Page 21 of Reaper Said Mine

"General Gobold is here under the authority of being General Gobold. The paperwork came later."

"And your role?"

"Preventing him from turning a diplomatic crisis into a shooting war because someone served him the wrong soup."

"That sounds like a full-time position."

"With overtime." Wilcox studies me over the rim of her cup. "You are here for Gnash."

"I am here for the negotiations."

"That is what reporters say when they are here for the person everyone wants to understand and no one can reach."

"Does he understand that everyone is trying to reach him?"

"He understands more than people think. That is part of the problem."

"Why is intelligence a problem?"

"Because a stupid warlord can be bought, frightened, flattered, or tricked. Gnash is not stupid, and he has enough rage in him to make his good decisions unstable." Her expression tightens as she looks toward the flow of Reaper patrols. "Do not confuse order with safety, Ms. Ramone. This station works because one dangerous man has made himself more useful than the chaos around him. If he falls, changes his mind, or gets pushed hard enough, everything you are admiring can turn into a kill box."

"That sounded almost like concern."

"It is concern. I prefer my civilians unmassacred."

"Your civilians?"

"My species. My government. My mess, at least partly." She tosses the last of her tea into a recycler and lowers her voice. "Here is some advice. Do not let Theryki charm you. Do not let Gobold scare you into mistaking volume for clarity. Do not assume the Combine representative is the most dangerous man in the room just because he is the one everyone openly hates. And do not, under any circumstances, believe Gnash is merely playing at politics."

"That is quite a lot of advice for someone who hates reporter ambushes."

Wilcox gives me a tired smile. "I hate dead reporters more. They create paperwork and martyrdom, both of which are terrible for diplomacy."

"Can I quote you?"

"Absolutely not."

"Can I request a formal interview?"

"You can request anything you want. I have watched three species request peace this week, and no one laughed until they left the room."

She walks away with the stride of a woman who has already said more than she intended.

I log the conversation in shorthand and continue toward Docking Liaison.

The next six hours become an education in the many dialects of rejection.

Docking Liaison denies my request in polite administrative language. Diplomatic Clearance denies it while pretending to regret procedural limitations. Command Scheduling denies it through a clerk with three artificial hands, exactly as promised, though he is eating noodles rather than something worse than death. Station Security denies it twice, once because the form code is wrong and once because the correct form code automatically routes to a denial queue. By the time I reach the press registration office, my calves ache, my mouth tastes like vending-machine protein paste, and my compad contains seven versions of the same answer wearing different hats.

At the press office, a Reaper woman with white skin and silver rings braided into her hair reads my latest submission, stamps it denied, and slides it back.

I rest both hands on the counter. "Does Lord Gnash personally refuse all press?"

"He refuses interruptions."

"That is not the same question."

"It is the answer available."