2. Tyrok
TYROK
T he numbers don’t lie, but they do offend me.
I lean back in the command chair, one claw dragging slowly across the edge of the console as the projection scrolls in front of me, line after line of debt reports, trade manifests, failed collections, and half-paid obligations dressed up as promises.
The glow of the display casts everything in a cold blue haze, reflecting off the metal plating of the bridge and catching along the edges of my bone spurs like fractured light.
The ship hums beneath me, steady and alive, the vibration traveling up through the chair and into my spine in a way that has always felt more honest than any spoken word.
“Say it,” Vihl mutters from my left, arms crossed, his voice low and already irritated. “You’ve been staring at that same line for five minutes.”
“I’ve been deciding how much it annoys me,” I reply, my voice calm, though the irritation sits just beneath it like a blade waiting to be drawn.
Vihl snorts, shifting his weight, the metal grating beneath his boots scraping softly. “Let me save you the effort. It’s a lot.”
I flick my fingers, isolating the entry in question and expanding it until the data fills the space between us. The name sits there, clean and polished, surrounded by numbers that should be higher.
Baronet Kleid Lorens.
Outstanding debt: unacceptable.
Payment delays: repeated.
Verification flags: suspicious.
“He’s playing games,” Vihl says, leaning in slightly as he scans the projection. “You want me to pull his last three trade routes? I guarantee he’s hiding assets.”
“He isn’t hiding them well enough,” I say, my gaze tracking the inconsistencies. “If he were, we wouldn’t be looking at this.”
Vihl grins, sharp and humorless. “Then he’s stupid.”
“No,” I say, tapping one claw lightly against the display, watching how the numbers ripple under the contact. “He thinks he’s protected.”
That gets Vihl’s attention.
“Protected how?” he asks, his tone shifting from irritation to interest.
I expand another layer of data, pulling in external affiliations, financial ties, and political connections. The Helios Combine logo flickers faintly in the corner of the projection, subtle but unmistakable.
“There,” I say.
Vihl leans closer, his expression tightening. “Combine-backed.”
“Lightly,” I correct. “Enough to matter, not enough to save him.”
Vihl exhales slowly, then straightens, rolling one shoulder as if loosening tension. “So we hit him,” he says. “Hard. Fast. Public. You let one of these high-visibility types slip, and every low-tier trader in the sector starts thinking they can negotiate.”
“I am aware,” I reply.
“Then why are we still talking about it?” he presses. “We make an example out of him, and the rest fall back into line.”
The bridge smells faintly of ozone and heated metal, the kind of scent that clings to everything after too many jumps and too many battles. It should feel like home, and in a way it does, but it also feels like a cage I built myself and never bothered to question.
“Because examples are temporary,” I say.
Vihl frowns. “Fear isn’t temporary.”
“It is if it’s the only thing you offer,” I counter, turning my head just enough to look at him directly. “Fear decays. It requires constant reinforcement. Constant escalation. Eventually, you run out of ways to make people afraid that don’t cost more than you gain.”
He studies me for a moment, his expression shifting from confusion to something closer to suspicion. “You’ve been thinking about this too much.”
“I’ve been thinking about it exactly enough,” I say.
I push the projection aside and bring up a broader map of our operations, trade routes weaving through space like veins, each one pulsing with movement, with potential, with inefficiency.
Red markers blink where collections have failed or underperformed, each one a small irritation that adds up to something larger.
“We raid,” I continue, gesturing toward the map. “We take. We leave. We repeat. It works, but it doesn’t scale.”
Vihl lets out a short laugh. “Scale? Since when do you care about scale? We take what we want. That’s the point.”
“That’s the limitation,” I say.
The words settle heavier than I expect them to, even to my own ears.
Vihl’s eyes narrow. “You’re serious.”
“I’m always serious.”
He shakes his head slowly. “You’re talking about changing the entire way we operate.”
“I’m talking about evolving it,” I correct.
