Page 282 of Reaper Said Mine

“She flies like a brick with ambition,” I say.

“Also true.”

I board with twelve warriors, two medics, one slicer, and enough wrath to power a small moon. The ramp seals behind us. Engines howl beneath the deck. I strap into the forward command brace while Drokk drops into the pilot nest, hands moving across controls with intimate violence.

Vakka’s voice comes over the launch channel. “Black Mercy, you are cleared through Corridor Two. If you scratch my defense grid, I will repaint your ship with your organs.”

Drokk laughs. “Love you too, artillery goblin.”

“Fly.”

The clamps release.

Black Mercy launches.

The force drives through my chest as the gunship tears from Guyver’s dock and into the chaos beyond the station. Space opens around us in a flash of shield light, weapons fire, and nebular glare. Coalition capital ships loom above the civilian corridors like blue-white cliffs, their shields arcing outward over evacuation barges. Reaper cutters weave between them, smaller and uglier, red engine flares burning hot. Farther out, Alliance icons glitter cold near the Trask Fold while Combine probes slither along the edges of every route.

Drokk takes us under a shield barge, between two evacuation transports, and over a field of debris still glowing from the last engagement.

A hostile probe darts from the wreckage.

“Contact!” our weapons officer snarls.

“No pursuit,” I say.

Drokk’s claws twitch on the controls. “It is right there.”

“And Ursa is not.”

He bares his teeth, angles the ship away from the probe, and punches speed toward the Ceres route.

Good captain.

Better than his instincts.

The probe fires anyway.

Black Mercy shudders as the shot grazes our aft shields.

The weapons officer growls. “Permission to educate?”

“Disable only.”

A short burst from our dorsal cannon catches the probe’s engine cluster. It tumbles away, dark and useless, while Drokk laughs through his teeth.

“Polite violence,” he says. “Strange flavor.”

“Acquire a taste.”

The first Coalition interceptor joins us five minutes later, sleek and bright beside our ugly hull. Then the second. Their pilots transmit formation requests with professional calm. Drokk mutters insults about shiny cowards, then accepts the formation because he is not stupid enough to refuse useful speed.

Theryki speaks through the escort channel. “Hostile patrols have shifted toward your rescue vector. They are attempting to thicken the route.”

“They know I am coming.”

“Yes.”

“Good.”