Page 202 of Reaper Said Mine

My pride can go rot in a cargo hold if it expects children to starve in its honor.

“Open negotiations for the corridors,” I say.

Skahar looks at me.

I meet his gaze.

He does not argue.

That is worse than arguing.

Vakka sends the command. Krell records the decision. Somewhere in the station’s lower administrative levels, clerks will begin moving lines in ration tables because I have accepted more aid from the people who want to bind me while protecting me. The compromise settles across my shoulders like wet hide.

The command center doors open.

Ambassador Theryki enters without the theatrical timing she enjoys. That tells me she has either hurried or wants me to think she has. Her green scales gleam beneath the red tactical glow, and the gold at her throat is simpler than usual. Her robes are practical, tailored for movement rather than ceremony, though even crisis has failed to make her look anything less than composed.

“Lord Gnash,” she says. “The latest Combine advance has crossed beyond financial provocation.”

“Your gift for stating the obvious remains uninjured.”

Her eyes flick briefly to the casualty list, and something hardens in her face. “I did not come to spar.”

“Then you are lost.”

Skahar shifts his weight on the cane. “Perhaps she followed the smell of dependency. It grows stronger by the hour.”

Theryki turns to him. “If dependency is the price of survival, wisdom requires examining the invoice before rejecting the goods.”

“Wisdom also asks why the seller arrived before the house caught fire.”

“I am not your enemy.”

Skahar bares old teeth. “The most successful enemies say that with excellent diction.”

I lift one hand. “Enough.”

Both of them fall silent, though neither looks pleased about it.

Theryki steps toward the map and gestures to the contested territories now pulsing in red. “Combine fleets are advancing behind three layers of deniability. Private security detachments, salvage claims, contracted customs enforcement, and armed refinery escorts. If you attack them directly, they will present themselves as civilian assets under threat. If you ignore them, they will take your outer holdings piece by piece.”

“I had noticed the teeth in my leg, ambassador.”

“Then let us help you pull them free.”

“You already are.”

“With restrictions that slow response times. The Dock Four berth required unnecessary debate. Medical retrieval requires separate authorization from your watch officers. Fighter support cannot pursue raiders beyond your current emergency envelope. Your insistence on symbolic sovereignty costs lives.”

Heat rises through my chest. “Careful.”

Theryki does not step back. “No. You need truth, and apparently everyone in this room is too loyal to say all of it plainly.”

Every warrior nearby goes still.

Skahar’s voice drops. “Ambassador.”

She keeps her eyes on me. “Your people are dying because you are trying to fight a modern territorial conflict with pirate habits and wounded pride. You have courage, brutality, loyalty, and an instinct for leverage, but you do not have enough ships, hospitals, fuel reserves, intelligence satellites, or diplomatic cover. The Combine knows this. The Alliance suspects it. Neutral merchants now believe it. You can preserve the appearance of independence while losing the material capacity to exercise it, or you can accept deeper coordination and survive long enough to negotiate the terms of your future from something other than a funeral platform.”