

"And after that?"

"He follows lane assignments."

I record the map and keep my voice even despite the significance forming under the data. "So merchants are safer."

"Safer is a big shiny word," Vara says. "We are less likely to vanish, which is not nothing. Before Gnash, you had Helios fees, independent raiders, fake customs patrols, desperate Reaper crews, Alliance inspections if you got too close to their lanes, Coalition religious patrols if you drifted wrong, and private security outfits charging miracle prices for mediocre courage. Now you pay Guyver, you follow the corridor rules, and if somebody hits you anyway, Gnash makes an example out of them dramatic enough that others remember."

"That sounds like fear."

"It is." Vara sets the bowl down. "Fear can do useful work when pointed at the right people."

"And when it isn't?"

Her face hardens. "Then little girls stream dead towns on the holonet because admirals and executives call consequences complicated."

The words strike the table between us.

Vesk glances at me, and for once his face does not hold mockery.

Vara winces. "Sorry. That came out rough."

"No," I say, because my voice still works and that matters. "It came out honest."

Her gaze lingers on me, then she nods. "Gnash is no saint, Ramone. Don't let anybody sell you that nonsense. He has spaced men. He has broken crews. He has taken ships and made captains kneel in their own blood. But my nephew runs cargo through this corridor now and comes home more often than he used to. I am old enough to care more about results than clean stories."

"Would you call him a protector?"

Vara huffs. "I would call him an expensive bastard who protects what he taxes."

Vesk’s deep laugh rolls through the bay. "That is going on his next banner."

"It should. It would be more honest than half the diplomatic trash I've heard this week."

I stop the recording and thank her. She waves me off with the aggressive embarrassment of someone who hates gratitude but needs it more than she admits.

Vesk walks with me back into the market stream. "You handled that well."

"Handled what?"

"She stepped on your dead."

The phrase is blunt enough to hurt. Strange enough, the bluntness helps.

"She didn't mean to."

"Meaning matters less than weight."

I look at him. "Is that a Reaper saying?"

"No. That is a Vesk saying."