Page 182 of Reaper Said Mine

"No," Wilcox says quietly. "They mobilize because they think something bigger is coming."

I sit back slowly.

Part of me isn't surprised. The violence in that conference chamber had felt wrong from the beginning—too convenient, too useful, too perfectly positioned to create maximum damage.

Now fleets are moving.

Which means powerful people have already decided warships belong in the future they're planning.

I hate how familiar that realization feels.

By evening, Guyver Station has transformed.

I watch from an observation platform overlooking one of the primary docking bays.

The changes are subtle at first, then impossible to ignore.

Additional patrols move through the corridors below. Security checkpoints appear at major intersections. Cargo inspections slow traffic to a crawl. Weapons teams stand watch near critical infrastructure.

Ships that spent weeks peacefully docked now load ammunition while repair crews work around the clock. Fighter squadrons move into launch positions, and defense batteries rotate toward new firing coordinates.

The entire station feels like a living thing bracing for impact.

A massive cargo hauler drifts past the viewport. Beyond it, Guyver's defense grid glitters against the darkness.

Beautiful.

Terrifying.

A hand settles on my shoulder.

I turn.

Gnash stands behind me.

For once there are no aides, guards, or diplomats hovering nearby.

Just him.

The sight of him sends warmth rushing through the bond between us. Relief follows close behind, along with a fierce ache that feels dangerously close to home.

His crimson eyes sweep over me.

"You have not eaten."

"I had caf."

"That is not food."

"It is if you lower your standards."

The corner of his mouth lifts.

Not quite a smile.

Close enough.

We stand together watching ships move through the darkness.