36. Gnash
GNASH
The war refuses to wait for recovered ribs, repaired ships, or healed hearts.
Three days after bringing Ursa back to Guyver Station, I stand once more in the command center while another casualty report scrolls across the tactical display.
The room smells of hot circuitry, stale caf, and exhausted people.
Outside the viewport, Guyver hangs suspended amid a forest of warships.
Coalition shields still cover the civilian corridors.
Alliance observation groups continue hovering near the Trask Fold.
Combine patrols lurk along the edges of disputed space like predators pretending they are merely curious.
The shooting has slowed, but casualty reports continue to arrive every day.
Krell finishes reading the latest report and lowers his datapad.
"Bravax confirmed another fourteen deaths from radiation exposure."
The words settle heavily across the room. No one speaks immediately because there is nothing useful to say.
Fourteen more dead from the aftermath of war.
I stare at the casualty list. Names, ages, and occupations fill the display: a mechanic, a hydroponics worker, a school administrator, and two children.
Always children.
My stomach twists.
I ask, "Medical shortages?"
Krell nods. "Partially. Infrastructure damage too."
The names remain on the screen. The dead are stubborn that way.
A soft chime sounds from the command center entrance, and I turn to see Ursa step through the doorway.
The bruising along her face has faded somewhat. Her shoulder remains bandaged beneath civilian clothes. She moves carefully, though not carefully enough to satisfy the medical staff constantly attempting to imprison her in recovery.
She carries three datapads.
That immediately catches my attention, and apparently Skahar's as well.
"Oh good," Skahar mutters.
Ursa arches a brow. "What does that mean?"
Skahar gestures toward the datapads. "It means every time you carry more than one datapad, governments become nervous."
"Only the guilty ones," Ursa replies.
"Those are the governments."
She smiles, and something loosens inside my chest. Three days later, simply seeing her still has that effect.
Dangerous woman.
Ursa approaches the tactical table.
"I need a meeting."
Skahar immediately points toward the door.
"No."
Ursa blinks. "No?"
"No."
"Why?"
"You used those words."
"What words?"
"'I need a meeting.'"
Skahar folds his arms. "Nothing good has ever followed that sentence."
Ursa looks at me, and I fail completely by laughing.
She points accusingly. "You are encouraging him."
"I am enjoying him."
"That's worse."
"Agreed."
For a few precious seconds, the command center feels almost normal.
Then Ursa places the datapads onto the tactical surface, and the mood shifts. Nobody carries three datapads into a war room with good news.
"Talk," I say.
Her expression sobers.
"I've been reviewing the evidence."
Krell groans quietly.
"See?" Skahar says, closing his eye. "Nothing good."
Ursa ignores him.
"The shell companies. The treaty negotiations. The intervention plans. The Combine communications."
She taps the first datapad.
"The people behind this crisis wanted exactly what happened."
No one argues. That part is obvious now.
Ursa taps the second datapad.
"They wanted escalation. They wanted the Reapers dependent on Coalition support."
Then she taps the third.
"They wanted the Alliance preparing intervention."
Silence settles across the room because she's right.
Again.
Ursa looks directly at me.
"And we're giving them exactly what they wanted."
“I know."
"No," Ursa says calmly. "You know they're manipulating events."
She taps the displays.
"But you're still operating inside the framework they built."
The room grows very quiet.
I study her. I know that expression. I've seen it before, usually right before she says something that makes me want to argue and later realize she's right.
I hate that pattern.
"What are you proposing?" I ask.
Ursa exhales.
"We negotiate with the Combine."
The command center falls silent. Krell actually drops his stylus. Skahar slowly opens both eyes.
I stare at her, certain I misunderstood.
"You want what?"
"Negotiations."
She says it so calmly that it sounds almost reasonable.
I let out a sharp laugh.
"No."
Ursa folds her arms.
"You haven't heard the argument."
"I heard enough."
"You really didn't."
I point toward the viewport.
"Those ships out there?"
"Yes."
"The ones killing my people?"
"Yes."
"The ones that destroyed my colony?"
"Yes."
"The ones that funded raids, massacres, and corporate extermination policies for decades?"
Her gaze remains steady.
"Some of them."
My laugh returns, harsher this time.
"Some of them."
"That's your response?" Ursa asks.
"It's accurate."
The bond shifts uneasily between us. She knows where this conversation leads, and I know she's not finished.
Unfortunately.
Ursa steps closer.
"I'm talking about creating a neutral bloc."
"No."
"Listen."
"No."
"Gnash."
"No."
The word comes out louder than I intended, and the room stills.
I take a breath and force control back into my voice.
"They murdered my family."
Ursa doesn't flinch.
"They abandoned my colony."
She remains silent.
"They spent decades treating my people as disposable."
My hands tighten against the table.
"I have buried friends because of them."
My voice drops lower.
"Damn near buried myself."
Silence follows.
Ursa's expression softens with understanding, and somehow that hurts more than pity ever could.
"I know," she says quietly. "I know all of that."
My chest feels tight.
"You don't."
Her eyes meet mine.
"I don't know exactly what it felt like."
She nods once.
"But I know it shaped you."
The room remains silent. Krell, Vakka, and even Skahar stay quiet.
