Page 20 of Ravaged By the Reaper

AMARA

The war doesn’t pause for love.

I wake to the scent of ozone and scorched wiring, thick in the recycled air like the station’s bleeding from its own lungs.

My body aches, every nerve a low thrum of leftover adrenaline.

Sheets tangled around my legs. Haktron's scent still clings to me—metallic, smoke, something darker I can't name. But that comfort’s fleeting.

Reality crashes in the moment my boots hit cold steel.

Gamma’s breathing hard. And not the good kind.

The deck shakes underfoot. Not enough to throw me off balance—but enough to make my gut tighten. Coalition fighters must be making another pass. The alarm isn’t blaring, which somehow makes it worse. We’re too used to the sound of falling apart.

“Systems status?” I bark as I hit the command corridor, already pulling my hair back into a bun that’s more fury than formality.

A junior officer nearly runs into me, tablet clutched in shaking hands. “Secondary shield grid’s offline in sectors eleven through fifteen. We’ve rerouted power from civilian life support to reinforce outer hull pressure. Hull breaches in docking arm C are being patched, but—”

“Slow down,” I say, grabbing the edge of the tablet. “Let me see.”

He steps back like I burned him. My fingers scroll through carnage in clean font: medbay damage, water supply contamination, comms lag with the outer relays. A mosaic of barely-contained catastrophe.

I hand it back. “Get Engineering to reinforce sections fourteen through sixteen manually. Then report to logistics—we’re gonna have to reallocate medpacks again.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Captain. That word still tastes strange in my mouth, even after all this time. But I wear it now like armor. Like teeth.

I reach the command deck and the tension hits me like a wall. Voices sharp as broken glass, fingers flying over consoles. Yentil’s in the middle of it all, barking commands that barely rise above the buzz of stress.

“Status?” I ask, stepping into his shadow.

“Not good,” he grunts. “Coalition forces have pulled back—but that’s not mercy. That’s strategy. They’re regrouping, circling, waiting for us to bleed out.”

“And the Alliance?”

Yentil grimaces. “They’re still firing. Coordinated. But every other transmission from their command ships is a passive-aggressive snarl. They don’t like being bait.”

“No one does.” I cross my arms. “But they’re here. That means we still have leverage.”

“They’re here for now. You push them wrong, they’ll ghost us mid-strike.”

I hate that he’s right. My shoulders roll, tension clawing down my spine like icewater.

The air smells like char and nerves. The whole damn station feels like it’s holding its breath—and not out of fear.

Out of resentment. Everyone’s stretched thin.

Everyone’s counting seconds. One wrong step, and we’re screwed from all sides.

I move to the central console and pull up Coalition fleet trajectories. The screen hums beneath my palm, casting my face in sickly blue light. Their pattern is obvious now—compressing our escape vectors, herding us toward a corner with no doors. Like wolves in formation.

“They’re not just trying to break us,” I murmur. “They’re trying to humiliate us. End it in a way that sends a message.”

Yentil glances over. “To who?”

“To everyone watching.”

Because make no mistake—there are eyes on this. Systems away. Governments too scared to speak out but too curious to look away. If Gamma falls, the lesson gets written in fire.

I stare at the blip where Malem Karag’s flagship hovers just outside weapons range. Waiting. Calculating.

“He knows exactly what he’s doing,” I whisper.

“What’s the plan?” Yentil asks.

I look around the room. Half the crew’s listening. Their faces lined with smoke and fatigue, but still… listening.

“Diplomacy,” I say.

He snorts. “Now?”

“Especially now. Every second we survive is a second to twist the narrative. The Alliance may be pissed—but they’re here. If I can get them to commit just a little further, lock them into visible cooperation—”

“You think shame will work on Karag?”

“No,” I say, “but it might work on everyone else.”

He stares at me like I’ve grown a second head.

I shrug. “It’s all we’ve got.”

I open a secure comm line to the Alliance flagship. My voice is steadier than I expect when the channel stabilizes. “This is Amara Sorell of Starbase Gamma. I need to speak with Admiral Lore. Immediately.”

A pause. Then a clipped, female voice answers. “He’s occupied.”

“Then interrupt him. This isn’t a request.”

I wait. The room behind me holds its breath.

A moment later, the Admiral’s image flickers to life. His face is redder than a Reaper’s temper. “Captain Sorell. Do you realize the optics of dragging the Alliance into your personal vendetta?”

“Do you realize the optics of backing out now?” I shoot back. “Your ships are here. Your name’s on the field. If Gamma falls, the Coalition doesn’t just win—they show the galaxy that even the Alliance bends.”

