Page 191 of Reaper Said Mine

Despite everything, a harsh laugh escapes me. It feels wrong in my throat, but necessary. The room breathes a little easier for hearing it, and that too is leadership, perhaps. Giving others permission to believe the ceiling will hold a little longer.

The tactical feed stabilizes. The attackers retreat into radiation cover, leaving one burning hull behind. Coalition craft do not pursue beyond the safe envelope. That restraint is meant as a message for me. We are disciplined. We are useful. We are already acting like allies.

I understand the performance.

I also understand that dead crews would not care whether rescue came with theater attached.

“Status,” I demand.

Vakka answers. “Fuel tender lost twelve earlier. Current engagement: three wounded, one critical, no confirmed dead from the picket. Two life-support systems unstable. Coalition medical retrieval requesting permission to dock casualties aboard their frigate.”

The room waits.

Skahar does not speak.

Theryki does not either.

This choice is mine, and all of them know it.

“Permission granted,” I say.

Theryki’s shoulders ease almost imperceptibly. Skahar’s grip tightens around his cane. Neither reaction gives me comfort.

I look across the command center at my officers. Young Krell. Scarred Vakka. Old Skahar. Warriors, dockmasters, technicians, runners, refugees turned clerks, smugglers turned citizens. All of them living inside the reach of my decisions.

For years I thought power meant no one could force my hand.

Now I stand in the heart of the station I stole, surrounded by weapons, ships, warriors, and territory, and I feel the truth settle over me like a burial cloth.

Power means everyone can.

Ursa understood that before I did. She looked at the mobilizing fleets and saw Horus IV beginning again. I wanted to tell her I would stop it because that is what males like me say when we love someone and cannot bear their fear. I meant it, too. That is the cruelest part. I still mean it.

Meaning a thing does not make it possible.

The holo map keeps glowing. Red threat markers multiply along the lanes. Coalition blue icons move closer to my borders. Alliance fleets continue their slow, terrible approach. Combine assets vanish behind layers of shell ownership and hired guns. Every direction offers a blade. Every refusal costs lives. Every acceptance creates debt.

Theryki steps beside me, close enough to speak without performing for the room. “Lord Gnash, the emergency compact can be ready within the hour. You do not have to sign the full protectorate agreement tonight. This buys you time.”

Skahar answers before I can. “Time bought from diplomats accrues interest.”

Theryki’s gaze remains on me. “Time bought with blood costs more.”

I turn toward the viewport. Outside, Guyver Station’s defense lights blink in disciplined patterns against the dark. My station. My people. My mistake, perhaps, though I will not surrender that word easily. Zune earned death in a hundred ways before I gave it to him, but justice and strategy are different beasts, and I may have fed one while starving the other.

“Prepare the compact,” I say.

Skahar’s cane stops tapping.

Theryki inclines her head. “Wise.”

I look at her then, letting every tooth show. “Do not mistake necessity for trust, ambassador. If your Coalition tries to turn my station into a leash, I will make you regret teaching me where you keep your hand.”

Her eyes brighten with something fierce and approving. “I would be disappointed by anything less.”

She leaves with her officers trailing behind her, already sending orders, already weaving threads around the choice I have made. The command center resumes its rhythm, louder now, harder, every voice carrying the strain of people who know the game has changed and cannot yet see the board.

Skahar remains beside me.