4. Gnash #3
Orkan shifts his weight. "There is more. Alliance scouts increased patrol frequency near the Trask Fold again. Coalition courier traffic has doubled. Someone is moving encrypted packets through civilian channels using old League commercial masks."
"Source?"
"Unknown. We are peeling the routing."
Skahar exhales slowly. "The table is heating."
"Then we eat before the meat burns."
Vakka gives a soft, approving growl, but Skahar does not smile.
"You cannot joke this away," he says.
"I am not joking it away." I point to the Combine movement lines.
"Increase passive surveillance along these corridors.
No active scans close enough to give them complaint language.
Put two raider wings on maintenance drills within response distance but keep transponders civilian.
I want every refugee transport inspected twice, every cargo spine checked for hidden transmitters, and every station access route reviewed before the next diplomatic session. "
Vakka nods. "Done."
"Quietly," I add.
Her smile shows teeth. "We are capable of quiet."
Skahar grunts.
I turn to Orkan. "The human reporter. Ursa Ramone. Where is she?"
His brow ridges lift. Vakka’s expression becomes far too interested.
"She spent the morning in docking appeals," Orkan says.
"Denied four times. Press office denied her once.
She attended the upper concourse reception and spoke with Wilcox, Theryki, Gobold, two merchant captains, a sanitation supervisor, several market residents, and one school administrator.
She recorded public shipyard activity and filed no broadcast segment yet, but her compad pinged independent encryption twice. "
"To IHC?"
"First ping likely IHC. Second packet is harder to trace. Could be private archive."
Skahar’s gaze sharpens. "You are monitoring her transmissions."
"I monitor all journalists."
"How many by name?"
I ignore him. "Did she attempt restricted access?"
"No," Orkan says. "She stayed inside permitted corridors. Asked questions at every stop. Security reports she is persistent but compliant."
"Persistent but compliant," Vakka repeats. "That means annoying with paperwork."
"She asked the press clerk how to become relevant," Orkan adds.
I turn my head slowly. "What did the clerk say?"
"That becoming relevant was the queue Lord Gnash actually sees."
Despite the map glowing with Combine threat lines, laughter rises in my chest. It comes out low and rough. Vakka grins openly now, and even Orkan seems pleased by the absurdity of it.
Skahar does not. "You are entertained."
"She adapts."
"She is a reporter."
"She is on my station while every power within reach sharpens utensils."
"All the more reason to keep distance."
I look again at the map, at the lines of Helios movement, at the crowded corridors of my station represented by shifting lights, at the territory everyone around me intends to claim in one way or another.
Ursa Ramone arrived with a camera, a reputation made by surviving other people’s war, and the inconvenient habit of noticing what official stories omit.
That makes her dangerous. It also makes her useful, though perhaps not in any way I can safely control.
"Continue surveillance on her activities," I tell Orkan. "No interference unless she enters restricted areas or someone moves against her. I want to know who approaches her, what they offer, what they fear she will ask, and whether any Combine asset breathes too close to her."
Skahar’s cane strikes the floor once. "Gnash."
I meet his gaze. "She is a variable."
"She is a person."
"Those are often the most disruptive variables."
His old face tightens, and for once he looks less irritated than sad. "You hear yourself, yes?"
I do. I hear the coldness in the words. I also hear the shipyards working beyond the glass, the distant voices in my station, the memory of refugee bones under Badlands dust, and the gathering hum of fleets moving through dark corridors while polished ambassadors argue over who gets to put my people in a footnote.
"I hear everything," I say.
Skahar studies me for several seconds. Then he turns away first, which means he is angrier than if he had shouted.
Vakka gathers the intelligence compads. "Any further orders?"
"Yes. Find out where Ursa Ramone goes next."
Orkan lowers his head. "And if she requests another interview?"
I look through the armor-glass toward the market ring, though I cannot see her from here. Somewhere in my station, the girl from Horus IV is walking through the machinery of my ambitions and asking questions sharp enough to make diplomats bleed politely.
"Keep denying her," I say. "For now."
Vakka’s grin returns. "That will irritate her."
"Good."
Skahar mutters from near the door, "Famous last words."
I watch the Combine movement lines crawl across the star map and feel the old hunger for revenge stir beneath the heavier weight of command.
My enemies are moving. My allies are imaginary.
My guests are vipers with credentials. And now a human reporter with green eyes and a childhood full of fire is wandering through my station, collecting truths no one invited her to find.
"Let us see," I say quietly, "what she does with irritation."