22. Gnash
GNASH
Zune arrives on Guyver Station wearing the smile of a man who has never paid the full price of anything.
His shuttle docks under commercial privilege instead of diplomatic seal, which tells me three things before he ever steps through the airlock.
He wants distance from formal negotiations if blood touches the floor, he wants the ability to claim private business if accused of interference, and he wants every delegate aboard my station to know he can walk into my territory without asking permission through the channels they respect.
The docking bay smells of hot fuel, sterilized shuttle air, scorched dust from the landing clamps, and the sour chemical polish wealthy humans use on luggage that costs more than most refugees’ annual food allotments.
Station lights glint off the silver at his temples and the expensive black fabric of his suit as he descends the ramp with two corporate security men behind him and a legal aide carrying a case sealed with Helios markings.
I watch from the upper catwalk.
Vakka stands beside me with one boot on the rail and her hands folded over the stock of a pulse carbine she is technically not aiming at anyone. “Permission to make docking difficult.”
“You already made docking difficult.”
“I made docking thorough. Difficult is when I ask his luggage personal questions.”
Skahar leans on his cane at my other side, old face expressionless beneath the orange bay lights. “He wants you to see him.”
“I see him.”
“He wants Ursa to see him too.”
My claws curl around the rail. Below us, Zune looks up as if he feels my attention, and for one brief moment our eyes meet across the industrial noise of the bay.
He does not look frightened. That is either courage, ignorance, or the armored confidence of a man who believes consequences are for employees and planets without good lawyers.
“He has no diplomatic protection,” Vakka says.
“No,” I reply.
“Good to remember.”
Skahar’s cane taps the deck once. “Good to resist remembering too loudly.”
Zune’s party clears inspection after Vakka’s people delay them long enough to insult every button on their coats.
He does not complain where cameras can see him.
That is another message. He is not here to perform outrage yet.
He is here to gather, pressure, and choose the stage of his next performance.
Ursa is in the secure archive when he arrives, building her second release with the ruthless focus of a surgeon removing rot from living flesh.
She refused my suggestion that she remain in guarded quarters until Zune left the station, then looked me dead in the eye and said, “Do not make me regret trusting you not to take over.” I would rather be shot again than admit how effectively that stopped me.
My wrist comm vibrates before Zune reaches the guest corridor.
Vakka glances down at hers, then goes still.
“What?” I ask.
“Zune’s aide has requested a private meeting with Ms. Ramone.”
“No.”
“That was my first draft too.”
Skahar’s cloudy eye narrows. “Did Ursa receive the request?”
Vakka checks another feed, then swears under her breath. “Yes. Direct to her press channel.”
I turn toward the exit.
Skahar catches my arm with his cane, not hard enough to stop me physically, but enough to remind me that killing an elder would upset several scheduling priorities. “Let her answer.”
“He does not get near her.”
“Agreed. But if you storm in before he speaks, you learn nothing except that you remain predictable.”
Vakka’s mouth twists. “I hate when the old bastard is right.”
“He usually is,” I say.
Skahar looks pleased. “Put that in writing before you die of shame.”
I open a secure channel to Ursa, but she has already accepted the meeting under restricted observation protocols, because of course she has.
Vakka routes the feed to my wrist without asking.
The image blooms small and sharp above my comm: Ursa in the archive room, standing rather than sitting, hair tied back, green eyes cold, compad in hand.
Zune appears in holo only, not physically present, which is the first intelligent decision he has made aboard my station.
His smile is paternal.
I hate it immediately.
“Ms. Ramone,” he says. “Thank you for agreeing to speak.”
“I agreed to listen. Those are not the same.”
His smile deepens. “You are every bit as direct as advertised.”
“You should hear what people say about you.”
“I imagine much of it is unkind.”
“Accurate things often are.”
Vakka makes a low approving sound beside me.
Zune clasps his hands before him. His legal aide is not visible, but I hear paper shift somewhere off-frame, which tells me he has witnesses of his own.
“I will be brief. Your recent reporting has created turbulence. Markets dislike turbulence. Governments dislike turbulence. People who maintain necessary systems dislike turbulence most of all.”
Ursa’s expression does not change. “That sounded almost like a point.”
“It is a warning.”
The catwalk seems to shrink around me.
