Page 104 of Reaper Said Mine

She turns to Gobold’s advisories. “For the Alliance, say you welcome technical security cooperation under civilian oversight, but only if all Alliance personnel submit to station law, carry no heavy weapons, and agree that any use-of-force incident involving station residents triggers public review with independent press observation.”

Skahar laughs softly. “Gobold will swallow his tongue.”

“Better,” I say. “He will refuse and reveal that his offer was military access, not security cooperation.”

Ursa points her spoon at me. “Now you’re getting it.”

“I was already getting it.”

“You were getting there.”

Skahar looks delighted enough to become unbearable. “She corrects you in your own archive.”

“She corrects everyone,” I say.

“When they need it,” Ursa adds.

“And I thought my old years would be dull,” Skahar murmurs.

The work changes after that. It becomes cleaner, sharper, and far more satisfying. We build demands like traps with doors left open in plain sight. I require the Coalition to recognize Guyver residents as legal persons beyond prior contract claims. I require any observer placement to include reciprocal access for station representatives inside Coalition administrative offices related to Badlands trade. I require Theryki to agree that no emergency review authority can be triggered without a public incident summary.

For Gobold, I draft a response welcoming security dialogue while declining armed patrol presence unless the Alliance accepts identical limits on their movement, submits to station jurisdiction, and places all advisories into the official record for civilian review. Wilcox will see the sanity in that even if she dislikes the source. Gobold will see the insult. Both reactions serve me.

Skahar revises phrasing with the cruelty of an elder who has outlived many fools by making them define their terms before he cuts them open. Ursa identifies each soft spot before I strike it. The archive grows colder around us as the hour deepens, but the table becomes alive with language, strategy, and the odd, dangerous pleasure of minds working in rhythm.

At some point, Skahar rises. His movements are slower now, though he hides it well from anyone who does not love him enough to notice.

“I will deliver the revised demands to Vakka for secure formatting,” he says.

“You will rest after,” I tell him.

“I will consider disobedience.”

“Skahar.”

He looks at me, and for once the mockery eases. “I will rest.”

The simple agreement unsettles me more than argument would have.

Ursa notices that too.

After he leaves, the archive door seals behind him, and the room seems larger without his old, sharp presence occupying every corner. The cold hum of the data cores fills the quiet. Ursa sits back, rubbing her hands over her face with the kind of exhaustion she refuses to name because naming it would make sleep harder to avoid.

“You need rest,” I say.

“So do you.”

“I am larger. I have more places to store fatigue.”

“That is not how bodies work.”

“My body does many things yours cannot.”

Ursa lowers her hands and looks at me.

The room changes.

It is not dramatic. No alarms sound. No treaty clause explodes. Yet the air between us warms despite the cold archive, charged by everything we have been refusing to say while we traded legal traps and political analysis. Her gaze drops briefly to my mouth, and desire moves through me with enough force that my claws rasp.