Page 7 of Reaper Said Mine

"What if the story is that he is exactly as bad as everyone says?"

"Then I report that."

"And if he is worse?"

"Then I report that too."

The newsroom light catches the tired lines around his eyes. "You are not going there for Dawson."

"No."

"Or IHC 360."

"No."

"Then why?"

I look at the frozen image of Guyver Station, at the ugly scaffolds and traffic lanes, at the warlord whose reputation has been written almost entirely by enemies, rivals, and people too frightened to ask follow-up questions.

"Because every official version contradicts another official version," I say. "Because everyone wants Gnash to be simple, and simple stories are usually where powerful people hide complicated sins. Because the Coalition wants him useful, the Alliance wants him contained, the Combine wants him erased, and I want to know what he wants."

Bellamy is quiet for a moment. Then he says, "And because Horus IV taught you what happens when everybody lets governments narrate the dead."

My throat tightens.

"Yes."

He does not apologize for saying it, which is why I tolerate him more than most people. Pity always feels like someone touching a bruise to prove they know where it is. Bellamy, at least, has the decency to point at the wound and keep his hands to himself.

"I can help with background," he says.

"I did not ask."

"You never ask. It is one of your least charming defects."

"I have charming defects?"

"Statistically, you must."

I breathe out something that is almost a laugh and send him a share request. "Fine. Pull everything on Theryki, Gobold, Wilcox, and Jonathon Zune. Not network summaries. I want procurement records, old postings, staff changes, school affiliations, investment trails, diplomatic incidents, lovers if they were stupid enough to leave a trail, and enemies if they were stupid enough to survive."

Bellamy accepts the file transfer. "That is a lot of digging for a woman leaving tomorrow."

"I am not planning to sleep much."

"That is not new."

"No."

His expression softens, and I dislike that almost as much as pity. "Ursa."

"What?"

"Do not let Dawson make you prove your worth by getting killed."

The words settle between us with more weight than I expect.

Beyond him, the newsroom roars on. Someone shouts for confirmation from the lunar bureau. A producer curses as a feed collapses into static. The caf machine hisses like an angry little animal. Life continues doing what life has always done around me, rushing forward with indecent momentum, refusing to slow down just because memory has teeth.