Ursa tilts her head. “Good. I prefer when threats stop wearing perfume.”
Zune’s eyes cool. “You misunderstand your position. You are very visible at the moment. Visibility can feel like protection to people inexperienced with power. In truth, it often provides a cleaner target.”
Vakka’s hand tightens on her carbine.
Skahar says softly, “Listen.”
Ursa’s voice remains steady. “Are you threatening me, Mr. Zune?”
“I am explaining consequences. You are far from Earth, dependent on hostile hosts, entangled with a violent non-state actor, and increasingly isolated from your own institution. If something unfortunate happened to you, there would be many plausible narratives.”
My vision narrows.
In the feed, Ursa’s fingers tighten around her compad, but she does not step back. “Such as?”
“Coercion gone wrong. Reaper possessiveness. Psychological deterioration under stress. A tragic accident during illegal access to restricted station files. Perhaps even a panicked act by someone inside Guyver Station who feared what you might publish next.”
“You’ve thought about this.”
“I am paid to think thoroughly.”
“You’re paid to make other people’s crimes sound like weather.”
His smile fades at the edges. “Let me help you. Retract the speculative portions of your report. Release a clarification emphasizing uncertainty. Return to Earth space under IHC protection. This can still become a story about a brave young journalist who stepped back from danger before she became another casualty of Reaper chaos.”
The words brave young journalist make something ancient and cruel rise in me.
Ursa smiles then.
It is small, sharp, and hers.
“You practiced that.”
“I am offering you a way out.”
“No, you’re offering me a coffin with good lighting.”
Zune’s face goes still.
Ursa steps closer to her holo pickup. “Here’s what happens now.
I save this conversation to independent escrow, attach it to a sealed affidavit, and continue investigating every shell company, debt transfer, and supply contract tied to Helios-controlled assets.
If I am removed, discredited, detained, or conveniently harmed, this recording becomes my obituary and your introduction. ”
Zune says nothing for several seconds.
Then he laughs softly. “You think a recording saves you?”
“No. I think it makes hurting me expensive.”
His eyes flick briefly toward something off-frame. When he looks back, the paternal mask has thinned enough to show the man beneath it. “Expense is relative, Ms. Ramone.”
The feed cuts from his side.
The catwalk falls silent except for docking machinery and my own breathing.
Vakka lowers her carbine. “Lord.”
I am already moving.
Skahar does not try to stop me this time.
The station blurs into sound and heat as I leave the docking bay.
My boots strike deck plating hard enough to make passing workers jump from my path.
Red warning lamps pulse along the corridor because Vakka, clever and vicious creature that she is, has already locked Zune’s party into restricted guest routing under the pretense of security review.
Voices crackle over my comm. Guards reposition.
Doors seal. Somewhere, Ursa is likely cursing because she knows exactly what I am about to do and exactly how little chance she has of stopping me at this distance.
She calls anyway.
“Gnash.”
Her voice hits my comm as I enter the lift.
I answer without slowing. “No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then hear it anyway. He wants you angry.”
“He succeeded.”
“Gnash.”
The lift drops fast enough to pull at my stomach. Harsh white lights slide over the walls. My reflection flashes in the polished metal, all teeth, bone spurs, and eyes red enough to look lit from within.
“He told you that you could be removed,” I say.
“Yes.”
“He implied my people would be blamed.”
“Yes.”
“He threatened you with death and narrative.”
Her voice softens, which is worse than shouting. “I know.”
“I am done allowing men like him to explain which bodies count as acceptable costs.”
The line goes quiet for one breath.
“Then don’t become the proof he wants,” she says.
The lift doors open.
I step into the diplomatic concourse, where Zune’s party is being escorted toward the negotiation chamber for the emergency session he himself requested after docking.
The timing is deliberate. He threatened Ursa in private and now walks toward public legitimacy, clean suit, clean hands, witnesses waiting.
He expects a denial from me. Perhaps a raised voice.
Perhaps threats that make his case easier. He expects anger he can use.
He does not expect honesty with claws.
“I love you,” I say into the comm, because if the next few minutes break the world, she will not hear those words first from rumor.
Her breath catches. “Gnash.”
“I will see you soon.”
“Damn it, listen to me?—”
I end the call before her fear can make me hesitate.