His jaw tightens.

“You want this war to stay cold?” I ask. “Then help me finish it before it melts down. We push Karag now—together. Show the galaxy what unity under pressure looks like.”

His nostrils flare. Then, slowly, he nods.

“Temporary cooperation. No further than my front line.”

“I’ll take it.”

I cut the channel before he changes his mind.

Yentil whistles low. “You’re either brilliant or suicidal.”

“Hopefully not both on the same day.”

I take one last glance at the tactical map, then turn away from the screen. My feet are already carrying me toward the next battle—because diplomacy’s not a speech. It’s a war of whispers. And I plan to win it with every breath I have.

This idea should terrify me.

It doesn’t. Maybe because I’ve already survived too much. Maybe because if we don’t try something unthinkable now, we won’t have a station left to argue about tomorrow. Either way, the words leave my mouth before I can second-guess them.

“I want to propose a summit,” I say to Yentil.

He gapes like I slapped him with a stun baton.

“A what now?”

“A summit. Ceasefire. Terms. A conversation. Hell, I’ll pour drinks if it’ll get them to stop blowing holes in our hull.”

“You are absolutely out of your—”

“Desperate,” I cut him off. “Not stupid. Desperate times. Desperate strategy.”

His mouth snaps shut, eyes narrowing. He knows me well enough by now to realize when I’m not bluffing.

I don’t wait for approval.

I move.

There’s no rulebook for brokering peace mid-battle. So I write one. On the fly. In real-time. With blood still drying on the walls of Gamma and the deck vibrating beneath my boots.

I call everyone.

Every diplomat on record, every comm code the IHC didn’t scrub when they blacklisted me. Ambassadors who hate me. Admirals who tolerate me. Even old mentors who warned me not to chase ghosts. I sell it with every ounce of charisma I’ve got. I don’t ask. I promise.

“If we don’t talk now,” I tell them, “we won’t have anyone left to listen later.”

Some hang up. Some stay silent. But a few lean in.

It’s enough.

The Alliance ambassador’s voice comes over the line next—cool, clipped, defensive. “You want us to sit at the same table as Reapers?”

“No,” I say. “I want you to outmaneuver them. You do that better when you understand what they want.”

She pauses.

“Send coordinates.”

I do.

The Coalition’s harder.

Their top brass don’t like weakness, and they sure as hell don’t trust humans—especially not humans bonded to Reapers. I don’t bother with flattery. I go straight for the throat.

“You came here to make a statement,” I say to the senior liaison. “Fine. Make it at the summit. Show the whole galaxy your resolve in person. Or keep bombing civvies and look like butchers instead of visionaries.”

There’s a long silence. Then a reply.

“One hour. No weapons. One representative per faction. If you try anything…”

“I won’t.”

“We’ll burn your station to the spine.”

I don’t doubt it.

The last call makes my pulse stutter.

I route it through encrypted relays, bouncing the signal until it’s a whisper in deep vacuum. It connects on the third cycle.

“Speak,” Panaka’s voice rumbles, low and unreadable.

“It’s Sorell. I need you.”

There’s a chuckle that’s more threat than humor. “I knew this day would come.”

“I’m not playing, Panaka. We’re holding a summit. Coalition. Alliance. Gamma. A temporary ceasefire. I need your word that you won’t open fire.”

Silence.

“Say something,” I press.

“This is madness.”

“It’s survival.”

“You’re betting your life on the idea that war can be reasoned with.”

“I’m betting on the idea that people are tired of dying.”

Another long pause. Then a breath, sharp and slow.

“If you’re wrong, girl… we all burn.”

My throat tightens. “I know.”

“No. You hope. That’s different.”

He’s not wrong.

But I don’t back down. “You’ll be there?”

“One ship. Me.”

“No escort?”

“You don’t need it. I bring more threat solo than most fleets do fully armed.”

He disconnects without another word.

I stare at the darkened screen for a beat. My heart’s a drumline. My skin feels too tight. My lungs are too shallow. This is happening.

I walk back to the command deck. Yentil looks up from the logistics console, his brows already pinching.

“Well?”

“They’re coming.”

“Gods help us.”

“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe we help ourselves first.”

I grab a datapad and begin drafting the agenda. Ceasefire terms. Territory boundaries. Civilian protections. We’re not going to solve everything—but we can lay foundation. One that doesn’t crack under the weight of fear.

The first transmission hits the station’s outer array thirty minutes later. A Coalition cruiser decloaks near the neutral zone. Not firing. Just watching.

