Page 271 of Reaper Said Mine

“No.”

“Great.”

“Figured honesty would help.”

“It does not.”

She checks something on her compad, then angles the screen so I can see a sensor ghost trailing behind us. The unmarked ship has closed distance. Its profile flickers in and out, distorted by the transport’s weak civilian-grade scans.

“They waited until we committed to the corridor,” Rana says. “Cutter takes the polite position. Ghost ship sits aft. If we run, we run into its guns.”

My mouth tastes like metal.

“What do they want?”

“You.”

“That seems conceited.”

“It also seems accurate.”

I touch the cuff transmitter beneath my sleeve. My deadman recording is set. My packets are distributed. The most important drive is hidden inside Rana’s fake medical cartridge, tucked into a toolkit that may or may not survive the next ten minutes.

I should feel prepared.

Mostly I feel furious that preparation has limits.

The transport jolts.

Not hard.

A tug more than an impact.

The sound that follows is wrong, a deep metallic groan that travels through the hull and up my spine. The medical courier gasps. The cargo handler swears. Rana rises smoothly, pistol already in her hand.

Then the lights go red.

The pilot shouts over the comm, voice suddenly stripped of polish. “Brace! We have weapons lock from aft vessel!”

The first shot hits before anyone can move.

The cabin becomes motion, sound, and pain.

A blast slams into the transport’s rear quarter, throwing me sideways against my harness hard enough to drive the air from my lungs. The overhead panels flicker white, then red, then black, and emergency strips flare along the floor. Containers tear loose from the wall in a screaming tumble of metal brackets and snapped webbing. Something strikes my shoulder. Heat bursts across my skin. Someone screams. The ship pitches, and the artificial gravity stutters in a nauseating ripple that makes every object in the cabin seem to lose faith in direction.

Rana hits the opposite seats, rolls with the impact, and comes up bleeding from the corner of her mouth.

The second shot takes communications.

I know because every open channel on my compad collapses into static at once.

Gnash’s last message disappears beneath a dead signal icon.

I stare at it too long.

Rana grabs my arm. “Move!”

The transport lurches again, and this time the lights stay red. A cargo container near the forward bulkhead has split open, spilling sealed surgical packs across the aisle. The medical courier is still strapped in, sobbing through clenched teeth while blood beads along her temple. The cargo handler’s harness has jammed, pinning him against a bent seat frame.