Page 212 of Reaper Said Mine

Bellamy leans over my shoulder. “People are noticing the work.”

“I see that.”

“No, I mean the work, Ursa. Not the hair, not the survivor legend, not the Reaper romance circus. They’re reading the documents.”

On the feed, a popular legal analyst highlights my breakdown of Coalition compact renewals and says, with visible irritation, that the reporting is “substantially more rigorous than anything currently airing on major networks.” A military historian compares the Alliance containment language to prewar escalation patterns. A shipping union account posts a thread confirming that two of its members were warned off Combine-linked lanes before Zune’s death, though the warning came through private brokers and not official channels.

My throat tightens.

“Don’t cry,” Bellamy says.

“I’m not crying.”

“You look like you might.”

“I am considering violence against my tear ducts.”

“That’s healthy.”

Before I can answer, my compad erupts with incoming messages.

Senator Vale’s office requests an updated briefing packet. Independent Holonet Review asks for an on-camera interview. Two neutral shipping houses want assurances their names stay sealed. Three anonymous sources claim they have more Combine records. Dawson sends nothing, which is either restraint or the silence before artillery.

The artillery arrives forty-six seconds later.

The office wall display shifts as IHC-Now breaks into live analysis.

Ted Dawson stands on set beneath the network’s polished crisis banner, looking grave in the way men look grave when they have rehearsed it in three mirrors. My stomach turns before he speaks.

“While independent reporting has raised important questions,” he says, “viewers should remain cautious about unverified data circulating from parties close to Reaper leadership. Our own internal review found significant concerns about reporter bias, chain of custody, and foreign influence.”

Bellamy’s mouth drops open. “That son of a bitch.”

Milton points at the screen. “He did not name you.”

“He didn’t have to,” I say.

Dawson continues, “At this volatile moment, responsible journalism requires patience, restraint, and an understanding that emotionally compelling narratives are not substitutes for institutional verification.”

Pelt’s holo-window flickers as she leans closer. “He is framing your evidence as contamination.”

“He’s framing me as contamination,” I say.

Bellamy is already typing furiously. “I am posting the chain-of-custody notes.”

“No.”

He looks up. “What?”

“Not yet.”

“Ursa, he’s muddying the water.”

“Then we don’t splash around in it.”

I turn back toward the evidence wall, forcing myself to think past the hot rush of anger. Dawson wants me defensive. He wants me arguing about my integrity instead of pushing new evidence. He wants the story to become Ursa Ramone versus IHC-Now because institutions love making inconvenient facts look like personal disputes.

I know his game because I worked in his building.