Page 93 of Reaper Said Mine

Skahar sits several places down, cane across his knees, appearing elderly and harmless in a way that makes my reporter instincts scream. He catches me looking and gives me a slow blink that somehow communicates both of you behave yourselves and make them bleed if necessary.

I have no idea when I started understanding Reaper facial expressions, but apparently my life has entered that stage.

Theryki folds her green-scaled hands atop the table. Her golden eyes move from Gnash to me with perfect grace, and her smile carries no warmth whatsoever. “Lord Gnash, while the Coalition respects your internal administrative decisions, I must ask whether today’s session is intended as formal diplomacy or public theater.”

Gnash leans back. “If I intended theater, Ambassador, I would have charged admission.”

Gobold snorts loudly from the Alliance side of the table. The old Vakutan general sits like a battle tank forced into dress uniform, red scales faded pink along his jaw and temples, one heavy hand resting beside a compad covered in military encryption seals. “That might improve these talks. At least then someone would admit we are performing.”

Wilcox speaks before Theryki can answer, her voice crisp and controlled. “General, perhaps we could begin without insulting the host, the press, and every diplomatic delegation within the first minute.”

Gobold bares blunt teeth. “I did not insult the press. I have not started on her yet.”

“Lucky me,” I say.

Several aides freeze.

Gnash’s mouth barely moves, but I see the shadow of a smile.

Gobold turns his head toward me with the slow disbelief of a man unused to civilians answering back while he is still deciding whether they are furniture. “You have something to add, girl from Horus?”

I feel the room sharpen around the old label. Dawson uses it like branding. Commentators use it like shorthand. Gobold uses it like a shove.

I keep my voice pleasant. “Only that if you plan to insult me, General, you may want to bring fresher material. The childhood tragedy angle has been in heavy rotation for twelve years.”

Wilcox lowers her eyes, but not before I see her mouth twitch.

Theryki watches with bright, calculating interest.

Gnash does not move. He does not need to. The air around him changes, and Gobold notices enough to redirect his scowl toward the table.

Skahar murmurs, “Promising start.”

Theryki smooths the moment away with the elegance of someone sliding a knife back into a sleeve. “Very well. If the journalist is present by invitation, then let her observe. I trust all parties understand that sensitive language may require discretion.”

“I understand sensitive language often means language someone wants hidden,” I say. “But I am here under observation parameters agreed to by Lord Gnash. I record only when permitted, and I attribute only when formally on record unless a participant states otherwise.”

Theryki’s smile grows sharper. “How disciplined.”

“How ominous,” I reply.

Gnash makes a low sound that might be approval and might be warning. With him, I am learning the difference is sometimes academic.

The session begins with a discussion of trade corridors, which sounds harmless until one actually listens to the verbs. Theryki never says control. She says harmonize, stabilize, coordinate, integrate. Every word is smooth enough to pass through a listener’s defenses without leaving a mark. Her proposal places Coalition observers at three docking checkpoints “for mutual confidence.” It creates emergency review provisions for tariff disputes “to prevent exploitation during regional instability.” It recommends shared access to traffic data “for anti-piracy cooperation,” which is particularly rich considering everyone at the table keeps politely pretending Gnash is no longer a pirate because calling him one would make the chairs start flying.

I take notes without looking like I am taking notes. The trick is to let my face stay blank while my brain claws at patterns.

Theryki does not push hardest where the treaty looks most aggressive. She barely lingers on military clauses, letting Gobold bark objections at the obvious bait. Instead, she circles back again and again to administrative access, data integration, dispute review, emergency corridors. Small mechanisms. Quiet ones. The kind of legal machinery nobody outside the room will understand until the station wakes up one day and realizes every independent decision requires Coalition confirmation.

Gobold obliges her beautifully by acting like a hammer searching for glass.

“Observer placement is nonsense,” he growls. “The Alliance will not tolerate Coalition personnel installed along a major Badlands traffic spine. If Gnash wants legitimacy, he should accept joint patrols under neutral military oversight.”

Gnash’s eyes narrow. “Neutral.”

Gobold taps his thick claws against the table. “Alliance and Coalition patrol groups under alternating command.”

Theryki tilts her head. “General, how imaginative of you to define neutrality as the presence of Alliance cruisers in another power’s docking lanes.”