31. Ursa #2
“I also need to ask you things you cannot dodge through a relay glitch,” I continue.
“I need the treaty negotiation logs. I need internal casualty data tied to Coalition access expansion. I need proof of what Theryki pushed for and what you refused. I need to know whether there were terms you didn’t send because you thought they made you look weak. ”
“I sent the agreement.”
“You sent the final text. I need the fight that produced it.”
His eyes narrow slightly, not in anger but recognition. “You think the negotiations themselves contain evidence.”
“I think every desperate clause tells a story. I think your amendments may prove the agreement was signed under coercive crisis pressure, not voluntary strategic alignment. I think that matters if the Alliance tries to justify intervention by calling you a Coalition proxy.”
Bellamy whispers, “Damn, that is good.”
Gnash’s gaze shifts briefly toward him. “Do not encourage her.”
“I tried discouraging her. It bounced off.”
I almost smile.
Gnash does not.
“Little reporter,” he says, and the softness of it hurts. “If they find your route?—”
“Then I use contingencies.”
“You have contingencies?”
“I have so many contingencies.”
Bellamy raises his hand. “She has a deeply annoying number of contingencies.”
Gnash ignores him this time. “Tell me.”
“No.”
His eyes flash. “Ursa.”
“If I tell you and someone intercepts this call, the contingencies become decorative.”
“I can protect you better if I know.”
“You can protect me better by keeping Guyver alive until I get there.”
His face changes, the hard anger cracking just enough to reveal fear beneath it. The sight twists through the bond and nearly breaks my resolve.
“I cannot lose you in the dark between systems,” he says.
My throat tightens.
“You won’t.”
“You do not know that.”
“No,” I admit. “I don’t.”
The honesty hurts both of us. I see it in the way his shoulders settle, as if a weight has dropped where fury used to stand.
I step closer to the projection, lowering my voice until the concourse becomes a blur behind my pulse.
“I’m scared too. I’m furious with you. I’m worried about you.
I’m carrying evidence that could put a dozen powerful people in prison or a hundred ships in motion, depending on who gets to frame it first. I am also the only person who can walk into Guyver with enough public attention attached that disappearing me becomes expensive. ”
His mouth pulls back from his teeth. “You sound like Ursa Ramone when she is about to do something unforgivable and correct.”
“That is my brand.”
“I hate your brand.”
“You are romantically affiliated with it.”
“Under protest.”
“Noted.”
The boarding chime sounds again.
FINAL CALL — MEDICAL PRIORITY FREIGHT TRANSFER
Gail steps closer. “You need to move.”
Gnash hears her.
His gaze sharpens. “Who is with you?”
“Bellamy, Senator Vale, Minister Halden.”
He bares his teeth faintly. “Good. If she dies, I will know whom to blame.”
Halden, without missing a breath, says, “Lord Gnash, if she dies, I suspect blame distribution will be robust and multilateral.”
Bellamy looks at her. “Okay, that was kind of badass.”
Gnash’s expression flickers with something almost like appreciation before returning to me. “Send check-ins.”
“I will.”
“If anything feels wrong, turn back.”
“That depends on what kind of wrong.”
“Ursa.”
“Fine. If anything feels wrong in a way that is not normal for me, I will reassess.”
“That is not the same as agreeing.”
“It’s the closest you’re getting.”
He exhales slowly. Behind him, someone calls his name. He answers in Reaper, sharp and quick, then looks back at me as if the act of looking might hold me in place.
“I am still angry,” I say before he can speak.
His eyes hold mine. “I know.”
“I am still coming.”
“I know that too.”
“Good.”
His voice drops. “Come back to me alive, and you may yell as long as you like.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.”
“I expect nothing less.”
The projection cuts as I step into the security line.
The first checkpoint goes smoothly because Halden’s seals are expensive magic disguised as bureaucracy.
The second nearly fails when an Alliance Transit officer with a square jaw and suspicious eyes asks why a suspended IHC-Now journalist is traveling under medical courier priority.
I hand him the black packet and say nothing.
He reads the first page, then the second.
His face goes pale in the careful way of men who have just discovered that whatever they were about to do will require more courage than they brought to work.
