Page 127 of Reaper Said Mine

The older warrior lowers his head. “Yes, lord.”

“You knew that.”

“Yes, lord.”

“Why install it?”

“Because the nursery district lost water pressure twice yesterday, and the good replacement was assigned to the ambassadorial guest wing.”

The corridor becomes very quiet.

Gnash’s expression does not change much, but I feel the shift in him through the bond, a low current of anger pointed inward rather than outward. His claws flex around the regulator housing with enough pressure to make the metal creak.

“The guest wing can bathe in complaints,” he says. “Take the good bearing from diplomatic reserve. Install it in west reclamation. Send the bad one to guest filtration if you must use it somewhere.”

The younger warrior’s eyes widen. “Lord?”

“If Ambassador Theryki’s tea tastes of rust, she may add it to her list of grievances.”

The older warrior’s mouth twitches. “Yes, lord.”

“Do not use failed scrap in civilian water systems again.”

“No, lord.”

“And do not hide ugly choices from me because you assume I prefer polished ones.”

The two warriors thump fists to their chests, and this time the gesture carries something deeper than obedience. Relief, maybe. Respect. The older one glances at me with curiosity, then hurries after the younger down the corridor.

I wait until they are gone before looking up at Gnash. “You know the bearing specs for water reclamation pumps?”

“I know which systems keep children alive.”

“That was not a no.”

“No.”

“You are a nightmare to anyone trying to brief you badly.”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

He turns his head toward me, and the severe line of his mouth softens. “You approve?”

“I approve of leaders who know what breaks before the people under them drown in it.”

He looks away first, which is becoming one of my favorite discoveries about him. The mighty Warlord of Guyver Station can stare down ambassadors, generals, and mechanical assassins without flinching, but praise aimed directly at the part of him that cares makes him act like I have drawn a weapon in a language he does not speak.

We continue downward into a district where the station’s patched brutality gives way to life crowded into every available corner. Walkways branch across a wide interior shaft, with stacked housing modules welded into the walls like metal nests. Laundry hangs from railings in bright strips of color. Children chase one another across grated bridges while adults shout warnings from doorways. Someone is cooking flatbread on a jury-rigged griddle, and the warm yeasty smell mingles with pepper oil, hot plastic, and the damp mineral scent of recycled water. Holo-lamps in mismatched casings cast gold, green, and violet light over painted door panels, prayer charms, hand-scrawled signs, and names etched into bulkheads.

The place should feel desperate.

It does not.

It feels poor, crowded, loud, and alive.

People see Gnash and straighten. Some touch fists to chests. Some nod. A human woman with silver threading through her braids lifts a hand in greeting while arguing with an Alzhon man over a crate of greens. A Reaper child with too-big boots stares at me until his mother nudges him behind her leg, then peeks again with spectacular lack of stealth.