Page 58 of Ravaged By the Reaper

He pauses dramatically.

“Jack. And shit.”

Someone chokes on laughter near the tactical station. Another coughs. I’m too stunned to do anything but blink.

Yentil keeps going, voice steely. “You want war? Come get it. But I’ll be damned if we hand over a registered diplomat to a tyrant and call it justice.”

Then he cuts the line.

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s pregnant. Charged. Like the breath between lightning and thunder.

I feel it in my teeth. My heartbeat’s gone wild.

No one speaks.

Then the klaxons wail.

“DEFENSE ALERT: PHASE RED,” the automated system announces. “EVACUATION ORDER INITIATED FOR NONCOMBATANTS. ALL MILITARY PERSONNEL REPORT TO ASSIGNED STATIONS.”

And just like that, the station explodes into motion. Officers scramble. Techs start yanking data cores from consoles. Civilians stream toward evacuation corridors, some crying, some silent, all scared.

I push through the chaos, shoulder to shoulder with Yentil, and duck into the weapons locker as alarms pulse overhead.

The light inside the armory flickers like it’s as nervous as the rest of us. I scan the racks, ignoring the larger rifles and going for something fast, familiar.

A plasma pistol.

I wrap my fingers around it. Cold. Smooth. The grip buzzes faintly as it comes online. Ready.

My hand’s shaking.

I suck in a breath and force it to stop.

I’m not helpless. Not anymore.

I adjust the power setting to mid-yield, tuck it into my holster, and head for the forward command post.

All the while, my mind echoes with Malem’s promise.

Clemency.

Come and get me, bastard.

The war drumsare still echoing in my ears when I find a moment of silence.

It’s a temporary hush, tucked in the bones of the station, a lull between pulses of panic. I’m alone in the observation alcove now, overlooking the fleet—the same monsters in orbit, their sleek bodies suspended in velvet black like the teeth of some god, waiting to bite.

But it’s not the dreadnoughts that turn my blood to glass.

It’s the sound of footsteps behind me. Familiar. Heavy. Controlled.

Haktron.

He’s always a presence before he’s a man. A gravity in the air. But this time... he doesn’t speak. Not at first.

I glance over my shoulder. He stands with his arms at his sides, spine too straight, like the weight of what he’s about to say is heavier than his armor.

His eyes flick to mine. Then down. Then back.