Page 16 of Reaper Said Mine

I remember the broadcast. Everyone old enough to understand war remembers some piece of it. A child’s voice over shaking footage. Streets full of smoke. Soldiers firing across a civilian avenue while people crawled beneath shattered vendor stalls. Flames reflecting in broken windows. A small girl narrating what adults tried to bury beneath flags, operational necessity, and all the other language cowards use to perfume slaughter.

The girl did not scream. That was what made it worse.

She spoke clearly, describing insignias, units, bodies, directions of fire, the things she could see and the things she could not understand. The galaxy listened because it is difficult to dismiss a child calmly telling you where the dead are lying.

"That Ursa Ramone?" I ask.

The officer checks his compad. "Yes, lord. Records confirm."

Skahar leans on his cane with both hands. "I thought she vanished into the media machine."

"Apparently the machine is sending her here," the officer says. "Standard request for interview access attached. Docking liaison prepared the usual denial."

"No."

The officer freezes with one claw hovering over his compad. "No denial?"

Skahar looks at me sharply.

I take the compad from the officer and study the credential packet. The image attached shows a human woman with red hair pulled back, green eyes steady on the camera, and a face arranged into professional calm. She is small, but most humans are. Nothing about her expression begs, flatters, or poses. She looks at the lens as if it has disappointed her before and will likely do so again.

I like that more than I should.

"Do you intend to grant the interview?" Skahar asks.

"No."

"Then why not deny it?"

I scroll through her file. Journalism degree. Conflict reporting. Civilian accountability segments. Corporate malfeasance investigations. Too many memorial retrospectives, likely forced on her by bosses who prefer grief when it comes prepackaged. Several reprimands for unauthorized questioning during live feeds. One suspension for refusing to identify a refugee source to network legal.

My mouth curves.

"She caused trouble," I say.

Skahar peers at the file. "She survived trouble first."

"Those are often related."

The communications officer shifts uncertainly. "Lord, what response should docking liaison send?"

I keep looking at Ursa Ramone’s eyes. Human eyes should not hold that much stillness unless life has tried very hard to shake it loose and failed.

"Send nothing yet," I say.

The officer blinks. "Nothing?"

"Let her arrive. Let her request. Let the others see her ignored like the rest. I want to know who speaks to her, who avoids her, and who tries to use her."

Skahar makes a skeptical sound. "You are setting bait."

"She may be bait already."

"Or she may simply be a reporter."

"On Guyver Station, there is no simply anything."

The officer lowers his head and retreats with his instructions. Skahar remains beside me, radiating disapproval with the persistence of a coolant leak.