Page 86 of Reaper Said Mine

Skahar’s shoulders shake once.

I look at him. “Do not.”

“I said nothing.”

“You are laughing inside your skull.”

“It is good to keep something alive in there.”

I move toward the door, grabbing my long coat from the wall hook. “Continue tracing the relay needle. Lock down departure under safety authority. Tell Theryki I will meet her after the afternoon session, tell Gobold he may request patrol adjustments through proper channels, and tell Wilcox that command access is granted at my discretion.”

“And Zune?” Vakka asks.

I pause at the door. “Tell Zune nothing. Silence makes men like him invent better nightmares than we could provide.”

Skahar’s cane taps the deck once in approval. “There is the boy who learned patience by wanting to kill everyone in a room and counting coins instead.”

“I was charming then too.”

“You were hungry and mean.”

“I remain both.”

I leave before he can answer, though I hear his dry laugh follow me into the corridor.

The lower market smells better than the command annex and lies just as much.

Spice smoke curls through hot air beneath hanging lamps patched from ship beacons. Vendors shout over each other in Reaper, Trade Cant, Alliance Standard, and three dialects that should have died with their home moons but somehow survive wherever refugees gather with recipes and stubbornness. Grilled meat hisses on metal grates. Fermented rootcakes steam in stacked baskets. Engine lubricant, incense, sweat, ozone, cheap perfume, and wet wool blend into a living stink that belongs more to a port city than a pirate station. Children dart between stalls with the reckless courage of small creatures who trust adults to stop disasters before impact. Dockworkers crowd food counters in stained gear. Merchants argue over tariffs with enough passion to suggest none of them are starving, which remains one of my quieter victories.

I find Ursa near a stall selling bitter-leaf buns and fried strips of something no human stomach should approach without legal counsel.

She is not alone.

A wiry Alzhon trader speaks to her with both hands moving fast, his silver facial tendrils fluttering in agitation. A Reaper woman with a baby strapped to her chest stands beside him, correcting him every third sentence. Ursa listens with her compad angled low, recording openly but not shoving the device between them. Her red hair is pulled into a messy knot at the back of her head, and a loose strand brushes her cheek every time she nods. She wears practical dark trousers, a fitted jacket, and the expression of a woman who has forgotten fear because curiosity got there first.

The two guards she rejected lurk at a terrible distance behind a noodle cart, trying to look casual. They are failing so completely that I almost respect the effort.

Ursa spots me before I reach her. Her eyes flick over my coat, my shoulders, the market’s reaction around me, and then back to my face. The traders see where she is looking and fall silent.

I stop far enough away not to crowd her. “You are difficult to guard.”

“You say that like it’s news.”

“You are in my market without protection.”

She glances pointedly at the two guards behind the noodle cart. “Your protection is pretending to be interested in soup.”

“They are bad at subtlety.”

“They are enormous men with skull spurs hiding behind noodles, Gnash. Subtlety fled the scene and filed for asylum.”

The Reaper woman snorts.

The Alzhon trader looks like he wants to laugh and also wants to continue existing.

I fold my arms. “You refused close escort.”

“I refused intimidation with legs. People stop talking when armed Reapers hover.”