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The general’s eyes hardened. ‘She’s the one who’s stirred up the Elders against me, and you, and your work to keep the ship and our interests in the flotilla free of corruption. She supports a return to feuds,pizzo, and even drug running, saying we’ve lost our edge. She doesn’t realize that if we don’t clean house now, we’ll get a nasty reception in Pegasi. The Sable Riders, incidentally, meta shifters themselves, run that galaxy. They will turn us to slag in seconds if we come in hot with puritan thinking and illicit trade. Helena is playing games she cannot win.’

‘Agreed. I’ll keep my distance from her and santefor the insight,’ Savvine said with a solemn chin raise as she left.

Her quarters sat tucked near the security wing, one deck below.

They were modest, efficient, and untouched by the layered decadence of some officers’ suites.

A matte desk nested beneath the recessed lighting, stacked with decrypted reports.

One wall held her weapons cabinet, locked.

The other displayed a small shelf of well-thumbed books and a faded holo of her family before the flotilla’s launch from Earth.

Her cot was unmade, the sheets tangled, and her fatigue jacket slung over a chair.

She activated the comms array, inserted the transmitter, and brought up the secure message channel.

The screen flickered. Her fingers hesitated over the keys. Then she typed:

To: A. Roman, Command, Signet Co.

Request: A diplomatic meeting on behalf of the Bianchi security arm. Discussions on weapons channels, flotilla neutrality, ship builds, and pending threats are required.

S. Bianchi. Chief of Security, The Venantia Eterna.

She addressed her message to the man himself, the head honcho of the notorious private mercenary and security group.

Would he reply?

He had no reason to, but still, she shot her shot.

With a shaky inhale, she sent it, then remained staring at the monitor for a long time.

She toed-off her boots, stripped off her suit, changed into a worn shirt and shorts, and fell into bed.

Sleep came slowly. Fitful.

Until a soft, muted ping.

Her eyes blinked open. The room was blue-lit and quiet. The chrono read 01:03.

She groaned, reaching for her neural lens. The message hovered above her wrist:

Meeting confirmed. 1500 ship standard, three days from now. A Signet Corvette will pick you up. Bring no escort.

It came signed with no flourish:A. Roman.

Her heart lurched.

The reply had come so fast.

Perhaps the Bianchi name had more leverage than she expected.

Her mind churned with questions.

She lay back against her pillow, staring at the ceiling as the hum of theEternareturned to her ears.

She sighed into the darkness.