Ursa continues.
"It shaped every decision you've made."
Her voice stays gentle.
"Some of those decisions helped people. Some caused damage."
The truth lands cleanly.
I hate it because part of me already agrees.
She steps closer.
"The people responsible for this crisis wanted permanent war."
Her hand settles on the tactical display.
"They wanted the Reapers chained to the Coalition."
She points toward another cluster.
"They wanted the Alliance preparing intervention."
Then another.
"They wanted the Combine using fear as leverage."
Her eyes find mine.
"So stop giving them the war."
Grief flashes through my chest. Part of me understands exactly what she's saying.
Part of me still wants to break things.
Skahar finally speaks.
"She's right."
I turn toward him.
Traitor. Ancient. Treacherous. Wonderful old bastard.
"You too?"
He shrugs.
"Especially me."
I stare.
He points his cane toward the map.
"Look around."
I do.
Civilian corridors, Coalition shields, Alliance observers, Combine patrols, refugee movements, medical routes, damage reports, and dead children fill the displays.
Skahar's voice lowers.
"We cannot fight everyone forever."
I don't answer because I know he's right.
He continues.
"The Coalition has its own agenda."
"No," I reply.
"The Alliance will always put itself first."
"No."
"The Combine has plenty of blood on its hands."
I bark a harsh laugh.
"Understatement."
"Obviously."
He taps the map.
"But survival is not the same thing as justice."
The room becomes very still because those words matter more than any of us want them to.
Skahar studies me.
"I knew your father."
My head snaps toward him.
He rarely speaks about my father.
Almost never.
"I know."
"He hated the Combine."
"Yes."
"He had good reasons."
I nod.
Every muscle in my body tightens.
Skahar's expression softens slightly.
"Do you know what else he hated?"
I remain silent.
"He hated dependency."
My throat tightens.
"He hated anyone deciding our future for us."
The old male points toward the Coalition fleet outside, then toward Alliance positions, and finally toward the Combine.
"Tell me which one of those options gives us independence."
No one speaks because there isn't an easy answer.
Ursa finally provides one.
"Neutrality."
The word hangs there, fragile and dangerous. It sounds almost impossible, yet not completely impossible anymore.
Skahar nods.
"Exactly."
I rub a hand across my face. The exhaustion of the last weeks suddenly feels ten times heavier.
"What exactly are you proposing?"
Ursa exhales slowly. The fact that she answers immediately tells me she's spent days thinking about this.
Of course she has.
"I propose using the evidence."
She activates the datapads.
Information floods the display: shell companies, corruption chains, financial transfers, private military contracts, hidden communications, and political manipulation. The architecture of the crisis spreads across the table in all its ugly detail.
"We burn everyone."
Krell blinks.
"Everyone?"
"Everyone."
Ursa points toward the data.
"Combine executives."
Another display appears.
"Coalition opportunists."
Another.
"Alliance interventionists."
Her voice sharpens.
"The evidence doesn't care whose side they're on."
The tactical display glows beneath her fingertips.
"We expose all of them."
I stare at the data, the possibilities, and the risks.
Ursa meets my gaze.
"Then we negotiate."
"With whom?"
"People who don't want war."
I laugh again, though this time it sounds tired.
"Those exist?"
"More than you'd think," Ursa says.
Skahar nods.
"They always do."
Ursa continues.
"The Combine isn't a single voice."
I hate that she's right.
"The Coalition isn't either."
Also true.
"The Alliance has factions too."
Unfortunately true.
Her voice softens.
"Most people just want their families alive."
The room goes quiet because everyone knows that's true.
I look back toward the viewport. Fleets, weapons, years of hatred, graves, losses, and rage fill my thoughts.
Part of me still wants revenge.
Maybe that part always will.
But another part remembers Bravax, casualty reports, children in shelters, Ursa's distress signal, and holding her after believing I might lose her forever.
The future suddenly narrows until all I can see are people trying to survive.
Ursa is watching me.
She doesn't push. She simply waits and trusts me to decide.
I exhale slowly.
"I hate this idea."
Ursa smiles faintly.
"I know."
"It offends me spiritually."
"I know."
"I would rather wrestle an asteroid."
Skahar nods.
"Reasonable."
I point at both of them.
"You are terrible."
"Also reasonable," Skahar says.
I look back at the map, the evidence, the war, and the uncertain future. Then I look at Ursa.
She crossed half the galaxy carrying truth through gunfire because she believed there was another path.
Maybe there is.
Maybe not.
But I owe my people more than hatred.
I owe them every chance to survive.
Even the uncomfortable ones.
"Fine."
The room stills.
I continue before I can change my mind.
"We try."
Ursa's breath catches slightly.
That's enough.
"We expose everyone."
I point at the evidence.
"Then we see who actually wants peace."
The words feel strange, like trying on a new weapon I'm not entirely sure how to hold.
Skahar smiles, which is deeply unsettling.
Ursa's eyes shine with hope.
Somehow that's worse.
Hope is harder to dismiss than logic.v look toward the viewport one last time.vThe war still burns. The fleets still wait. The dead remain dead. Nothing about this path guarantees success.
But the future offers something beyond revenge. Maybe that's enough to begin.