Page 255 of Reaper Said Mine

The transport beyond the gate is ugly, narrow, and honest. It has none of the polished serenity of civilian shuttles. The hull carries scratches beneath hastily repainted medical markings, and the interior smells of disinfectant, cargo webbing, old insulation, and the faint animal musk of too many frightened passengers pretending to be freight crew. I take a seat near the rear, strap my case beneath my knees, and check the hidden relay in my sleeve.

Then I begin preparing for betrayal.

Not Gnash’s.

The galaxy’s.

I open my private contingency file and activate the first sequence. If I miss the Ceres check-in, Bellamy receives the sealed chain-of-custody package and publishes the Dakkor data with my location history attached. If I miss the humanitarian relay check-in, Senator Vale receives the unredacted shell-freighter registry. If my biometrics go inactive, Independent Holonet Review receives everything, including the negotiation questions I intend to ask Gnash and the names of every source willing to be burned only if I am.

I hate that plan.

I set it anyway.

A woman slides into the seat across from me as the hatch seals. She wears a cargo engineer’s jacket, keeps her hair shaved close to her scalp, and carries a toolkit too new to belong to someone who uses it for a living. Human, maybe late thirties. Calm hands. Careful eyes.

I close the contingency file and look at her.

“You’re in my seat,” she says.

I glance at the empty seats around us. “Tragic.”

Her mouth curves. “You always this friendly?”

“Only when running toward a war zone.”

“That’ll do it.”

The engines begin cycling beneath us. The vibration travels up through my boots and into my bones. I keep my expression neutral while my pulse adjusts.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Rana.”

“Ursa.”

“I know.”

My fingers drift toward the emergency transmitter hidden under my cuff.

Rana notices.

“Easy,” she says. “Gail sent me.”

“She didn’t mention you.”

“She wouldn’t. That would defeat the purpose.”

“Convenient.”

Rana reaches into her jacket slowly and produces a small committee token, then places it on the seat between us. I scan it. Authentic.

Mostly.

“Mostly authentic,” I say.

She smiles properly this time. “Good eye.”

“Bad answer.”