Page 4 of Reaper Said Mine

The word is so abrupt that even I take a second to absorb it.

Dawson turns back toward the table. "Ursa leaves tomorrow on the noon transfer to Ceres Relay, then a contracted ship to Guyver Station. She files daily dockside packages unless, by some miracle of divine intervention or Reaper brain damage, she secures something better."

My heart gives one hard strike against my ribs.

Tomorrow. The realization hit me immediately. There would be no additional review cycle, no committee delays, and no opportunity for Dawson to bury the assignment beneath bureaucracy until the story lost momentum.

I nod once. "I will need full diplomatic clearance, hazard pay authorization, and independent upload access in case station communications are restricted."

Dawson scoffs. "You will get standard correspondent access."

"No. I will get independent upload access."

His eyes flatten. "Careful."

"I am being careful. That is why I am not going to the Badlands with a corporate leash around my throat. If the station locks down or negotiations turn violent, I need the ability to transmit without waiting for some assistant producer to wake you up and ask whether truth fits the brand strategy."

"That is not how network hierarchy works."

"Then send Bellamy."

Bellamy's head snaps up. "Leave me out of your heroic self-destruction, Ramone."

That breaks the tension enough for a few people to laugh. Even I almost smile.

Dawson does not. "Independent upload access is expensive."

"So is sending a correspondent to die quietly with unusable footage trapped on her compad."

He drums his fingers against the back of a chair. His wedding band clicks against the hard surface, precise and irritated. "You are impossible."

"I am prepared."

"You are arrogant."

"I am underfunded."

Someone coughs into their fist. Dawson cuts a glare toward the sound, then looks back at me with the weary disgust of a man forced to purchase something he intends to complain about forever.

"Fine," he says again. "Limited independent upload access. Emergency use. I decide what qualifies when you return."

"If I return."

The room goes still in a way I do not intend.

I regret the phrasing immediately, not because it is melodramatic, but because it is true. Guyver Station is not a conference center. The Badlands do not care how well I write. Reapers do not care how many awards a network has won. The Helios Combine has buried better people than me beneath nondisclosure agreements and cleanly worded casualty reports. The Alliance and Coalition have both perfected the art of calling civilian blood a regrettable outcome.

Dawson's expression shifts. For a moment, under all the polish and vanity and cruelty, I see the executive who understands risk because risk affects liability. "You signed the hostile assignment waiver when you joined foreign conflict."

"I was nineteen. I thought it sounded glamorous."

"It is not glamorous."

"I know."

He looks at me then, really looks, and I hate him a little more for choosing this moment to resemble a human being. "Do you?"

The question carries Horus IV inside it.