22. Gnash #3
The chamber doors open again as more security floods in. Alarms begin pulsing through the station, low at first, then louder. Diplomatic emergency protocols. Docking holds. Communications surges. Every channel on Guyver Station starts screaming at once.
Vakka grabs her comm. “Seal guest decks. No delegation leaves without clearance. I want weapons locked, corridors controlled, and every broadcast delay checked for tampering.”
Gobold barks at his officers, “Alliance personnel to defensive posture.”
Wilcox whirls on him. “Do not escalate inside this chamber.”
“Escalate? He murdered Zune!”
“And if you draw on Reaper security right now, this room becomes the first battlefield.”
Theryki turns to her aides. “Prepare formal transmission. Coalition delegation withdraws from active negotiation. Cite lethal instability, command failure, and unlawful killing of a commercial representative during protected talks.”
“He threatened her,” I say.
Theryki looks at me with something like pity, which makes me want to tear the expression from her face. “And you handed him the ending he wanted.”
Skahar reaches my side. His voice is low enough that only I hear. “You fool.”
I look at him.
There is no mockery in his face now. Only grief.
That is worse.
Across the room, Ursa lifts her damaged compad. Her hand trembles. She notices, clenches it tighter, and begins recording.
“This is Ursa Ramone aboard Guyver Station,” she says, voice steady through force alone.
“Emergency developments have occurred during a high-level diplomatic session. Jonathon Zune of the Helios Combine is dead after a direct confrontation with Lord Gnash. Negotiations appear to be collapsing in real time. Multiple delegations are entering emergency posture.”
Every word is careful.
Every word hurts.
She does not soften me. She does not condemn me. She reports.
That is who she is.
That is what I love.
That is what I may have just endangered beyond repair.
The station shakes faintly beneath us as docking clamps lock across the ring. Somewhere outside the chamber, crowds begin to move. Rumor becomes alarm. Alarm becomes instruction. Instruction becomes fear. The story leaves the room before anyone can catch it.
Theryki’s aides hurry toward the side exit under guard. Gobold’s officers cluster around him, hands close to weapons. Wilcox stays where she is, jaw clenched, eyes flicking between me, Ursa, and Zune’s body as if searching for the one move that might keep the entire sector from catching fire.
Vakka approaches me carefully. “Lord.”
“Remove the body,” I say.
Her expression tightens. “Gnash.”
“Remove it.”
“No,” Ursa says.
The room shifts toward her.
She lowers the compad. “Not yet. The scene stays intact until every faction has documented chain of custody.”
Vakka looks at me.
So does everyone else.
I should be angry. I should object. Instead, I nod once because Ursa is right, and because if I cannot undo what I have done, I can at least stop making it worse by trying to control the evidence.
“Scene remains sealed,” I say. “Independent documentation from all delegations. Station security leads physical containment.”
Wilcox exhales. “That may keep us from shooting each other for the next five minutes.”
Gobold glares. “Do not thank him for basic sanity after murder.”
“I am not thanking anyone,” Wilcox snaps. “I am measuring the distance to disaster.”
Skahar’s cane taps once. “Short distance.”
The alarms climb another level.
Vakka’s comm spits overlapping reports. “Crowds forming near diplomatic lifts. Combine channels screaming assassination. Coalition transport requesting immediate departure. Alliance cruiser captain demanding clarification. Merchant captains asking whether the corridor is closed. Narra says if anyone starts a riot near her mess hall, she will poison them with bad stew and claim rationing.”
Even now, even here, Skahar’s mouth twitches.
Mine does not.
Ursa turns off her recording and looks at me across the blood-bright floor.
For a moment, the chamber disappears. There is only her, pale and furious and alive, standing amid the wreckage of my choice.
I want to go to her. I want to explain that Zune threatened not only her life but her truth, that I could feel the old world closing around her, that I chose the one answer I knew how to give when men like that reach for people I love.
But I hear her voice from before.
You don’t get to allow this.
You don’t get to take over.
Not here.
I stay where I am.
“Ursa,” I say, and her name sounds raw.
She swallows once. “We have work to do.”
The answer is not forgiveness.
It is not rejection.
It is worse and better.
It is survival.
Around us, the negotiations collapse into accusation, emergency protocol, and armed suspicion.
Beyond the chamber walls, Guyver Station begins locking itself down against the diplomatic chaos spreading through every corridor and every broadcast channel.
Somewhere in the galaxy, markets are already reacting.
Governments are drafting statements. Helios is naming me murderer.
The Coalition is naming me unstable. The Alliance is calculating how close its ships need to move before deterrence becomes war.
Every enemy watching now knows exactly where to aim.