Page 195 of Reaper Said Mine

“You have been gone less than a day, and already you give orders to my captains.”

“I’m not giving orders. I’m making persuasive observations from a safe distance.”

“Nothing about you is a safe distance, little reporter.”

The softness in his voice leaves me staring at the viewport for a second longer than necessary.

The shuttle begins its descent toward the Neo Boston orbital port. Artificial gravity shifts subtly beneath my feet, and the viewport brightens with reflected sunlight off the platform’s silver hull. Around me, passengers gather their bags and straighten their jackets as if returning to normal life is something that can be accomplished through posture.

“I have to go,” I say.

Gnash’s jaw shifts. “Call when you finish with Dawson.”

“If I survive Dawson.”

“I have killed men for less than he has said to you.”

“That is weirdly romantic and legally unhelpful.”

“Ursa.”

“I’ll call.”

His gaze holds mine through the flickering image. “Do not let them make you small.”

My fingers tighten around the compad.

“They’ve been trying since I was twelve,” I say. “They still suck at it.”

The connection closes, and the empty space it leaves behind feels immediate.

By the time we dock, I have locked my expression into something calm enough for cameras and sharp enough to warn off fools.

Unfortunately, fools are professionally persistent.

IHC-Now’s Neo Boston headquarters looks exactly as I left it and nothing like it should after everything I have seen. The lobby rises five stories in polished glass, black stone, and tasteful arrogance. Holo-banners drift overhead, advertising award-winning coverage, investigative excellence, journalistic courage, and all the other virtues corporations praise most loudly when they intend to practice them least.

Bellamy meets me near reception with two compads under one arm, a stylus behind his ear, and the haunted expression of a man who has consumed too much caffeine and not enough hope.

“You look alive,” he says.

“Barely.”

“I’ll take it.”

He pulls me into a quick hug before I can brace for it. I stand stiffly for half a second, then let myself lean into him because the last twenty-four hours have scraped me raw and Bellamy, irritatingly, is one of the few people who knows where not to press.

He releases me and steps back.

“You have the files?”

“Yes.”

“Dawson knows?”

“He knows I arrived. He doesn’t know everything I brought.”

Bellamy winces. “He’s in rare form.”