Page 257 of Reaper Said Mine

Rana’s expression says she does not believe that is the whole answer.

Smart woman.

The first leg passes under heavy encryption and heavier silence. I review the evidence again, not because I need to but because fear loves idle hands. Dakkor radiation data. Bravax civilian pleas. Coalition capital ship entry logs. Treaty negotiation gaps. Protectorate clause revisions. Alliance intervention draft timelines. Combine shell vessel tracking. Dawson’s suppression attempts. Every piece has to survive the trip in enough places that no single missile, arrest, theft, or betrayal can bury it.

Halfway to Ceres, Rana’s compad chirps once.

She reads.

Her posture changes.

“What?” I ask.

“Two ships altered course.”

My mouth goes dry. “Toward us?”

“Toward our projected transfer window. One registered as a medical inspection cutter. The other has no current transponder, but its mass profile matches private security.”

“Combine?”

“Likely.”

The transport cabin seems to shrink around me. Across the aisle, a real medical courier sleeps with her head against the wall, unaware that death may be doing math around us. A cargo handler watches a comedy feed without sound. The engines hum steadily, indifferent to fear.

I open the next contingency.

Rana watches my hands. “What are you sending?”

“Breadcrumbs.”

“To whom?”

“Everyone who becomes useful if I die.”

“That’s cheerful.”

“I’m a delight.”

I transmit a partial route exposure to Bellamy, a sealed alert to Vale, and a delayed packet to Gnash that will send only if our transport drops relay contact for more than ninety seconds. Then I consider the evidence drive hidden beneath my jacket.

If they board us, they will search the obvious places first.

So I remove the drive from the seam, slip it into an empty medical cartridge, and hand it to Rana.

She looks at it. “That the good stuff?”

“That’s enough to start a bad week for very rich criminals.”

She tucks it into her toolkit. “I’ll guard it with my sparkling personality.”

“Halfway.”

“Fair.”

The pilot’s voice comes over the cabin speakers, artificially calm. “Minor routing adjustment for inspection traffic. Please remain secured.”

Rana and I look at each other.