Page 244 of Reaper Said Mine

More dead.

The war will not wait for longing.

The next eight hours scatter themselves across the command center in fragments of smoke, blue light, and names.

Coalition fleets push Combine auxiliaries away from the Ybessa corridor, saving refugee transports while claiming deeper defensive necessity. Alliance scout formations enter the Trask Fold and broadcast warnings about unlawful Coalition militarization. Reaper captains hold their fire under my direct orders even as hostile cutters taunt them across open channels with old slurs, false casualty claims, and promises to cleanse the Badlands of monsters one nursery at a time. Neutral merchants beg for escort, then condemn the presence of warships near their routes. Colonies ask whether they are under my protection, Coalition protection, Alliance protection, or no protection at all.

Nobody asks the colonies what they want.

That is one of the first rules of power. Speak of civilians constantly. Speak to them only when cornered.

Near the ninth hour, a live feed from the colony of Bravax opens on the main display. The settlement sits on a cold rock at the edge of an old trade branch, a place of mining domes, water towers, thermal farms, and stubborn people who built homes where maps once showed only inventory potential. Smoke rises from one dome. Emergency lights blink in the thin atmosphere. A Coalition cruiser hangs overhead, exchanging fire with two Combine cutters that keep dipping behind civilian structures to break targeting locks.

“Why is Bravax involved?” I ask.

Pelt’s voice is not here to answer, but I can imagine Ursa asking the same question with sharper profanity.

Krell scans the data. “Bravax stores coolant isotopes used by both Combine refineries and Coalition shield systems. It was neutral until six hours ago.”

“Neutral,” Skahar repeats. “The galaxy’s favorite word for future battlefield.”

On the feed, one of the cutters takes a hit and spirals downward toward the edge of a habitation dome. The impact does not crack the dome fully, but the shockwave tears through an agricultural annex. People in insulated suits run across the surface toward emergency vehicles.

The settlement’s local governor appears on a desperate audio channel. “Guyver Command, Coalition Command, Alliance Monitoring Authority, anyone receiving, Bravax is civilian. We are civilian. We have children in Dome Three and a breached medical annex. Stop firing near our homes.”

The transmission repeats automatically.

Stop firing near our homes.

Over and over.

No poetry. No legal framing. No strategic doctrine.

Just the oldest plea in every war.

I listen until the words carve themselves into me.

“Lord Gnash?” Krell asks.

“Send aid.”

He hesitates. “Bravax never recognized our corridor authority.”

“Did I ask whether they flattered me first?”

“No, lord.”

“Send aid.”

Vakka’s voice is rough. “We have one med-runner within range, lightly armed.”

“Send it under humanitarian code. Ask Coalition to cover without entering dome airspace.”

Theryki responds from the fleet channel. “Agreed. We will keep distance.”

Skahar glances toward the speaker. “You learn.”

“So do you,” Theryki replies. “Against habit, apparently.”