26. Gnash #3
“What if revenge has ruled me longer than I knew?”
Skahar’s expression does not soften, but his voice does. “Then perhaps it is tired.”
The words settle somewhere deep.
Perhaps it is tired.
Perhaps I am.
I think of Ursa in Earth space, facing Dawson, politicians, analysts, and every polished coward who would rather let the Badlands burn than admit the first spark came from clean offices and legal agreements.
I think of her message. Then I will make here matter.
She is fighting with evidence while I fight with ships I do not have enough of and allies I do not trust.
I envy her blade.
“Lord Gnash,” Vakka says. “Coalition wing engaged at Rekk. They report heavy resistance and request authorization for bombardment of hostile cutters near Habitat Two.”
“Civilian risk?”
“Moderate if shields fail.”
“Then no bombardment. Boarding action only.”
Theryki’s head turns sharply. “That increases Coalition casualties.”
“It also keeps my civilians from being cooked in their own halls.”
“Your response ships are still fourteen minutes out.”
“Then your soldiers can earn their poetry.”
Her mouth tightens, but she relays the order.
I turn to Krell. “Send all available evacuation routes to Coalition command. Give them schoolroom locations, med-bay access codes, and civilian shelter markers.”
Skahar’s gaze cuts to me.
Internal access codes. More doors.
I feel the cost.
I give the order anyway.
Krell sends the packet with shaking hands.
The command center becomes a storm of voices, coordinates, casualty estimates, and desperate calculations.
For nearly an hour, we fight for Rekk through other people’s cameras.
Coalition soldiers breach through Dock Two.
Reaper reinforcements arrive behind them, roaring across comms. Combine cutters attempt withdrawal.
One escapes. Two die. One surrenders and begins transmitting civilian distress claims before its engines cool.
By the time the first stable report arrives, thirty-nine people from Rekk are dead.
Eleven are children.
The command center does not fall silent. War does not allow that kindness. Reports continue, orders continue, repairs continue, the living continue demanding attention with their inconsiderate need to survive.
I stand with both hands on the table and read the names as they arrive.
Each one enters me.
Each one finds the hollowed place where revenge used to sit and leaves something heavier behind.
Theryki remains across the table. Her face is pale beneath the green of her scales. Skahar stands at my side, cane still, eye lowered. Krell wipes at his face once and hopes no one notices. I notice. I do not shame him.
“Draft the expanded coordination limits,” I say.
My voice sounds strange to my own ears.
Vakka looks up. “Lord?”
“Do it. Medical, convoy, limited pursuit, contested-lane sensors, emergency civilian access. Bring it to me before the next attack forces the same answer from my mouth under worse terms.”
Theryki inclines her head. “I will have my staff coordinate with yours.”
I look at her. “If your staff uses one civilian corpse to widen one clause beyond what I approve, I will consider the compact broken.”
“I understand.”
“No,” I say, and the command center chills around my tone. “You believe me. That is different.”
She holds my gaze. “I believe you.”
Good.
It is a small thing.
Small things are what remain when large dreams begin bleeding out.
Later, when Theryki has gone and the command center settles into its exhausted rhythm, I stand before the viewport while the Badlands drift beyond the glass.
The casualty list waits behind me. The war map waits beside it.
Coalition blue icons now sit deeper inside my territories than they did at dawn.
My independence is still mine.
Less than yesterday.
More than tomorrow, perhaps.
Skahar comes to stand beside me.
“You are thinking loudly,” he says.
“I am thinking that I wanted the Combine to bleed until they understood what they made.”
“And now?”
“Now they bleed us and call it proof.”
His cane taps once. “That is an old trick.”
“I should have seen it.”
“You saw pieces.”
“Ursa saw more.”
“Ursa looks at stories. You look at enemies. Both are useful unless mistaken for the whole.”
I glance at him. “You enjoy sounding wise when I am too tired to argue.”
“I enjoy many things. At my age, one must collect pleasures before death grows impatient.”
The corner of my mouth moves. It does not become a smile, but Skahar sees the attempt and accepts it with the generosity of a bastard.
My compad vibrates.
Ursa’s delayed message appears.
Independent outlet preparing first packet. Gail pushing closed session. Dawson tried to bury me, failed. I need more proof tying Combine aggression to fabricated distress calls. Stay alive long enough for me to be annoying in person.
The bond warms through the ache in my chest.
I read her words twice.
Then a third time.
Skahar pretends not to watch.
“Tell her,” he says.
“Tell her what?”
“That you are frightened.”
I twitch a snarl. “Do you wish to die tonight?”
“I have wished to die many nights. You keep giving me reasons to postpone.”
I look back at the message. My thumb hovers over the reply field.
Reapers do not write fear easily. We dress it in threats, anger, jokes, orders, and touch. We make songs from grief because speaking plainly might leave the wound visible. Yet Ursa has never mistaken armor for honesty, and distance has already put enough metal between us.
I type slowly.
Rekk was hit. Thirty-nine dead, eleven children. Coalition support saved others. I am accepting deeper coordination because refusing would kill more people. I must find a way to keep every door closed and every child breathing.
I stop there for a long moment.
Then I add the part that costs more.
The revenge feels smaller tonight.
I send it before pride can claw the words back.
The message vanishes into the relay.
Outside the viewport, the Badlands glow with cold, violent beauty. My enemies move through them. My allies move through them. My people hide within them, fight within them, die within them, and wait for me to become something strong enough to deserve the trust they have placed in my hands.
Once, I thought that meant becoming terrifying.
Tonight, with dead children on my lists and Coalition ships inside my borders, I begin to understand that terror is easy.
Building something that survives terror is harder.
I turn from the viewport and walk back toward the command table, where the map is still red, the choices are still poisoned, and my people are still alive enough to need me.