Page 161 of Reaper Said Mine

Ursa's fingers remain intertwined with mine. The warmth of her against my side anchors me more effectively than any command center, fleet, or weapon ever has.

I spent years chasing revenge. I spent years feeding old wounds. I spent years convincing myself that survival was enough.

Now, holding the woman I love while stars drift beyond the glass, I finally understand something that should have been obvious all along.

Survival is only the beginning. The real challenge is building something worth surviving for.

CHAPTER 21

URSA

The first story goes live at 03:17 station time, which is a miserable hour for sleep and an excellent hour for detonating reputations.

I am sitting in Gnash’s secure archive room with my boots hooked around the chair legs, a blanket from Narra’s mess hall draped over my shoulders, and enough caf in my bloodstream to make my bones hum. The air is cold from the data core cooling system, sharp with metal, stale breath, and the faint peppery scent of the stew bread I ate two hours ago while arguing with Vakka about whether “potentially war-provoking financial irregularities” sounded too polite. Holo-screens surround me in a pale-blue storm of manifests, cloned access logs, payment chains, component origin records, and clipped communications fragments that I have verified, cross-checked, annotated, and cursed at until my voice went hoarse.

The headline hovers above the final upload field.

FINANCIAL TRAILS AND SABOTAGE EVIDENCE POINT TO COVERT INTERFERENCE IN GUYVER STATION TALKS.

The headline is not sexy, glamorous, or Dawson’s preferred “pirate soulmate scandal,” which makes it perfect.

Gnash stands across the table, silent and enormous, watching me with the steady attention of a man who understands I am about to step off a cliff and refuses to insult me by pretending there is no drop. His long silver hair is tied back for once, leaving his severe face unobstructed. The healing mark on his shoulder from the assassin’s second pulse is visible beneath the edge of his sleeveless black tunic, a darkened patch of skin around bone spur where the blast burned him taking the shot meant for anyone still in the line of fire.

I try not to look at it too long, but I fail.

He notices because he notices everything I do not want him to notice.

“It does not hurt,” he says.

“That’s probably a lie.”

“It hurts less than your expression.”

“That was almost sweet.”

“I am improving.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“I was cocky before improvement.”

Despite the dread twisting under my ribs, I smile. The expression fades quickly when the upload timer pulses again, asking for confirmation. My story is clean and careful. It says what I can prove, what I can infer, and what remains unverified. It identifies Halcyon Resource Arbitration’s ties to Helios-backed distressed asset pools, tracks payments through shell brokers connected to diplomatic logistics, documents sabotage markers in station infrastructure, and explains how components from Combine, Coalition, and Alliance supply chains appear designed to create factional ambiguity around the assassination attempt.

I do not accuse Theryki of ordering anything I cannot prove, I do not accuse Gobold of conspiracy, and I do not accuse Zune outright. I do, however, put enough light on the machinery that anyone with sense can smell smoke.

Vakka leans against the wall near the door, arms folded, eyes bright with vicious anticipation. “Send it before I age.”

“You’re Reaper,” I say. “You have time.”

“I have patience for weapons maintenance, ambushes, and stew. I do not have patience for hovering over the same button like it has teeth.”

“It kind of does.”

Skahar sits in the corner with his cane across his knees and his eyes half closed. “All true things have teeth. Press the button, little flame.”

My finger hovers over the field.

Dawson’s threats crawl through my memory. Pulling access. Reassigning the story. Smearing me as compromised. Turning my bond with Gnash into a weapon against every word I write. Somewhere across the galaxy, IHC-Now’s legal department is probably asleep, which gives me about five blissful minutes before they wake up screaming.