Page 249 of Reaper Said Mine

“This is an unbelievably stupid plan,” he says.

“I know.”

“I want the record to show that I said it was stupid before you did it.”

“The record is extensive.”

“It is not extensive enough, because you keep finding exciting new ways to create paperwork for the people who love you.”

I glance at him. “That sounded suspiciously sincere.”

He grimaces. “I know. It was awful for both of us.”

The departure screen above us flickers as another civilian route to the outer systems disappears under military restriction. Passengers groan. A Pi’Rell trader in silver travel robes curses softly into a comm. Two human students stare at the canceled route as if persistence might shame it back into existence.

My route remains hidden behind another name.

Freight transfer.

Medical courier priority.

Destination listed as Ceres Relay, then an obscure humanitarian staging post, then a salvage tender that absolutely does not exist on the public registry. From there, if every forged authorization, bribed routing clerk, sympathetic shipping captain, and committee favor holds, I will reach a Reaper-aligned convoy bound for Guyver’s evacuation corridor.

If any of those pieces fail, I will end up detained, disappeared into legal limbo, or floating somewhere between military jurisdictions while officials argue over whether I am a journalist, witness, foreign asset, romantic liability, or inconvenient woman with receipts.

Bellamy nudges my case with his shoe. “You packed light for someone carrying enough evidence to make half the galaxy sweat.”

“I packed efficiently.”

“You packed like a fugitive with skincare.”

“I am moisturizing under duress.”

“That is healthy.”

“Compared to what?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it because the answer is obvious and standing in front of him.

Across the concourse, Senator Vale appears near a private security checkpoint with Minister Halden beside her. Vale’s silver hair is pulled back severely, and her coat hangs open despite the damp chill sweeping in from the landing bay doors. Halden looks as composed as ever, which now strikes me as less elegance and more advanced political armor. Two aides trail them, carrying sealed document cases and expressions that suggest nobody has slept enough to trust the floor.

Gail reaches us first. “Your clearance window is narrow.”

“I figured.”

“You have twenty-six minutes before Alliance Transit Authority receives the updated restriction bulletin. After that, your route becomes much harder to justify.”

Bellamy lifts a finger. “For clarity, much harder means impossible, illegal, or explodey?”

Halden’s mouth tightens. “Possibly all three.”

“Love that. Very soothing.”

Gail ignores him and looks at me. “You have the Dakkor and Bravax packets?”

“Yes.”

“The treaty text?”