Page 200 of Reaper Said Mine

The last phrase lands heavily in the room.

Coalition fighter support.

Again.

I taste the words like rust.

“Damage?” I ask.

“One cargo hauler lost propulsion. Two crew dead. Harrow-Third has hull scoring and partial shield collapse. Coalition medical teams recovered the wounded before our retrieval craft reached them.”

A few warriors exchange glances. Not hostile. Not grateful either. Something worse.

Accustomed.

I see it and hate it.

Theryki’s aid has become part of our daily arithmetic. Coalition fighters plug holes in my patrol grid. Coalition med-ships take wounded before my own overstrained med-bays can clear beds. Coalition technicians offer shield calibration assistance with elegant smiles and clean hands. Coalition supply officers deliver fuel under emergency compact provisions while their observers stand in the corners of my command center pretending not to memorize every corridor, every reaction time, every weak seam in the station I stole from Helios and dreamed into a future.

I needed time.

I bought it.

Now the interest crawls across my deck in blue uniforms.

Vakka calls from the weapons station. Her voice carries more gravel than usual because she has slept less than I have, and Reapers do poorly when anger is forced to share space with fatigue. “Lord Gnash, incoming from Theryki’s staff. Coalition command requests temporary priority in Dock Four to berth another rapid-response frigate.”

Skahar makes a sound that might be a laugh if laughter had been left out in the cold and beaten with tools. “Temporary. I admire that word. It lets invaders sleep indoors.”

“Dock Four holds our damaged hauler.”

“They are offering to repair it in exchange for berth reassignment,” Vakka says.

“In exchange,” Skahar repeats. “There is another word with teeth.”

Krell looks from him to me and waits.

Everyone waits.

That is the part of rule no victory song bothers to describe. The waiting faces. The way every impossible choice becomes yours because you were strong enough to take command and foolish enough to think strength could make choices simpler.

“Move the hauler to Dock Seven,” I say. “Dock Four may berth the frigate under escort. No Coalition personnel past the blue line without Reaper command present.”

Vakka nods once and sends the order.

Skahar’s cane taps against the deck, slow and sharp. “Blue lines painted on floors have stopped many empires, I am sure.”

“You have a better answer?”

“Yes.”

“Speak it.”

“Build a time machine, go back two days, and bite Zune’s head off after securing proof of his schemes.”

A few nearby officers pretend they do not hear that. One fails and coughs into his fist.

I bare my teeth without humor. “Your strategic counsel grows ambitious.”