Page 251 of Reaper Said Mine

Rain rattles against the canopy overhead while port announcements echo through the concourse. A freighter crew pushes past us with sealed medical crates. Somewhere nearby, a man argues with a security officer about a canceled route to his husband’s colony. The whole galaxy feels like it is being squeezed through checkpoints and polite lies.

“I need to know whether the man I love signed away his future or bought time to save it,” I say.

Vale’s expression softens by a fraction. “Those may be the same thing.”

“I know.”

That is the problem.

A boarding alert pings above Gate C-19.

MEDICAL PRIORITY FREIGHT TRANSFER — GROUP ONE

Halden hands me a slim black packet. “Hardcopy authorizations. Do not open unless challenged by a human officer. The Alzhon will scan for digital seals first, and the Vakutan will respond better to confidence than documentation.”

Bellamy glances at the packet. “And Reapers?”

“Reapers,” I say, “will probably ask why I took so long.”

Bellamy laughs like he means it. Then the sound falters.

He pulls me into another hug, less quick than the one at IHC-Now and more careful around the case. I stiffen out of habit, then wrap one arm around him.

“Don’t die,” he mutters into my hair.

“I’ll do my best.”

“I hate that answer.”

“It’s the only honest one.”

He pulls back and grips my shoulders. His eyes are red-rimmed, though he would probably claim allergies, smoke exposure, or an emotional reaction to bad typography. “You send check-ins every stop. You do not improvise unless absolutely necessary.”

“I always improvise.”

“I know, which is why I included the qualifier. Also, if a mysterious stranger offers you a faster route, you say no.”

“What if the mysterious stranger has excellent cheekbones?”

“I will haunt you judgmentally.”

“Fair.”

Vale’s aide gestures from the checkpoint. Time is moving with cruel efficiency.

I take one step toward security.

Then my compad vibrates.

Gnash.

For a second, I forget the whole concourse.

His image appears above the screen, dark and flickering through secure delay. He is in the command center again, though the background looks calmer than before in the way a battlefield looks calm between volleys. Soot marks one side of his jaw. His armor is scored. His eyes go straight to my face.

“You are at a port,” he says.

I do not bother asking how he knows. “Yes.”