Page 214 of Reaper Said Mine

The call ends.

Bellamy points at the dead projection. “That was insane.”

“That was leverage.”

“That was insane leverage.”

Milton raises his cup. “The finest kind.”

For the next several hours, the room becomes less an office than a siege engine.

Evidence moves outward in controlled packets. Responses come back faster than we can process. One anonymous Combine accountant provides internal budget codes matching the shell freighter movements. A dock registry clerk from Melisant Spur sends departure footage showing supposed civilian salvage craft loading shielded weapons crates under Helios private security supervision. An Alliance logistics aide leaks a memo warning that distress-call verification was incomplete before containment doctrine shifted.

Every new piece strengthens the story.

Every new piece paints a wider target on my back.

By late afternoon, threats begin arriving through every channel we forgot to close. Legal threats. Professional threats. Anonymous threats. Ugly little fantasies from men who think a woman reading shipping manifests is a greater danger to civilization than fleets moving toward civilians. Bellamy filters the worst of them before I can see, but he misses enough.

One message contains my childhood address on Horus IV.

The address no longer exists.

That makes it worse.

I stare at the line of text until the room blurs around it.

Bellamy notices.

“Give me the compad.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re doing that thing where you turn into a marble statue with trauma software installed. Give me the compad.”

I hand it over because I do not trust my hands.

He reads the message. His face goes cold.

“I’ll report it.”

“To whom?”

“To someone with a badge and, preferably, a soul.”

“Good luck finding both.”

He crouches beside my chair, lowering his voice. “Hey. Look at me.”

I do.

His anger softens, and that nearly undoes me.

“You are not twelve,” he says. “You are not alone in a burning street with a compad. You have a room full of cranky adults, two committees, one terrifying minister, one alcoholic treaty goblin, one military analyst committing career crimes, and me.”

Milton lifts his cup. “Treaty goblin is hurtful but vivid.”

Bellamy ignores him. “You are not alone.”