Page 259 of Reaper Said Mine

I continue, voice low enough not to panic the cabin. “Any attempt to detain, disappear, or discredit this transport should be understood in the context of that evidence. The files are distributed. The chain of custody is preserved. The story will not die with me.”

I stop the recording and set it to deadman release.

My hands shake after.

Only a little.

Enough.

Rana notices and says nothing, which I appreciate.

The inspection cutter appears in the viewport as a small white shape against the darkness ahead. Too clean. Too perfectly positioned. The unmarked vessel hangs farther back, almost lost against the starfield.

Enemy forces have found my route.

Good.

Let them know I see them too.

The pilot’s voice returns, tighter this time. “We have been ordered to submit to inspection.”

Rana unbuckles her harness. “Time for the worse part.”

I stand with her, case in hand, fear alive under my skin and evidence scattered like sparks through every channel I could reach.

Somewhere ahead, Guyver Station waits.

Somewhere behind, Earth’s polished towers pretend war is a matter of maps and statements.

Somewhere in the dark between, people with money, ships, and secrets have decided I am easier to stop in transit than answer in public.

I check the seal on my cuff transmitter, meet Rana’s eyes, and smile because terror hates being mocked.

“Let’s be inconvenient.”

CHAPTER 32

GNASH

The command center has become a place where names arrive faster than prayers.

Red light crawls across the scarred deck plating, glistening over old welds, new blood, spilled caf, and the blackened streaks left by a relay bank that burned itself hollow during the last shield surge. The air is hot enough to make every breath feel used before it reaches my lungs, thick with scorched insulation, emergency coolant, sweat, antiseptic foam, and the metallic bite of weapons systems cycling beyond safe tolerance. Around the tactical pit, officers move with the stripped-down efficiency of creatures too tired for panic, their voices roughened by smoke and repetition as they speak coordinates, damage estimates, refugee counts, and casualty confirmations into a room that cannot afford to grieve properly.

Coalition capital ships hold formation in blue-white arcs around Guyver’s outer defense envelope while Reaper patrol wings run close escort along civilian evacuation lanes. Farther out, Combine cutters, private security frigates, and unmarked raiders break apart into small, vicious clusters, striking trade routes and salvage holds before slipping behind radiation pockets or civilian structures. Alliance scout vessels hover near the edge of every engagement like righteous vultures, broadcasting warnings, gathering proof, and waiting for someone else’s mistake to become their permission.

Everywhere I look, the map demands vengeance.

Everywhere I look, the living demand something harder.

“Status on the Ybessa corridor,” I say.

Krell’s answer comes immediately from the lower tier. His voice has lost the uncertainty of youth over the last days, though exhaustion has carved shadows beneath his eyes. “Three refugee transports passed through the first checkpoint. Two more remain delayed near the broken moon field. Reaper escort reports hostile probes testing the route from aft shadow.”

“Bait?”

“Likely.”

Vakka snarls from weapons. “Everything is bait now.”