Page 42 of Reaper Said Mine

The messenger swallows. "Mr. Zune hopes Guyver Station will consider the value of a mutually beneficial commercial arrangement independent of broader ideological disputes."

"Ideological disputes. Is that what he calls dead colonies now?"

The messenger’s eyes flick toward Skahar, then back to me. "I am not authorized to discuss historical grievances."

"Then you are poorly suited to speak with me."

Skahar leans on his cane. "Tell Zune that if he wishes to buy a Reaper warlord, he should not begin with clearance-bin guilt."

The messenger’s expression tightens. "Should I return the case?"

"No," I say. "Leave it."

He brightens too soon.

I close the case and hand it to a guard. "Send it to intelligence. Strip every key for trackers, worms, hidden ledgers, and desperation. Then use whatever survives to patch the med-bay procurement gap."

The messenger’s mouth opens. "Lord Gnash, those keys are intended as diplomatic instruments."

"They are now medical instruments. Give Zune my gratitude. Tell him his conscience has donated to refugee care."

Skahar coughs into one fist, doing a poor job of hiding his laugh.

The messenger bows again, much less deeply, and retreats with the brittle dignity of a man already composing a report that will not please his employer. He passes an incoming Coalition attaché carrying a carved box of polished black wood. Behind her, two aides bear a folded textile so fine it ripples like water.

Theryki’s gifts arrive in layers.

First come ceremonial fabrics, then letters of recognition from minor Coalition trade authorities, then restricted access codes to medical suppliers operating in Ataxian-aligned territories. Each item is beautiful, useful, and barbed. Theryki understands the value of a gift that creates appetite. The fabrics flatter Reaper dignity. The letters offer legitimacy without authority. The medical access could save lives and generate dependence in the same breath.

I accept them all with courtesy sharp enough to cut thread.

Gobold sends no ornament. He sends a military-grade sensor package, outdated by Alliance standards but superior to three of my current outer pickets. The attached message contains eleven words: For pirates who claim they want fewer surprises.

I laugh until the Coalition attaché looks offended.

"Install it?" Skahar asks.

"After we tear it apart for trackers, rebuild it twice, and rename it Gobold’s Nose."

"That will irritate him."

"That is why I chose the name."

Wilcox’s gift arrives last and without ceremony. A human aide brings a plain data slate containing updated refugee identification lists, missing-person crosschecks, and access to an IHC civilian resettlement database no one has been willing to share with my administrators. No speech. No perfume. No obvious hook except the hook that matters: she has given me something my station needs, and she has done it in a way that forces me to admit she was useful.

Skahar watches my face as I read through the first entries. "That one understands leverage."

"She understands shame."

"Often more durable."

I hand the slate to Orkan, who has been waiting near the door with two intelligence officers. "Verify the database. Quietly. If it is clean, integrate with refugee intake."

Orkan lowers his head. "Already in progress, lord."

"Of course it is. You hover like bad news with legs. Speak."

He glances toward the workers preparing the hall. I gesture for him to continue. Everyone in this chamber knows there are military concerns beneath the feast. Let them hear the edges if not the core. Fear travels usefully when disciplined.