Page 284 of Reaper Said Mine

We punch through the patrol with shields battered, one Coalition interceptor leaking coolant, and Black Mercy’s aft stabilizer whining like a wounded beast. No civilian corridor lies beneath us now. No shelter map restrains every shot. Even so, I find myself issuing orders differently than I would have days ago.

“Disable engines. Mark prisoners. Send coordinates to public rescue channels. No executions.”

Drokk glances back. “You are sure?”

“I am sure.”

“Even if they boarded her?”

My claws flex against the command brace. “Especially then. Dead cowards tell no one who hired them.”

Drokk accepts that with visible disappointment and competent obedience.

We race deeper into contested space.

The second patrol has already found Ursa’s route by the time we reach the Ceres transfer shelf. Wreckage floats ahead: torn panels, medical cargo pods, strips of hull insulation spinning through the dark. Hestia-Seven’s beacon flickers weakly through interference, tagged by the evidence packet Ursa forced through damaged systems. The unmarked private security vessel is docked against her side like a parasite. The inspection cutter hangs nearby, pretending legitimacy with its lights still clean.

For a moment, I see nothing but the boarding vessel.

Every part of me becomes teeth.

“Lord,” Drokk warns.

“I see it.”

“Weapons?”

“No,” I say, and the word nearly breaks my jaw. “They are attached to Hestia-Seven.”

The inspection cutter broadcasts immediately. “Approaching vessels, this is authorized medical compliance inspection under emergency⁠—”

“Shut them up,” I say.

Our slicer snaps, “With pleasure.”

The broadcast cuts into squealing static.

Coalition interceptor One banks toward the inspection cutter. Interceptor Two screens us from the aft angle. Black Mercy drives straight for the docked boarder, cannons locked but cold because Ursa is somewhere behind that hull.

The private security vessel tries to detach.

Too late.

“Grapples,” I command.

Black Mercy’s forward grappling harpoons fire. They slam into the boarder’s hull and bite deep. Drokk reverses thrust with savage precision, wrenching the vessel away from Hestia-Seven’s wounded side just far enough to expose the breach without tearing the transport open wider. The gunship screams around us. Metal complains in several languages.

“Boarding team,” I say.

My warriors rise as one.

I lead them.

The assault tube slams into place between Black Mercy and the private vessel. We cross in a roar of boots, claws, weapons, and restrained fury. The first armored guard inside the enemy airlock raises his rifle.

I take his weapon hand with one clawed strike and his helmet with the other.

He drops screaming.