But once again, everyone is trying to decide my fate for me. Just like the courts did, sending me to the orphanage. Just like the war mongers did, when my parents were killed in the crossfire of the stupid war between the Alliance and the Coalition.
Enough.
I slam the pitcher onto the table. Water inside sloshes, the plastisteel body ringing like a bell before the room goes silent. The drop echoes.
“Has anybody thought to ask me what I want?” I say, voice louder than I intend — sharp, brittle, cutting across the room like a thrown knife.
For a heartbeat, the air catches. Then the humans freeze. The Reapers still. The chatter dies. The soft hum of ventilation seems to quiet, like the ship itself is holding its breath.
I take a slow breath — let the silence hang around me — and reach for the cred-tablet before me. I don’t look down at it. I don’t have to. I speak from memory. From gut. From spite.
“My salary for the next ten years,” I continue. “All of it. Paid now, into escrow. And you direct it to the state-run orphanage on Hadar-Nine where I grew up.”
My calm voice echoes again. Steady. Cold.
Faces around me shift — panic, confusion, indignation. Nervous coughs. The kind that people suppress when someone shouts in a library.
Ambassador Kintar’s eyes widen. His skin is pale, surgically done to exaggerate his Reaper features, but in this moment he looks more thin and fragile than any human I know. He clears his throat, falters.
General Hugh Rection’s face goes red — I swear I see veins under his skin. His jaw works, like he’s trying to chisel words out through rage or confusion.
I hold the glass steady — I don’t drain this last pitcher yet — let the water catch the overhead light and fracture it. Let the weight of my words settle before I finish.
“You listen to me now,” I said louder, leaning forward so my palms slap flat on the table, water rattling inside the glasses. “Because I’m not some back-room voice nobody hears. I’m flesh, and I’m danger. If you want my compliance in this — if you want me to keep running your corridors with mop and comms and silence — this is what I get. Ten years pay up front to save kids like me. No negotiations. No games.”
Silence crushes the room.
Only the soft click of a distant datapad snapping shut.
Kintar shifts, forcing polite calm. “Miss McDonnell — your request is unusual. You know that. Perhaps you’d reconsider?—”
I straighten, muscles coiled, eyes burning bright. “I’m donereconsideringwhat I deserve.”
Rection rises from his chair — the metal scraping, echoing off the walls. He leans across the table, veins pulsing. “You can’t demand something like that. You’re a contractor, a civilian — not a diplomat or claimant. This is insane.”
I look right at him. My eyes cold, fierce. “I’m more human than most around this table. I’ve seen what human means. I don’t need your permission to decide I’m worthy.”
There’s a shift — a ripple. The other humans glance at each other. The Reapers behind me exchange tight looks. Even the air feels raw, stretched thin.
Kintar clears his throat. Voice fast. Barky. “If you insist — I… we will, uh — forward this demand. Process the paperwork. But understand — this complicates negotiations.”
I nod. Lean back a little. Iron in my spine, conviction in my chest. “I understand. And good. Because I’m not here to make things easy.”
A harsh chuckle from Rection. “You’re asking for ten years’ worth of salary — upfront — for an orphanage no one’s audited in fifty years. What proof do we have you won’t take the money and vanish?”
The laughter drips poison. My throat tightens from bile, but I push the feeling down. I breathe out slowly.
I pick up the glass — cool water against my palm — and swirl it slowly. Eyes locked on his.
“You test my honesty?” I ask, voice low, cold. “Do you know what honesty means in my world?”
His sneer corners. “Maybe not — but I know what treachery looks like.”
“Then look again,” I say. “Because there’s more honor in this room than any bar of trade goods you’ve dealt in.”
The silence comes again. Deeper. Harder. Somewhere a ventilation grate clicks. A datapad hums.
And then — a soft sound.
