Page 204 of Reaper Said Mine

Skahar snarls, “Do not make promises on my behalf.”

Theryki folds her hands. “I accept the terms.”

“Of course you do,” he mutters. “You are a diplomat. Accepting terms is what your species evolved to do after inventing traps.”

I drag one hand down my face, feeling the scrape of claws against skin. “Krell.”

“Yes, lord.”

“Draft limits for expanded Coalition assistance. Medical access automatic. Convoy escort authorized when civilian lives are at stake. Pursuit authority remains case by case unless a Reaper vessel is under active fire. Sensor sharing covers contested lanes, not internal station architecture. Any liaison gets a room far from this table and learns to knock.”

Krell’s stylus moves rapidly. “Yes, lord.”

Theryki studies me. “That may be insufficient.”

“It is what exists.”

“For now?”

I show her my teeth. “For now is the only promise anyone has earned.”

Before she can answer, the main display flashes white. An emergency packet forces itself to the center of the holo. The room goes still as Vakka opens it.

“Message from Salvage Hold Rekk,” she says, and her voice changes in a way that turns my blood cold. “They were hit twelve minutes ago. Combine heavy cutters supported by at least one cruiser-class vessel. Defensive grid failed. Survivors report boarding parties.”

The map expands.

Rekk appears in red.

Then black.

I know that hold. Everyone in the room knows it. Rekk is not large, not rich, not strategically elegant. It is a scarred cluster of habitats welded into an old mining carcass, home to three Reaper crews, eighty-seven refugees, thirty-two children, two hydroponic chambers, one gambling den, and a schoolroom with a crooked door painted yellow because the teacher thought color made young ones less afraid of metal corridors.

My voice leaves me rough. “Live feed?”

“Intermittent.”

“Open it.”

Vakka does.

The holo fills with static, smoke, and screaming alarms. A corridor appears, tilted sideways. Emergency lights pulse red along walls shredded by weapons fire. A Reaper woman drags a wounded human boy behind a support strut while someone fires down the passage with an old slugthrower. The camera shakes as the feed carrier runs. The sound cuts in and out, but I hear enough.

Then the image catches a shape moving through smoke.

Combine armor.

Private colors stripped off.

Corporate ghosts wearing no insignia because cowards believe anonymity launders murder.

Something inside me goes very quiet.

“Dispatch response,” I say.

Krell answers, anguish tight in his voice. “Nearest Reaper ship is twenty-six minutes out.”

Theryki steps closer. “Coalition strike wing can reach them in eleven.”