Page 18 of Reaper Said Mine

"Lady, if you know how, please keep that wisdom to yourself."

I almost smile, but the transport doors open before the expression can fully form.

Noise rushes in.

Guyver Station does not greet its visitors with sleek diplomatic quiet or polished corporate efficiency. It swallows us into a docking bay so enormous the ceiling vanishes behind gantries, suspended cargo tracks, and drifting vapor from open coolant vents. Light falls in hard industrial strips from overhead arrays, cutting bright paths through haze and shadow. The deck is marked in colored lanes for passengers, freight, station labor, security, diplomatic clearance, and what my translator labels as disputed property. Reaper warriors stand along those lanes in loose pairs, black and gray and bone-white, towering over everyone else with blades at their hips and energy weapons strapped across backs wide enough to make the rifles look decorative. Their bone spurs catch the bay lights like pieces of sharpened moon.

I step out with my bag over one shoulder and my compad recording passively against my palm.

The first surprise is the order.

I expected menace because I am not an idiot. Every file I read prepared me for that. The Reapers provide menace simply by existing in close quarters with softer species. What I did not expect is the careful choreography of the bay. Cargo loaders move through assigned corridors with brisk precision. Inspectors scan containers and wave clean freight onward without theatrics. Armed patrols do not shake down merchants for fun or shove civilians around to demonstrate authority. When a Fratvoyan trader starts complaining in a shrill voice about tariff reassessment, the nearest Reaper does not hit him. She listens, consults a manifest, points toward an appeal kiosk, and tells him he has seven minutes before the docking meter doubles.

The Fratvoyan shuts up and runs.

"Huh," I murmur.

A security officer the size of a cargo lifter turns his crimson eyes toward me. "Problem, human?"

His voice is deep enough to rattle in my sternum.

I tilt my head back to meet his gaze. "Observation."

"Observers pay visitor tax."

"I paid before docking."

"Then observe faster. You are clogging the lane."

Behind me, the human mechanic makes a tiny choking sound. I move forward before her anxiety becomes contagious.

The security checkpoint is a row of armored stations staffed by Reapers, humans, Kiphians, one Alzhon with glowing blue hair, and a Fratvoyan wearing a visor too large for his narrow face. That mixture alone tells me more than half the official reports did. A lawless tyrant does not build a multi-species inspection staff unless he values competence over image. A careless pirate does not keep arrival queues moving this smoothly. People can be cruel and organized at the same time, of course. History has never lacked for efficient monsters. Still, the contradiction matters.

The Reaper officer at my booth scans my credentials and bares pointed teeth. "IHC-Now."

"Yes."

"Reporter."

"Yes."

"You people keep requesting the impossible."

"I prefer unlikely."

"Denied."

I blink once. "I have not requested anything yet."

"You will."

"That seems presumptuous."

"Is it wrong?"

"No."

"Then it is efficient."