Page 219 of Reaper Said Mine

Guyver Station shakes like an old beast refusing to die.

The first impact rolls through the armored spine before dawn-cycle, hard enough to rattle loose tools from the engineering racks and send a tremor through the command table beneath my hands. The air in the command center tastes of scorched insulation, emergency coolant, blood from someone’s split lip, and the bitter caf abandoned in mugs when the alarms began screaming. Red light pulses over every face in the tactical pit, turning warriors, technicians, clerks, and runners into ghosts carved from heat and exhaustion while the walls carry the deep metallic groan of a station absorbing punishment it was never meant to survive politely.

Outside the viewport, the Badlands twist in bruised violet and black, but the beauty is half-hidden behind defense flare and weapons fire. Guyver’s outer shield grid flickers in overlapping arcs as incoming fire strikes, disperses, and strikes again. One of our converted gunships burns near Dock Nine, venting atmosphere in a glittering white plume while emergency tugs drag it away from the traffic lanes. Beyond it, hostile signatures appear and vanish through debris fields, radiation pockets, and the dirty little tricks cowards use when they wish to murder civilians while preserving legal ambiguity.

“Report,” I say.

Vakka answers from the weapons station without looking away from her display. A strip of blood runs from her temple down the side of her face, but she has ignored worse wounds for smaller insults. “Outer defense grid absorbed the first volley. Sector Twelve took partial hull breach near coolant exchange. Dock Nine lost pressure in two service compartments. Fire suppression is active, but damage control requests more bodies.”

“Send whoever can hold a torch and understand shouting.”

“Already done.”

Krell stands two stations over with dark circles under his eyes and both hands moving across the compad as if he can hold the station together by speed alone. “Civilian shelters are sealing across market ring, school ring, refugee barracks, and lower hydroponics. Med-bay reports ninety-seven injured from the first impact wave, mostly decompression trauma and burns.”

The number punches through me, but I keep my face still because every eye in this room steals part of its courage from mine.

“Dead?”

“Six confirmed so far.”

So far.

I hate that phrase more than most prayers.

Another blast hits the shield grid. The command center lights flicker, and the deck tilts hard enough that one of the younger runners slams into a console. He catches himself, bares his teeth at the console as if it offended him personally, and keeps moving with a sealed packet clutched in one hand.

Skahar stands beside the command table, one hand braced on his cane and the other gripping the table edge. His old body sways with the station’s movement, but his cloudy eye remains fixed on the tactical map. He looks less like an adviser and more like a monument dragged out of a graveyard to insult history for being repetitive.

“Cowards are testing the shield seams,” he says. “They are not trying to crack us open yet.”

“They will,” I say.

“Yes.”

His agreement gives me no comfort.

Vakka expands the threat display. “Three hostile clusters. One near the old Helios beacon line, one masking inside Ash-Maw radiation, one cutting through the shattered moon debris above the southern approach. Hull profiles remain inconsistent. Some Combine heavy cutters, some private escorts, two probable Alliance ghosts.”

“Probable,” Skahar mutters. “The favorite word of people who wish to shoot you and deny handwriting the bullet.”

“Coalition support?” I ask.

Krell’s mouth tightens. “Two fighter wings already engaged near the southern approach. Theryki’s command requests broader pursuit authority inside our inner defensive envelope.”

Every attack drags the Coalition deeper into my blood.

Every life saved sharpens the hook.

Another report flashes across the table before I can answer. Sector Twelve’s internal feed opens without my permission because some frightened engineer must have punched emergency broadcast. Smoke fills a corridor crowded with civilians moving toward shelter doors. Reaper emergency crews in patchwork armor carry children, old ones, wounded merchants, and one stunned Alzhon with blood streaming over his yellow robes. Sprinklers hiss white vapor across the ceiling. Somewhere in the feed, a child screams for a mother who does not answer fast enough.

My hand closes around the table edge until metal bends.

“Authorize Coalition pursuit for the southern approach only,” I say. “No access to inner command relays. No automated targeting links. Manual coordination through Vakka.”

Vakka glances at me. “That will slow them.”

“It will keep them from owning my guns.”