Page 82 of Reaper Said Mine

I should have an answer. I have built my entire life on answers, on questions sharp enough to carve them free, on surviving rooms where powerful men expect me to be smaller than I am. Yet here, with the Badlands burning beyond the glass and Gnash standing close enough to make the air feel charged, honesty becomes the only tool I have left.

“I don’t know,” I whisper.

He bends slightly, bringing his face closer to mine, but he still does not touch me without invitation. “Then we learn.”

The words settle into me with a terrifying gentleness.

I nod once, because anything more might break whatever fragile discipline remains between us, and together we stand above the living, dangerous station he built from grief, fury, and impossible hope while the first honest interview Gnash has ever given waits inside my compad like a lit fuse.

CHAPTER 12

GNASH

The security reports smell of lies before I even open them.

That is not a metaphor. Lies have a scent aboard Guyver Station because they travel through bodies before they reach my desk. Fear sweats through uniforms. Bribes leave chemical traces from polished fingers, expensive oils, imported inks, and the nervous sweetness of people who believe wealth can disguise rot. The command annex is warm from overloaded processors and wall conduits patched too many times by engineers who swear each repair is temporary until it outlives three arguments, two alarms, and at least one attempted assassination. Holo-displays crowd the air above my table, throwing blue, red, and green light over maps of docking lanes, coded communications intercepts, crew rosters, tariff ledgers, oxygen reports, and the latest list of guests pretending diplomacy has anything to do with peace.

Beyond the armored viewport, the Badlands churn in bruised color, violet storm bands rolling through black like spilled blood under starlight. Guyver Station groans around me with all the grace of an old beast refusing to die. Pipes knock in the walls. Docking clamps scream somewhere far below. A ship’s engine coughs hard enough to send a vibration through the deck beneath my bare feet. Vakka stands across from me with her arms folded and a split in her lower lip that has already healed at the edges. She has not bothered wiping the dried blood from her chin, which means she wants me to ask.

I do not ask.

She grows irritated first, as expected. “You are looking at the reports like they insulted your mother.”

“My mother would have insulted them first.”

“That is fair. These reports are ugly.”

“Most reports are ugly. That is why cowards call them briefings.”

Skahar sits to my left, cane across his knees, one cloudy eye half closed while the implant in the other whirs softly. He appears half asleep to anyone foolish enough to believe age makes him dull. I have seen him gut a man from that exact posture. The envoys outside these rooms think of him as my relic, my old advisor, my sentimental indulgence. They do not understand that Skahar remains alive because death has not yet earned him.

He taps one claw against the head of his cane. “Read the dock report again.”

“I read it twice.”

“Read it aloud. It will irritate Vakka, and that may reveal useful truth.”

Vakka shows her teeth. “Old bone-sniffer.”

“See?” Skahar says. “Already useful.”

I pull the report into the central holo and enlarge the relevant entry. “A registered Coalition courier vessel requested emergency medical docking at berth seven. Manifest declared diplomatic packets, ceremonial wines, and two injured aides from Ambassador Theryki’s delegation. The scan found no weapons beyond permitted personal blades, no explosives, no unregistered military signalers, and no biological hazards.”

Vakka’s lip curls. “Because the scan was clean.”

“No scan is clean. Scans are less dirty than usual.”

“Fine. Less dirty than usual. My inspectors still found a relay needle hidden inside a wine seal after I ordered physical inspection.”

Skahar’s broken mouth curves with satisfaction. “And why did you order physical inspection when the scan showed nothing?”

Vakka looks from him to me, suspicious. “Because the courier captain’s left hand shook when he said ceremonial wines.”

“Fear?” I ask.

“No. He looked bored when I asked about the injured aides, annoyed when I checked his papers, and frightened when I touched the wine case. That is not fear of me. That is fear of being caught where the lie lives.”

“Good,” I say. “What did the relay needle contain?”