Page 69 of Ravaged By the Reaper

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 herefor 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 commitjusta little further, lock them into visible cooperation?—”

“You think shame will work on Karag?”

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

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 isAmara 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.”