Page 242 of Reaper Said Mine

Theryki speaks again, quieter this time. “Dakkor was avoidable if Combine auxiliaries had not anchored beside civilian structures.”

“And if Coalition guns had not fired near civilian structures,” I say.

Her answer comes after a pause long enough to carry weight. “Yes.”

The admission surprises me more than denial would have.

I turn from the viewport toward the map. “Send Dakkor raw data to Ursa.”

Krell nods immediately. “Yes, lord.”

Skahar’s cloudy eye shifts toward me. “You send her another corpse wrapped in evidence.”

“She asked for truth.”

“She did.”

His voice carries no accusation, which makes the words more difficult to bear.

Another alert opens before I can answer. The Ybessa corridor feed appears, grainy and shaking, taken from a Reaper escort vessel flying through a storm of debris and weapons fire. Refugee transports burn their engines hard toward Guyver’s protection lanes while Coalition fighters streak above them in bright blue arcs. Combine cutters chase from behind. One transport takes a hit along its aft quarter, and the feed fills with sparks as atmosphere vents into space.

“Can we reach them?” I demand.

Vakka’s hands move across her controls. “Our nearest wing is tied up at the Ash-Maw screen. Coalition fighters are already engaged.”

The transport tumbles, then stabilizes badly.

Krell’s voice breaks with urgency. “They have children aboard. Registry says one hundred and forty-three passengers, mostly displaced families from the outer holds.”

“Theryki,” I say.

“We see them,” she answers. “Shield barge Dawn-Mercy is moving to intercept. We need permission to route through your inner civilian corridor.”

Vakka looks at me.

Skahar says nothing.

The old refusal rises in me by instinct. No. Keep them out. Hold the line. Preserve the corridor. Preserve independence. Preserve pride.

On the feed, the transport shudders as another shot tears across its shields.

I think of Tomas covering his ears in Sector Twelve.

“Permission granted,” I say. “Dawn-Mercy routes through Corridor Three under Reaper escort. If they deviate one degree from civilian cover, Vakka burns their engines.”

Vakka shows her teeth. “With pleasure.”

Theryki replies, “Acknowledged.”

The shield barge crosses into the corridor a few seconds later, huge and luminous, spreading a curved defensive field between the wounded transport and the cutters pursuing it. Coalition fighters peel back in formation, disciplined and deadly. A Combine cutter explodes when its own momentum carries it too close to a minefield my people laid months ago and forgot to mark for anyone civilized. The blast lights the viewport in distant gold.

Somewhere in the command center, a young technician whispers a prayer in Alzhon.

No one mocks him.

The refugee transport limps behind the shield barge toward safety.

A hundred and forty-three lives continue because I opened another door.