He returns the packet.
“Safe travels, Ms. Ramone.”
“Thank you.”
His eyes flick to the cameras. “For what it’s worth, my sister’s on Bravax.”
The words stop me.
“How is she?”
“Alive because somebody argued against bombardment near the domes.” His throat works. “So if you’re going back to the man who gave that order, tell him some of us noticed.”
I nod because anything more might undo me.
The transport beyond the gate is ugly, narrow, and honest. It has none of the polished serenity of civilian shuttles.
The hull carries scratches beneath hastily repainted medical markings, and the interior smells of disinfectant, cargo webbing, old insulation, and the faint animal musk of too many frightened passengers pretending to be freight crew.
I take a seat near the rear, strap my case beneath my knees, and check the hidden relay in my sleeve.
Then I begin preparing for betrayal.
Not Gnash’s.
The galaxy’s.
I open my private contingency file and activate the first sequence.
If I miss the Ceres check-in, Bellamy receives the sealed chain-of-custody package and publishes the Dakkor data with my location history attached.
If I miss the humanitarian relay check-in, Senator Vale receives the unredacted shell-freighter registry.
If my biometrics go inactive, Independent Holonet Review receives everything, including the negotiation questions I intend to ask Gnash and the names of every source willing to be burned only if I am.
I hate that plan.
I set it anyway.
A woman slides into the seat across from me as the hatch seals. She wears a cargo engineer’s jacket, keeps her hair shaved close to her scalp, and carries a toolkit too new to belong to someone who uses it for a living. Human, maybe late thirties. Calm hands. Careful eyes.
I close the contingency file and look at her.
“You’re in my seat,” she says.
I glance at the empty seats around us. “Tragic.”
Her mouth curves. “You always this friendly?”
“Only when running toward a war zone.”
“That’ll do it.”
The engines begin cycling beneath us. The vibration travels up through my boots and into my bones. I keep my expression neutral while my pulse adjusts.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Rana.”
“Ursa.”
“I know.”
My fingers drift toward the emergency transmitter hidden under my cuff.
Rana notices.
“Easy,” she says. “Gail sent me.”
“She didn’t mention you.”
“She wouldn’t. That would defeat the purpose.”
“Convenient.”
Rana reaches into her jacket slowly and produces a small committee token, then places it on the seat between us. I scan it. Authentic.
Mostly.
“Mostly authentic,” I say.
She smiles properly this time. “Good eye.”
“Bad answer.”
“I’m security without being official security. My job is to make sure nobody grabs you before Ceres.”
“After Ceres?”
“After Ceres, my job gets worse.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“Lies waste time.”
That, more than the token, makes me like her a fraction.
The transport lifts.
New Boston drops away beneath sheets of rain and reflected light. For a moment Earth fills the viewport beyond the aisle, blue and white and impossible, the kind of beautiful that makes every war seem like proof that intelligent life is a clerical error.
I turn from the window before sentimentality can make me stupid.
My compad vibrates with an encrypted notification from Bellamy.
Tracking chatter just spiked around your route. Someone queried Ceres humanitarian slots using three different shell credentials. Rana is ours-ish. Trust her halfway. Eat something. Your face looked like death with cheekbones.
I show Rana the line about her.
She reads it and nods. “Halfway is generous.”
“Who queried the slots?”
“Could be Combine. Could be Alliance. Could be Coalition trying to make sure you arrive where they can manage you.”
“Could be Dawson having an aneurysm.”
“Does Dawson have shell credentials?”
“No, but spite gives him range.”
Rana huffs a laugh and leans back. “Your route is already dirty.”
I look toward the sealed hatch. “How dirty?”
“Tracked, probably. Compromised, possibly. Doomed, not yet.”
“You should write travel brochures.”
“I was told you liked honesty.”
“I tolerate it.”
She studies me. “You still want to continue?”
“Yes.”
“That was fast.”
“I’ve had practice making bad decisions under pressure.”
“Going back for him?”
I meet her eyes. “Going back for the truth.”
Rana’s expression says she does not believe that is the whole answer.
Smart woman.