Five minutes later, an Alliance dreadnought moves to flank it. Same stance. Silent. Still.

Panaka’s ship drops in last. Like he’s been watching from orbit the whole damn time and waited just long enough to be theatrical.

He hails me personally.

“Docking bay two. Bring security.”

I answer with a nod.

I turn to Yentil. “Time to suit up.”

He laughs bitterly. “This is insane.”

“Insane’s gotten us this far.”

The summit chamber is stark—nothing more than a repurposed storage unit with polished floors and hastily scrubbed bloodstains. But we needed neutral ground, and this was the only section left with enough structural integrity to hold three factions without imploding from sheer tension.

I stand at the head of the table, heart jackhammering behind my ribs.

No armor. No weapons. Just a sleek IHC-blue uniform and a datapad clutched tight enough to warp the frame.

The scent of cleanser and scorched circuits hangs in the air, sharp and synthetic.

The walls hum with shield reinforcements. Gamma’s not taking any chances.

I’m about to speak when I feel him before I see him—Haktron’s presence thick as gravity behind me.

He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t clear his throat. Just stands there. Watching. Solid. Silent.

I turn.

He’s shed most of his battle gear—just the black undersuit and a deep blue sash tied at his waist, a quiet nod to diplomacy. But it’s his eyes that stop me. Not the usual smolder. Not the predator coiled and ready to pounce. Something warmer. Sharper.

Pride.

“You’re not here to stop me?” I ask, voice quiet.

His brow lifts. “Would it matter if I was?”

I huff. “No. But I figured you’d try anyway.”

He steps closer, arms loose at his sides. No weapons. No defenses. Just a Reaper standing in front of a war-forged woman like she’s the only thing worth defending.

“I’ve seen you in battle,” he says. “Heard your scream over plasma fire. Watched you rally the broken and shame the arrogant. This—” he gestures to the makeshift summit room “—this might be the most dangerous battlefield you’ve ever walked into.”

“I know,” I whisper.

“And yet you go anyway.”

“I have to.”

He nods once, slow and deliberate. Then, with that inhuman grace of his, he lowers his head until we’re eye to eye. The air tightens between us.

“Win or lose…” he says, voice low and reverent, “I will stand beside you.”

It hits like a body blow.

No fanfare. No dramatic promises. Just truth—pure and sharp and sacred.

I blink, throat suddenly too tight for words.

He’s never said he loves me. Not outright. But this? This is what it looks like when a Reaper pledges his soul.

“I…” I falter, then laugh under my breath. “Stars, Haktron, you make everything harder.”

He smirks. “I aim to please.”

“You succeed.”

He leans in, voice a gravelly whisper near my ear. “Just don’t get yourself killed before the speech. It’d ruin the whole aesthetic.”

I roll my eyes, but my heart’s full to bursting.

This is what I’ve been fighting for—not just survival, not just justice, but the right to stand here, seen and respected. Not as a tool. Not as a possession. But as a force of my own.

“Take your place,” I tell him.

He inclines his head and moves to the shadows near the rear wall—watchful but unintrusive. A sentinel, not a savior.

The doors slide open with a hiss.

Alliance enters first, crisp uniforms and narrow glares. Then the Coalition rep, cloaked in crimson and contempt. Finally, Panaka—swaggering in like a predator invited to dinner. He nods once at me, then takes his seat with the barest grin.

I grip the edges of the podium.

My voice doesn’t shake.

“Thank you for coming,” I begin. “I know this wasn’t what any of you planned when you woke up this cycle. But here we are—standing on the edge of something far more important than victory.”

Eyes narrow. Brows raise.

I don’t let up.

“You came here for control, for territory, for political leverage. But what you’re getting is a chance to rewrite the end of this story before it finishes writing us all into ash.”

I let silence stretch.

“The terms are simple. A ceasefire. An agreed-upon retreat zone for civilian ships. Temporary amnesty for all vessels present. And an open table for negotiations once this station is secure.”

The Coalition envoy sneers. “And what of reparations?”

The Alliance ambassador snorts. “And accountability?”

I raise a hand. “One fire at a time. The first step is not shooting. The rest comes after.”

Panaka speaks last, voice silk-wrapped steel. “And if someone cheats?”

“Then I die,” I say plainly. “Because I’ll be the first target.”

It lands hard.

I see it in their eyes. The calculation. The doubt. The flicker of something close to respect.

This isn’t over. Not by a long shot. But I’ve bought us time. A breath. A beginning.

And beside me, just beyond the war room’s glow, a Reaper waits in silence.

Not to rescue.

But to stand.