Page 186 of Reaper Said Mine

Uncertainty flickers across his face. Then the mask returns.

Strength.

Leadership.

Control.

But I saw it.

And because I saw it, I know something with absolute certainty.

The galaxy is moving toward a cliff. Fleets are mobilizing. Alliances are shifting. Powerful people are choosing sides.

And somewhere in the middle of it all stands the male I love—a male who may have been maneuvered into becoming the spark.

I look out at the stars beyond Guyver Station. They seem colder tonight. The darkness between them feels endless.

I wonder whether truth will be enough. Whether exposing the conspiracy will matter. Whether anyone can stop what has already begun.

Below us, another squadron launches from the station.

Their engines flare bright against the void before shrinking into distant points of light.

I watch them disappear into the darkness and try very hard not to imagine the galaxy burning behind them.

CHAPTER 24

GNASH

The command center smells of hot metal, old smoke, overworked circuitry, and the harsh black brew my night-shift officers insist on calling caf. The taste of it sits on my tongue like burnt wire. Around me, Guyver Station growls through its armored spine as docking clamps retract, ammunition lifts rise through service shafts, and defense crews drag half-repaired targeting assemblies back into line before the great powers circling my territory decide whether my people deserve to keep breathing.

Light from a hundred tactical displays washes over the deck in red, blue, and warning amber. Every screen carries another reason to sharpen a blade. Alliance fleet movements. Coalition transmission spikes. Combine market seizures. Private security mobilizations. Merchant routes closing one by one like frightened eyes. TBadlands twist in violet and black, all beautiful poison and broken stars, but tonight even that familiar ugliness feels too open.

Too exposed.

I stand at the center table with both hands braced against the metal rim while intelligence reports stack themselves around me in rotating columns. My claws leave shallow grooves in the surface. No one comments on it because every warrior in the room has learned that some silences are survival.

Krell waits on the far side of the table with his shoulders squared and his young spurs polished for war. The boy is trying to look calm. He fails, but he fails bravely, which is better than succeeding through stupidity.

“Read it again,” I say.

His throat works before he obeys. “Alliance Second Response Fleet left the Trask Fold six hours ago under sealed operational authority. Alliance Seventh Patrol Fleet has deviated from postwar interdiction lanes and is moving toward three separate Badlands access points. Alliance carrier group registered as the Mercy of Pelion has recalled all starfighters from detached customs operations.”

“A carrier group named Mercy,” Skahar mutters from beside me. “That is how you know murderers have poets on staff.”

“Continue.”

Krell taps his compad, and a new set of routes flares across the holo. “Combine private security vessels have withdrawn from exposed commercial stations but reinforced refinery platforms at Dakkor, Melisant Spur, and Gethra’s Chain. Multiple shell-owned freighters changed registry in the past forty-eight hours. We believe at least nine are carrying weapons, soldiers, or both.”

“Believe?” I ask.

Krell lifts his chin. “Three carry heat signatures consistent with armored troop bays. Two altered their mass profiles after leaving Combine-controlled docks. One forgot to scrub a maintenance ping identifying its shield emitters as military-grade.”

A low rumble of approval moves through the nearest officers. Krell’s ears darken with pride, though he keeps his expression straight enough that I do not have to embarrass him by noticing.

Skahar snorts “Children grow sharper when war breathes on their necks.”

“They grow dead if their elders mistake sharpness for invulnerability,” I say.