6. Gnash
GNASH
The Blood Hall occupies one of Guyver Station’s oldest cargo vaults, a vast chamber of black girders, armored walls, suspended fire baskets, and long feast tables arranged beneath banners painted in Reaper glyphs.
Workers crawl along the overhead rigging, adjusting chains and light arrays while the floor crews drag reinforced benches into position with the scrape and groan of metal against metal.
At the far end of the chamber, my father’s old home-ship banner hangs beside the captured seal of the Helios Combine, one symbol faded and sacred, the other burned through the center and left ragged on purpose.
Between them, the largest table waits for diplomats who will pretend they are not afraid of dinner while my people watch their faces for cracks.
The chamber is hot from the open cooking pits and humid from the steam rising off preparation tanks.
Fresh blood lends the air a copper bite, layered beneath spice smoke, charred fat, fermented root mash, and the sharp brine of live shell-creatures snapping their claws inside holding basins.
Reaper cooks move through the heat with heavy knives, hooked poles, restraint gloves, and the casual violence of professionals preparing a formal meal that may also try to escape.
The sounds please me more than they should: chains rattling, blades striking boards, cooks bellowing insults, shell-creatures clacking, and my warriors laughing as they test whether the high table will bear the weight of both pride and stupidity.
Skahar stands beside me with a strip of dried meat in one hand and disgust on his face.
"This is too much," he says.
I look over the hall. "It is a diplomatic feast."
"It is a psychological assault with garnish."
"Yes. I said diplomatic."
He tears a piece of meat with his teeth and chews as if the food has personally disappointed him. "You have tripled the live courses."
"Theryki enjoys ceremony. Gobold enjoys toughness. Wilcox enjoys keeping both of them alive. I have decided to offer each guest something meaningful."
"You are offering Theryki an opportunity to hide revulsion, Gobold an opportunity to pretend he enjoys pain, and Wilcox an opportunity to regret every career decision that brought her here."
"I am a generous host."
"You are a menace with table settings."
I sneer. "You helped invent half these customs."
"I was younger and stupider."
"That must have been an extraordinary era."
He points the meat at me. "Do not think I am too old to hit you."
"Your cane cannot reach my head."
"I will aim lower."
One of the cooks approaches with a slate clutched in one bloody glove.
Her name is Rikka, and she runs the feast kitchens with a tyranny I admire.
She is broad even for a Reaper woman, with white skin, black hair braided close to her skull, and three missing spurs along her left forearm from a cooking accident she describes as a disagreement with dinner.
"Lord Gnash," she says, "the first course is ready for holding. Bite-eels are lively. Bone crabs are angry. Spine-larvae are fresh. The black-throat birds keep screaming whenever the Coalition aides walk past, which I take as a good omen."
"Excellent."
"The Grolgath ambassador requested clarification on whether the diplomatic menu contains anything poisonous to her species."
"What did you tell her?"
"I told her everything is poisonous at sufficient volume."
Skahar makes a low approving sound. "Rikka should handle negotiations."
"Rikka would eat the weaker diplomats by the second session."
Rikka shrugs. "Only if they are tender."
I gesture toward the high table. "Make certain the human utensils are available, but do not place them unless requested."
Skahar glances at me. "Thoughtful."
"It is not thoughtfulness. It is strategy. If outsiders ask for delicate tools, they admit discomfort before the room. If they do not ask, they struggle. Either way, I learn something."
Rikka’s teeth flash. "And the human reporter?"
The question strikes with irritating precision. Several nearby cooks pretend not to listen while listening with all their strength.
"What about the reporter?" I ask.
"She accepted Theryki’s invitation."
"I was informed."
"Vesk says she spent three days crawling through markets, clinics, shipyards, schools, and tariff offices like a determined little scavenger."
"Vesk talks too much."
"Vesk complained for twenty minutes, which means he approves of her." Rikka tucks the slate beneath one arm. "Should I place human utensils for her seat?"
"No."
Skahar studies me too closely. "Why?"
"Because she did not come here to be protected from the station."
Rikka laughs. "Good answer. I like her already."
"You have not met her."
"I like anyone who makes Vesk suffer politely."
She stomps away before I can dismiss her, shouting at two younger cooks who have allowed a basin of bite-eels to knot around one another.
The younger cooks leap to obey. The eels strike at the glass with wet little thuds, and the nearest diplomatic aide from the Coalition turns a delicate shade of pale green before retreating through the side door.
Skahar watches the aide flee. "That one will not survive the second course."
"He is Theryki’s third assistant for treaty formatting. If he dies of anxiety, the agreement may become shorter."
"A tragedy civilization may yet endure."
A messenger approaches from the main entrance, escorted by two guards.
He is human, narrow-faced, and sweating despite the chamber heat.
His coat carries the discreet silver stitching of a Helios intermediary firm that insists it is neutral whenever neutrality becomes profitable. He bows too deeply.
"Lord Gnash. Mr. Zune sends his compliments and regrets that urgent commercial obligations prevent his attendance at the preliminary inspection."
"Zune has never regretted anything unless it lost money."
The messenger produces a sealed case. "He sends a gesture of goodwill."
Skahar sighs. "Here come the gifts."
I open the case with one claw. Inside rests a row of data keys, each one marked with Helios corporate security seals.
A projection activates above them, listing fuel credits, shipyard components, medical stores, and routing permissions through three Combine-controlled commercial lanes.
The offer is generous enough to insult me.
"Goodwill," I say. "How fragrant."
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."