Page 30 of Reaper Said Mine

"And unofficially?"

"Too close to contested territory for maintenance. Too distributed for parade. Too quiet for normal redeployment."

One intelligence officer, a scarred Reaper named Orkan, steps forward. "We also intercepted procurement chatter from Combine subcontractors. Emergency purchase of hull patches, med-nanites, boarding countermeasures, and long-range sensor buoys."

"Show me timing."

He swipes the display. Dates arrange themselves along the route projections.

I feel my good mood fade into something cleaner.

Vakka watches my face. "They are preparing for a fight."

"Everyone prepares for a fight," I say.

"These movements began before yesterday’s session."

Skahar looks at me. "Before Gobold’s temper. Before Theryki’s pressure today. Before your latest delightful performance."

I let the insult pass because the map deserves more attention than pride. Helios does not waste military hulls for theater unless theater pays. Their strength lies in money, logistics, deniable violence, and the slow crushing pressure of contracts that turn starvation into someone else’s procedural failure. Open fleet movement near contested territory means either fear has finally become expensive enough to justify risk, or someone inside the Combine wants us to see the knife and flinch.

"What does Zune say?" I ask.

Vakka’s lips curl. "Nothing directly. His staff requested confirmation of tomorrow’s economic side meeting and asked whether your office would guarantee safe conduct."

"Tell them safe conduct ends at honesty."

"They will ask what that means."

"Good."

Orkan shifts his weight. "There is more. Alliance scouts increased patrol frequency near the Trask Fold again. Coalition courier traffic has doubled. Someone is moving encrypted packets through civilian channels using old League commercial masks."

"Source?"

"Unknown. We are peeling the routing."

Skahar exhales slowly. "The table is heating."

"Then we eat before the meat burns."

Vakka gives a soft, approving growl, but Skahar does not smile.

"You cannot joke this away," he says.

"I am not joking it away." I point to the Combine movement lines. "Increase passive surveillance along these corridors. No active scans close enough to give them complaint language. Put two raider wings on maintenance drills within response distance but keep transponders civilian. I want every refugee transport inspected twice, every cargo spine checked for hidden transmitters, and every station access route reviewed before the next diplomatic session."

Vakka nods. "Done."

"Quietly," I add.

Her smile shows teeth. "We are capable of quiet."

Skahar grunts.

I turn to Orkan. "The human reporter. Ursa Ramone. Where is she?"

His brow ridges lift. Vakka’s expression becomes far too interested.