5. Ursa #3
Hakk’s expression changes. Pride softens the brutality of his face. "Hungry."
That, I understand.
He explains the shipyard in blunt, technical bursts, but the picture that emerges is political, economic, and deeply human in the broader sense of the word.
Gnash seized not only a station but the means to keep one alive.
Repair capacity brings merchants. Merchants bring tariffs.
Tariffs fund security, med-bays, schools, and patrol fuel.
Patrols reduce raids. Reduced raids bring more trade.
It is a loop built from stolen metal, fear, hard competence, and a vision no official profile bothered to describe.
By the time I leave the observation deck, I have enough material for six segments and none of them answer the question Dawson sent me here to fail at.
Gnash remains absent.
His staff keeps denying me with almost artistic consistency.
Yet everywhere I go, his decisions are visible.
Late that evening, I attend a small diplomatic mixer because sleep has become theoretical and because political creatures often say stupid things near expensive alcohol.
The lounge is quieter than the market, lit in amber and blue, with soft music threading beneath conversations calibrated for plausible deniability.
My clothes still carry faint shipyard smoke despite my best attempt to clean them in the lodging unit, and my hair refuses to stay entirely in its tie.
Theryki finds me near a display of preserved Badlands minerals.
"Ms. Ramone," she says, golden eyes traveling from my scuffed boots to the small burn mark on my sleeve. "You have been busy."
"I prefer useful."
"How refreshingly unfashionable."
"You've been tracking my movements."
"Everyone has been tracking your movements. You ask questions the way a starving person eats."
"I hope that means thoroughly."
"It means without sufficient concern for manners."
"That may be why I am still hungry."
Her smile appears, precise and dangerous. "You have spoken with merchants, refugees, dockworkers, medics, school staff, and security. You have not filed a major broadcast."
"I am still reporting."
"You are building something."
"So are you."
She inclines her head. "True. I wonder what shape your construction will take."
"I wonder the same about yours."
For a moment, we look at each other with mutual professional appreciation and absolutely no trust.
Theryki turns slightly, allowing us both to watch the room.
Gobold is not present. Wilcox speaks with two IHC trade aides near the far wall, her posture relaxed in a way her eyes are not.
Coalition clerks cluster near the refreshments.
A Helios consultant whose name has changed twice since I arrived laughs too loudly at something no one finds funny.
"Lord Gnash hosts a Blood Feast tomorrow night," Theryki says.
I keep my face still. "I heard rumors."
"Most visitors do. Then they invent illnesses, religious restrictions, or urgent transmission conflicts."
"Reaper formal dining has a reputation."
"Reputation is such a polite word for panic." She takes a sip from a crystal glass. "The feast is nominally cultural, though in practice it is a test. Reapers enjoy watching powerful people discover the limits of their dignity."
"Will Gnash attend?"
"Of course."
That is the first time all day someone has attached certainty to his presence.
I turn toward her. "Are you inviting me?"
"I am."
"Why?"
"Because you want access. Because I enjoy watching rooms become less predictable. Because Lord Gnash has ignored every formal request you have made, and I am curious whether proximity will irritate him more effectively than paperwork."
"You want to use me."
"My dear Ms. Ramone, everyone on this station wants to use everyone else. I am merely courteous enough to make my invitation attractive."
"What do you get out of it?"
Theryki’s eyes gleam. "Perhaps nothing. Perhaps I discover whether the famous survivor of Horus IV is willing to look a Reaper warlord in the face when the room smells of blood and every civilized diplomat is trying not to gag."
I think of Salla on the clinic cot. Mara’s route maps. Vesk catching Griv by the vest. The cruiser in its cradle, hungry to fly. The station moving around a man who refuses to speak to me and somehow leaves fingerprints on every story I touch.
I should be cautious.
I am cautious.
I am also not leaving Guyver Station without seeing him in the world he built.
"I accept," I say.
Theryki’s smile deepens. "Wear something you do not mind ruining."
"That sounds like practical advice."
"It is. Blood Feasts are unforgiving to fabric and illusions."
She walks away before I can ask anything else, leaving me with the taste of bitter tea still lingering at the back of my tongue and the sudden awareness that tomorrow night may be the first door Gnash cannot deny from a distance.
Across the room, Vesk stands near the entrance with two other security officers. He meets my eyes, and I can tell from his expression that he already knows.