Vihl exhales slowly, then straightens, rolling one shoulder as if loosening tension. “So we hit him,” he says. “Hard. Fast. Public. You let one of these high-visibility types slip, and every low-tier trader in the sector starts thinking they can negotiate.”
“I am aware,” I reply.
“Then why are we still talking about it?” he presses. “We make an example out of him, and the rest fall back into line.”
The bridge smells faintly of ozone and heated metal, the kind of scent that clings to everything after too many jumps and too many battles. It should feel like home, and in a way it does, but it also feels like a cage I built myself and never bothered to question.
“Because examples are temporary,” I say.
Vihl frowns. “Fear isn’t temporary.”
“It is if it’s the only thing you offer,” I counter, turning my head just enough to look at him directly. “Fear decays. It requires constant reinforcement. Constant escalation. Eventually, you run out of ways to make people afraid that don’t cost more than you gain.”
He studies me for a moment, his expression shifting from confusion to something closer to suspicion. “You’ve been thinking about this too much.”
“I’ve been thinking about it exactly enough,” I say.
I push the projection aside and bring up a broader map of our operations, trade routes weaving through space like veins, each one pulsing with movement, with potential, with inefficiency. Red markers blink where collections have failed or underperformed, each one a small irritation that adds up to something larger.
“We raid,” I continue, gesturing toward the map. “We take. We leave. We repeat. It works, but it doesn’t scale.”
Vihl lets out a short laugh. “Scale? Since when do you care about scale? We take what we want. That’s the point.”
“That’s the limitation,” I say.
The words settle heavier than I expect them to, even to my own ears.
Vihl’s eyes narrow. “You’re serious.”
“I’m always serious.”
He shakes his head slowly. “You’re talking about changing the entire way we operate.”
“I’m talking about evolving it,” I correct.
He paces a step away, then back again, the movement restless, agitated. “We’re Reapers, Tyrok. We don’t run trade networks. We don’t negotiate contracts. We take.”
“And that is exactly why the galaxy sees us as predictable,” I say, my voice sharpening just slightly. “Brutal. Simple. Effective, but limited. They prepare for us. They plan around us. They budget for losses instead of fearing them.”
Vihl stops moving, his gaze locking onto mine. “You think turning us into merchants fixes that?”
“I think turning us into something they don’t understand fixes that,” I reply.
The silence that follows stretches, filled only by the low hum of the ship and the faint crackle of energy running through the systems.
“You’re serious,” he repeats, quieter this time.
“I am tired,” I say, leaning forward slightly, resting my forearms on my knees as I look at the projection again, “of being seen as a blunt instrument.”
Vihl huffs out a breath. “You are a blunt instrument. A very effective one.”
“I am more than that,” I say, and there is something in my voice now that I don’t bother to hide. “And so are you. And so is everyone on this ship. We have been reduced to a single function because it is easy for the rest of the galaxy to categorize us that way.”
“And you want to what?” he asks. “Rebrand?”
“I want to control the terms of engagement,” I say. “Not just the outcome.”
He watches me for a long moment, then glances back at the projection where Lorens’ name still hovers, quiet and waiting.
