Page 70 of Ravaged By the Reaper
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?”
