Page 270 of Reaper Said Mine

Alive.

I let it stand.

My compad vibrates again.

Ursa.

Inspection cutter closing. Recording set. If this gets ugly, make sure they regret making me famous.

I stare at the message while the bond burns with fear, admiration, and a love so fierce it feels like it should have gravity.

I type back.

They already do.

Then I add:

I am holding the corridors. Come home through them.

Her reply arrives after a delay that claws through me one heartbeat at a time.

Trying.

One word.

Enough to keep me standing.

I place the compad beside the casualty packet and return both hands to the command table.

Outside, the Badlands burn. Fleets gather. Enemies circle. The woman I love moves through danger with evidence sharp enough to cut empires, and every instinct in me screams to tear open the dark until I find her.

I protect the living. Vengeance no longer owns a chair at my table.

CHAPTER 33

URSA

Contested space does not look contested from the inside of a half-lit freight transfer.

It looks like darkness outside a narrow viewport, the faint smear of distant stars, and the pale reflection of my own face floating over reinforced glass while the ship’s engines hum beneath my boots with a steady vibration that feels almost reassuring if I do not think too hard about how little metal separates my body from vacuum. The cabin smells of disinfectant, cargo netting, overheated filters, and old fear pressed into fabric by too many passengers who have sat through too many inspections pretending they had nothing to hide. Somewhere forward, the ventilation system ticks unevenly, pushing recycled air across my damp palms while the medical containers strapped along the walls give off a faint chemical chill.

Rana crouches in the aisle with her toolkit open between her knees, one hand resting near a compact pulse pistol disguised inside a diagnostic scanner. She watches the forward hatch with calm eyes. Too calm, really. Anyone that calm during a suspicious inspection has either survived worse or intends to cause worse.

Possibly both.

The inspection cutter has been pacing us for six minutes.

Six very long minutes.

Across the aisle, the real medical courier has woken up and now sits rigidly with both hands wrapped around her harness. The cargo handler who spent the first leg watching silent comedy has finally turned off his feed. He keeps licking his lips and glancing toward the ceiling as if answers might be written in the overhead panels.

The pilot’s voice comes over the comm, tight beneath forced professionalism. “Inspection vessel is requesting docking seal confirmation. Please remain seated until instructed.”

Rana looks at me.

I look at her.

“Still think this is an inspection?” I ask.