Page 279 of Reaper Said Mine

It does not arrive cleanly. It bursts across the smallest emergency channel in broken fragments, wrapped inside medical telemetry, static, evidence hashes, route markers, and one private tag buried under the public packet.

GNASH.

My hand closes so hard around the edge of the command table that metal buckles beneath my claws.

Krell lifts his head from the comm station. His face drains of color. “Lord Gnash, that is Ursa’s signature.”

“I see it.”

Vakka pulls the packet onto the main display without waiting for permission. The feed jitters, damaged and incomplete, but enough survives. Hestia-Seven. Medical freight transfer. Unauthorized interception. Weapons fire. Communications crippled. Boarding risk confirmed. Dakkor and Bravax evidence attached. A final line sits beneath the distress call like a knife turned sideways.

Hold the corridors.

For half a breath, all I can hear is the blood in my own ears.

Skahar stands beside me, his cane still against the deck. “Boy.”

I look at the map.

The corridors remain crowded. Ybessa transports. Bravax med-runners. Evacuation barges limping toward Guyver with children, refugees, wounded, and old ones aboard. Alliance white icons press near the Trask Fold. Combine gray signatures stalk the lanes, hoping I will prove every accusation ever made against me by tearing away from civilians the instant my heart is threatened.

Ursa knew that.

She wrote the order because she knew that.

She trusted me to hate it and obey.

I stare at the signal coordinates. Ceres humanitarian routing. Contested space. Two hostile vessels. One registered as a medical inspection cutter. One unmarked private security profile. Combine work in all but signature.

Vakka’s voice is low. “We have Reaper-aligned vessels near that corridor.”

“Names.”

“Knife Prayer, Old Grudge, and the salvage tender Bekk’s Folly. Knife Prayer is escorting two refugee skiffs. Old Grudge is damaged but mobile. Bekk’s Folly has no teeth worth naming.”

“Can they reach her?”

“Old Grudge can cut across the debris shelf in twelve minutes. Knife Prayer would have to abandon the skiffs.”

“No.”

The word comes out before the old instinct can strangle it.

Skahar’s eye does not leave my face.

I turn to Krell. “Knife Prayer holds the refugee skiffs. Bekk’s Folly moves toward Ursa’s coordinates broadcasting medical salvage claim. Old Grudge approaches silent and waits for my arrival.”

Krell’s hands fly. “Your arrival?”

I am already moving.

Vakka steps away from weapons. “Lord, the corridors⁠—”

“You have them.”

Her mouth tightens. “Damn right I do, but that is not the same as⁠—”

“You have the corridors,” I say again, and this time I put command behind it. “Theryki’s shield formation stays exactly where it is. Reaper escorts do not break civilian cover. If Alliance vessels cross into the green lanes, broadcast before firing. If Combine cutters strike evacuees, kill them in public. Every order stands.”