Page 57 of Ravaged By the Reaper
Yentil raises a brow. “Go on.”
“I’m an IHC citizen. My registry is public, my assignment was legally filed, and I was abducted without legal cause. That's a violation of the treaty. You’re obligated to protect me until formal appeals have gone through the Alliance judicial network.”
“That’ll take weeks.”
“Exactly.”
He narrows his eyes. “Malem won’t wait.”
“He doesn’t have to. All we need is for him tobelievehe has to.”
Yentil exhales slowly, rubbing a hand down his face. “You want to provoke him.”
“No. I want tocornerhim. Every move he makes from here on out must be recorded, transmitted, and interpreted through the lens of interstellar law. He fires? He risks war. He boards? He violates neutral territory. He so much asflicksa plasma coil, and the Alliance has reason to retaliate.”
“You think he’ll care?”
“No. But the people above him might. Malem’s a zealot. But the Coalition? It’s still a government. Governments don’t like messes they can’t control.”
He tilts his head. “You’ve really thought this through.”
I smile, razor thin. “This is what I was made for.”
He paces, muttering under his breath, then turns back. “It’s risky. But better than surrender.”
“Exactly.”
“Alright. You’ve got your stage.” He presses a few commands. “I’ll route Coalition transmissions through filtered Holonet mirrors. Every word, every image, gets saved.”
I nod. “Then let’s make it a show.”
The station’s comm systems crackle, and the air stills like the moment before a predator strikes.
Then Malem’s voice rolls out—smooth, sharp, and soaked in imperial contempt.
“This is Fleet Marshal Malem Karag of the Coalition High Command,” he begins, every syllable dripping with theater. “I address Starbase Gamma and its current command authority. You are harboring a fugitive asset under Coalition law. Her designation: Amara Sorell, Companion class, former Interstellar Human Concord property, now listed as compromised and hostile.”
I freeze mid-step.
“Hostile.” Like I’m some weaponized glitch in their system. Like I’m a broken toy they need to recall.
“This is not a demand made lightly,” Malem continues. “We offer safe return and formal clemency. If she is surrenderedalive, the Coalition will extend mercy. If she resists, all consequences fall upon those who shield her.”
I feel it in my bones—the chill. That particular, creeping kind of cold that starts at the base of your spine and wraps around your lungs. My fingers go numb, not from temperature, but from memory. I’ve heard that word before.
Clemency.
They used it at the facility, just before they erased three other girls who got too independent. “Clemency,” they called it—before the neural scythes were activated, before the cries stopped.
Clemency means erasure. Silence. Death wrapped in paperwork.
The command deck goes dead quiet. A tension falls like fog, thick and tangible. Everyone’s looking at Yentil now. Waiting.
He doesn’t flinch.
He leans into the console, presses the comms, and mutters into the open channel with a crooked smirk on his face.
“Yeah, hi there, Marshal Karag,” he says casually, as if he’s ordering caf instead of talking to a war criminal. “On behalf of Starbase Gamma, I’ve got two words for your request.”
