Page 131 of Reaper Said Mine

I move closer to the plaques. Some names are Reaper. Some human. Some Alzhon, Grolgath, Odex. Ship names repeat in clusters: Ash Veil, Mourning Knife, Bright Hallow, Second Mercy, Kestrel Drowned. There are objects mounted between the plaques. A broken child’s cup. A twisted insignia plate. A strip of cloth embroidered with stars. A cracked piece of ship glass clouded white from heat exposure.

“These are your dead,” I say.

“Some.”

“How many?”

“Too many for one corridor.”

The answer is quiet, and because it is quiet, it hurts more.

Gnash walks to a section near the far wall. His massive body casts a shadow across a cluster of names etched into blackened hull plating. He touches one claw to the top name, not pressing, barely making contact.

“This came from the home-ship where I was born.”

I stop beside him, careful not to crowd.

The metal is warped at the edges, scarred by fire. The names are uneven, as if carved by many hands over many years. I do not recognize the language, but grief does not need translation.

“My parents?” I ask softly.

He nods. “Yes. And cousins. Crew. Teachers. A singer who threw shoes at anyone who interrupted morning lessons. A mechanic who let children sleep near the engine vents during cold cycles. The ship’s cook, who could make fungus taste like victory if no one asked what was in it.”

A faint smile moves over his mouth and vanishes.

“What happened?”

His hand lowers to his side. “Combine-backed raiders hit us near the edge of a mining claim. The official report called it an anti-piracy action against a hostile Reaper vessel. We had children aboard. Old ones. Sick ones. A cargo hold full of scrap and medicine. That did not matter. Our ship was Reaper, and Reaper meant target.”

My warm bread turns heavy in my stomach.

“How old were you?”

“Young enough to believe adults could stop the walls from burning.”

The corridor seems to tilt around that sentence. I do not see the station for a moment. I see my mother’s hand over mine. I smell smoke trapped in hair and plastic melting over concrete. I hear a child’s voice that used to be mine explaining bodies in the road because if I stopped speaking, the world might vanish.

Gnash looks at me. “You know that age.”

“Yes.”

Neither of us says anything for a while. The corridor hums softly around us, carrying distant machinery and footsteps kept respectful by memory. I could ask another question. I could turn the moment into reporting, and maybe part of me still does, because I never fully stop watching. But another part of me, the part that has spent years locked behind good questions and better posture, stands beside him in front of the names and lets silence do something gentler than avoidance.

After a long moment, he says, “I survived in a maintenance crawl with three others. Two died before rescue. One died after. Infection.”

“I’m sorry.”

He looks at the names. “People say that when there is nothing else to offer.”

“Usually, yes.”

“And you?”

“I say it because I know it doesn’t fix anything and I mean it anyway.”

His gaze comes back to me, red and deep and almost too honest to bear. “Then I accept it.”

We continue through the corridor, and he tells me stories in fragments. Not a speech. Not a confession designed for effect. Just pieces handed over while we walk past the dead. A battle over a fuel moon where he lost his first command crew because he believed victory mattered more than withdrawal. A boarding action against a Combine prison hauler where he freed sixty-seven captives and lost twelve warriors to a reactor trap because he ignored Skahar’s warning. The first time his crew called him lord, not captain, and how the title felt less like triumph than another weight welded to his ribs.