25. Ursa #2
I hold Dawson’s gaze. “The Combine anticipated the diplomatic collapse. There are financial records, private security movements, pre-positioned shell freighters, and falsified distress transmissions already spreading through public channels. Alliance fleets are moving on assumptions shaped by bad data.”
Dawson’s smile fades by increments.
“Give me the drive.”
“No.”
His eyebrows rise.
“Excuse me?”
“I said no.”
Bellamy’s mouth tightens, but he wisely says nothing.
Dawson takes one slow step toward me. “You work for this network.”
“I am aware.”
“Material gathered during assignment belongs to IHC-Now pending editorial review.”
“Emergency independent upload access. You approved it.”
“For field transmission under mortal danger.”
“War counts.”
His face hardens.
“You are not uploading anything until Standards, Legal, Defense Affairs, and executive leadership review every line.”
“That review will take days.”
“Then it takes days.”
“Fleets are moving now.”
“And if you are wrong, we trigger panic across three governments.”
“If I am right and we sit on it, we help manufacture a war.”
Dawson’s eyes sharpen. He likes conflict when he controls the camera. He likes it less when it walks into his office carrying receipts.
“You are emotionally compromised.”
I feel Bellamy shift beside me, ready to intervene.
I lift a hand slightly.
“Yes,” I say.
Dawson blinks.
I continue before he can enjoy himself. “I am emotionally compromised because I have seen what happens when powerful institutions manufacture narratives around civilian death. I am emotionally compromised because I watched a station full of refugees and workers brace for bombardment while commentators here argued over whether the warlord has good lighting. I am emotionally compromised because I know the man at the center of this crisis, and knowing him makes the lies easier to spot rather than harder.”
Dawson’s mouth flattens.
“That sounded stirring. It will look disastrous in a deposition.”
“Then don’t depose me.”
“Cute.”
“Accurate.”
He turns toward the wall display and swipes my image away, replacing it with live ratings data.
“The public does not want a complex corporate sabotage packet at this stage. They want clarity. They want heroes, villains, stakes, and someone attractive enough to hold their attention while the map turns red.”
I stare at him.
Silence stretches.
Then a short laugh escapes me because the alternative involves property damage.
“You are talking about merchandising the beginning of a war.”
“I am talking about distribution strategy.”
“No, Dawson. You are talking about packaging terror so cleanly nobody has to taste the blood.”
His eyes go cold.
“You are suspended from live filing.”
Bellamy swears under his breath.
Dawson looks almost pleased to have said it. “Effective immediately. You will turn over all raw material and remain available for internal debrief. Any unauthorized release will be treated as breach of contract, theft of proprietary material, and reckless endangerment.”
The office goes very quiet.
Outside the glass walls, the newsroom moves in frantic streams of people and light.
Stories continue being assembled. Graphics continue being rendered.
Somewhere, a producer is probably choosing music for a war package that will make viewers feel sad enough to share but not sad enough to stop watching.
I pick up my bag.
Dawson’s gaze drops to it.
“Ursa.”
“No.”
“You are making a career-ending mistake.”
I meet his eyes. “You have mistaken my career for my purpose.”
He steps closer, lowering his voice. “Do not get noble with me. The noble ones burn out fastest. You think truth saves people because you got lucky once with a childhood broadcast, but the galaxy did not change because you streamed Horus IV. It watched, cried, shared the footage, and found another tragedy to consume by morning.”
My grip tightens on the strap of my bag.
Bellamy moves before I do, anger flashing across his face. “Ted, shut your damn mouth.”
Dawson ignores him.
The edge of the strap bites into my palm. My mother’s face flashes through my memory—not as a symbol, not as footage, but as a woman with smoke in her hair and blood on her sleeve telling me to keep recording because someone had to see.
My voice comes out steady.
“You’re wrong.”
Dawson scoffs.
“Am I?”
“Yes,” I say. “Because some people did change. Some people saw it and stopped pretending collateral damage was just another line item. Some people joined relief corps, filed lawsuits, leaked military logs, quit campaigns, raised hell, and refused to let generals narrate dead children into acceptable losses. You wouldn’t know that because change doesn’t always show up in your viewer retention metrics. ”
His expression tightens.
I step back toward the door.
“You can suspend me from live filing, Dawson. You can lock me out of network channels. You can threaten me with every lawyer you keep fed on fear and bad caf. But the evidence is mine in every way that matters, and I am going to put it in front of people who still remember what journalism is for.”
Bellamy grabs my smaller case before I can reach for it.
Dawson points at us.
“If you walk out with those files, you are done here.”
I look around his office one last time, at the screens, the headlines, the clean furniture, the machinery of a network that knows how to make truth profitable but not how to love it.
“Finally,” I say. “A decent offer.”
Then I walk out.