“Pragmatic would be launching a preemptive strike before the bastard consolidates power,” Rection snaps. “He wants legitimacy. That makes him predictable. A predictable target is a dead target.”
I inch closer, careful not to breathe too loud. My fingers find the handle of the buffer, grounding me. It hums faintly beneath my grip like a heartbeat.
Kintar’s voice drops, slick as oil. “This isn’t a battlefield anymore. It’s a chessboard. We let Vokar think he’s winning. Give him just enough rope to tie himself down. That’s whereIcome in.”
Rection snorts. “You mean where your half-blood charm offensive comes in.”
Silence.
Then Kintar replies, tone all frost and iron.
“I mean where diplomacy might buy us time before another generation of soldiers ends up as bone trophies on Reaper pikes.”
I swallow. Hard.
That’swhat this is.That’sthe meeting I’ve been assigned to prep for. Vokar — the Reaper warlord they tell horror stories about in fleet boot. The one who carves messages into ship hulls with his own claws. The one with the red eyes and the spines like murder made flesh.
I breathe slow. Deliberate. Back away from the consoles.
Rection sighs. “Just keep him contained while he’s aboard. No grand gestures. No speeches about unity. We let him say his piece, we nod, and we pray he gets bored enough to leave peacefully.”
“And the girl?” Kintar asks.
My spine stiffens.
“What about her?” Rection grunts.
“The janitorial one. What’s her name? Freya?”
My breath catches.
Rection doesn’t answer right away.
“She doesn’t talk. Not to anyone,” he finally says. “Keeps her head down. I like that about her.”
“Still, civilians on the front line?—”
“She’s notonthe front line,” Rection interrupts. “She’s in the rooms where deals happen. And she doesn’t leak a damn thing. That makes her useful.”
Useful. Like a wrench or a code key.
I slip out as the voices start to fade into logistics and threat assessments. The buffer drone floats behind me obediently, unaware it almost bore witness to a classified strategy session.
As I step into the lift, I catch my reflection in the polished metal door. Green eyes, pale face, jaw tight.
“Useful,” I whisper.
The lift whooshes downward, too fast.
By the time I reach my quarters, my hands are shaking.
I lock the door, double check it, then triple check just in case.
Inside, my tiny space welcomes me with silence and the soft rustle of recycled air. The overhead light is too harsh, so I flick on my wall lamp — its old filament buzzes faintly and throws a golden haze over my bed and shelves. Soft shadows fall across the faces of my plush collection, lined up like tiny guardians.
“Hey,” I whisper, kicking off my boots. “Rough shift.”
They don’t answer. They never do. But they listen.
