Page 78 of Ravaged By the Reaper

Alliance admirals in pressed uniforms, their expressions carved from disdain and suspicion. Reaper delegates, silent and unmoved, claws folded neatly on the table like predators tolerating a ceasefire. And at the end, as though this is all some kind of interstellar comedy, Panaka lounges with a drink in hand—one leg thrown over the armrest of his chair, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He lifts his glass to me like we’re at a dinner party.

I don’t return the gesture.

Instead, I step into the dead center of the room—the most exposed place, the least safe. Every pair of eyes shifts to me. None friendly.

With the crackle of old-world tech struggling to function, Malem Karag flickers to life in a flickering red holo. The image is life-sized, detailed, cold as vacuum.

His eyes find mine immediately.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just stares.

Every hair on the back of my neck prickles.

“Let’s begin,” I say, voice firm even as the tension tries to crawl its way up my spine.

“By all means,” one of the Alliance admirals mutters.

I start with protocol. With the official language. The kind that makes this asummitand not a standoff. I cite treaties. Enumerate clauses. Invoke interstellar law. Remind them, one by one, what’s at stake. Not just in blood, but in precedent. In the legacy they’ll leave behind if this ends in fire.

I don’t expect the words to work.

I speak to them because I must.

But then—I shift.

I look Malem dead in the eyes. “You came here expecting a show of strength. You brought ships. You made threats. You demanded submission.”

His holo twitches, barely perceptible.

“And yet here you are. A projection in a room of enemies. Listening. So tell me—what does that make you?”

He doesn’t respond. But his silence is answer enough.

I step closer to the center. “You all know what I am now. What I’ve become. And there’s not a soul in this room who doesn’t have an opinion about it. Human bonded to a Reaper? Heresy. Evolution. Abomination. Miracle. Choose your flavor.”

A few glances exchange across the table. Reapers don’t flinch. The admirals do.

“But that’s not why I asked you here,” I continue, voice steadier now. “I didn’t call this summit to justify myself. Or to beg for peace. I called it because, for the first time in living memory, all of you are in the same room, breathing the same air. And maybe that means we have a chance.”

Panaka laughs under his breath. Not mocking—amused.

I ignore him.

“Look around,” I say, sweeping my arm across the room. “We’re bleeding. All of us. And none of us can afford to pretend the galaxy isn’t cracking open beneath our feet. You can burn down this station, sure. But what then? Another war. More orphans. Another generation taught to kill before they learn to read.”

Silence.

Real silence.

Even Malem is listening now.

“I’m not naïve,” I say. “I know this might fail. I know some of you already made up your minds before you stepped into this room. But I also know we’re at a crossroads. And whether we turn left or right depends on what we believe is possible.”

I glance toward the Reaper delegation.

Then the Alliance.