Page 283 of Reaper Said Mine

“That was not approval, Lord Gnash.”

“I did not mistake it for anything pleasant.”

Her voice cools. “Ursa’s distress packet is spreading through civilian channels. Your public corridor broadcast and her attack are being linked. Alliance command is being asked whether it can guarantee journalist safety in contested space.”

Despite fear, a rough laugh tears from me. “She is making them sweat while boarded.”

“She appears skilled at inconvenient timing.”

“You have no idea.”

The route ahead erupts with threat markers.

Drokk’s grin vanishes. “Three hostile patrols. Two cutters, four light craft, one unmarked bastard pretending to be debris.”

“Path?”

“Through them.”

“Then do not waste my time describing the scenery.”

He slams the engines harder.

The first patrol comes at us near the broken moon shelf, where old rock fragments drift in ragged clouds and sensor ghosts multiply like lies. Hostile light craft spread across our approach. Combine cutters sit farther back, angling to box us against the debris. Coalition interceptors surge forward, shields bright, while Black Mercy dives low enough that rock dust rattles against the hull.

Weapons fire streaks past the viewport in white and green lines.

The ship bucks.

A warrior behind me starts laughing, deep and delighted.

“Do not enjoy yourself too much,” I say.

He answers, “I enjoy being useful, lord.”

“Then stay alive.”

Drokk rolls us beneath a cutter’s broadside. Our port cannon fires upward at brutal range, tearing open the cutter’s lower shield grid. A Coalition interceptor slips through the gap and clips the enemy’s weapons array with surgical precision. The cutter spins away venting atmosphere.

“Elegant,” Drokk grumbles.

“Jealousy makes you ugly,” I say.

“I was born ugly.”

“You improved with effort.”

Another craft sweeps across our bow. Its shot hits hard enough to throw sparks from the overhead panel. The cabin fills with the scent of burned plastic.

Our slicer calls from the rear station. “They are trying to jam the distress beacon.”

“Jam them back.”

“That is not how⁠—”

“Make it how.”

She curses creatively and buries herself in the console.