Page 323 of Reaper Said Mine

Trade banners hang again.

Some are new.

Some are patched.

Some still bear scorch marks because the merchants who own them decided survival counts as branding.

I linger at the edge of the market with a recorder clipped to my belt, a compad tucked under one arm, and a cup of tea warming my hands. My ribs no longer ache when I breathe, but my shoulder still twinges if I lift it wrong. The doctor says that is normal. I have chosen to interpret “normal” as “annoying but survivable.”

Rana appears beside me holding a fried pastry in one hand and a security slate in the other.

“You look sentimental.”

“I’m observing.”

“You’re making the face.”

“What face?”

“The one where you pretend you’re not emotionally invested in a thing while being emotionally invested so loudly people three decks away can hear it.”

I sip my tea. “That is a rude and specific accusation.”

“It is also correct.”

“Sadly, yes.”

She grins and takes an enormous bite of pastry. Flaky crumbs scatter down the front of her jacket.

I glance at them. “You’re head of security for a media network now. Maybe try looking less like you lost a fight with breakfast.”

“I won the fight. Breakfast died.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

We begin walking through the market, slow enough that I can actually look around instead of rushing between emergencies. The east-side stalls have reopened first, mostly food, tool parts, fabric, med supplies, and cheap entertainment feeds. Merchants from three systems have returned in the last two weeks, drawn by the reopening of neutral trade routes and the fact that the Accord makes shooting at civilian commerce politically expensive. Stability spreads strangely. It does not arrive with speeches or formal declarations. It arrives when a spice vendor risks reopening a stall, when a freighter captain docks without bracing for extortion, when a family leaves a shelter door open because they trust the corridor outside to remain intact.

A human merchant waves at me from a stall stacked with imported fruit.

“Ramone! You recording today?”

“Always.”

He points toward a display of green-gold pears. “Then record that these are the finest pears in three sectors.”

Rana sniffs. “They look suspicious.”

“They are elite pears,” he says, offended.

“That sounds exactly like what suspicious pears would want us to think.”

The merchant points at her. “You wound me, security lady.”

Rana selects one pear, turns it over, and bites into it without paying.

He makes a strangled noise.