Page 330 of Reaper Said Mine

“Careful. People will talk.”

“They already do.”

Skahar rises with a grunt. “If this meeting has become romantic, I am leaving before someone speaks of feelings near the financial documents.”

Bellamy steps aside. “Feelings are deductible if categorized as morale expenses.”

Skahar stares at him. “I may yet respect you.”

Bellamy beams. “That is the worst thing anyone has ever said to me.”

The day unfolds in pieces that feel almost ordinary, which makes them extraordinary.

We review the endowment structure with lawyers. We publish a report on Bravax reconstruction delays and name the three contractors attempting to overcharge for radiation shielding. We onboard two correspondents from Dakkor, both of whom insist they are not journalists and then proceed to ask sharper questions than several professionals I once worked with. We receive the first tribunal update confirming formal charges against three Combine executives and two private security directors tied to the Hestia-Seven attack. We also receive a furious statement from IHC accusing Open Signal of “reckless adversarial reporting,” which Bellamy prints and hangs in the break area under the label COMPLIMENTS.

By evening, I walk with Gnash through the reopened docking promenade.

The promenade used to feel like a border between territories. Now it feels like a seam being stitched. Dockworkers move cargo under neutral trade monitors. Reaper crews argue with Grolgath merchants over freight fees. An Alliance observer buys tea from a human vendor who charges him double and calls it a peacekeeping surcharge. Coalition engineers help repair a shield buffer while being heckled by three Reaper mechanics who clearly appreciate the help but consider politeness a moral failure.

The viewports along the promenade show ships moving through the recovered lanes.

Not warships this time.

Freighters.

Medical carriers.

Passenger vessels.

A small Alzhon pilgrim ship with painted blue fins.

The sight makes my throat tighten.

Gnash notices because he notices everything when it comes to me.

“What is it?”

I rest one hand against the viewport glass. It is cool beneath my palm, faintly vibrating with distant docking maneuvers. “When I was twelve, after Horus IV, people kept telling me life would go on.”

His expression shifts with quiet attention.

“I hated that,” I continue. “It sounded obscene. Life goes on. As if continuing was automatic. As if survival didn’t require someone to pick up pieces that still had blood on them and figure out where they belonged.”

Beyond the glass, a freighter turns slowly toward its assigned dock. Its running lights blink green.

“I think I understand the phrase a little differently now,” I say. “Life doesn’t go on by itself. People make it go on. They reopen stalls. They rebuild corridors. They argue over freight fees. They launch networks with terrible furniture and ethically complicated donors.”

“I am not ethically complicated.”

“You are a walking ethics exam with bone spurs.”

“That is fair.”

I look up at him. “You helped make this possible.”

He turns his gaze toward the ships. “So did you.”

“We had help.”