He paces a step away, then back again, the movement restless, agitated. “We’re Reapers, Tyrok. We don’t run trade networks. We don’t negotiate contracts. We take.”
“And that is exactly why the galaxy sees us as predictable,” I say, my voice sharpening just slightly. “Brutal. Simple. Effective, but limited. They prepare for us. They plan around us. They budget for losses instead of fearing them.”
Vihl stops moving, his gaze locking onto mine. “You think turning us into merchants fixes that?”
“I think turning us into something they don’t understand fixes that,” I reply.
The silence that follows stretches, filled only by the low hum of the ship and the faint crackle of energy running through the systems.
“You’re serious,” he repeats, quieter this time.
“I am tired,” I say, leaning forward slightly, resting my forearms on my knees as I look at the projection again, “of being seen as a blunt instrument.”
Vihl huffs out a breath. “You are a blunt instrument. A very effective one.”
“I am more than that,” I say, and there is something in my voice now that I don’t bother to hide. “And so are you. And so is everyone on this ship. We have been reduced to a single function because it is easy for the rest of the galaxy to categorize us that way.”
“And you want to what?” he asks. “Rebrand?”
“I want to control the terms of engagement,” I say. “Not just the outcome.”
He watches me for a long moment, then glances back at the projection where Lorens’ name still hovers, quiet and waiting.
“So this Baronet,” Vihl says slowly, “he’s part of that plan?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
I sit back again, letting the chair take my weight as I fold my arms across my chest.
“He’s visible,” I say. “Connected. Weak enough to exploit, but strong enough that what happens to him will be noticed.”
Vihl’s lips curl slightly. “So we hit him harder.”
“We hit him differently,” I correct.
He tilts his head. “Explain that before I decide I hate it.”
I almost smile at that.
“We don’t just take from him,” I say. “We dismantle him.”
“That sounds like taking with extra steps.”
“It isn’t,” I reply. “Taking is temporary. Dismantling is permanent.”
Vihl considers that, his gaze drifting back to the data. “You’re thinking leverage.”
“I’m thinking structure,” I say. “He has debts. He has obligations. He has connections he relies on to maintain his position. We don’t just strip his assets; we expose the gaps in his protection. We show everyone exactly how little those connections are worth when tested.”
“And you think that scares people more than ripping a ship in half?” Vihl asks.
“I think it makes them think,” I say.
He lets out a low whistle. “That’s worse.”
“Exactly.”
The bridge falls quiet again, the weight of the plan settling into place.
Vihl finally nods once, slow and reluctant. “Alright,” he says. “Say I’m not completely against this. We still need to make it visible. If no one sees it, it doesn’t matter.”
“They will see it,” I say.
“How?”
I flick the projection again, pulling up Lorens’ estate location, security layouts, known personnel, and recent activity logs. The image resolves into a clean, detailed schematic, every entry point mapped, every defense system highlighted.
“We go to him,” I say.
Vihl grins, sharp and eager now. “That part I like.”
“We go to him,” I repeat, holding his gaze, “and we make him understand exactly what he is worth.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Vihl asks.
I tilt my head slightly, letting the question hang just long enough.
“Then we show him,” I say.
Vihl laughs, low and satisfied. “There he is,” he mutters. “Thought you were going soft on me.”
“I am not soft,” I say.
“I know,” he replies, still grinning. “But this plan of yours? It’s… different.”
“Different is the point.”
He nods again, more firmly this time. “Alright,” he says. “We prep the crew. Tight strike team. No unnecessary damage. We keep it controlled.”
“Exactly,” I say.
“And if it goes wrong?” he asks.
“It won’t,” I reply.
He snorts. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one that matters,” I say.
He studies me for a moment longer, then finally shrugs. “Fine,” he says. “Your plan. Your call.”
He turns and starts toward the exit, then pauses, glancing back over his shoulder.
“You really think this changes anything?” he asks.
I look back at the projection, at the name, at the web of connections surrounding it, and something shifts in my chest that I don’t bother to define.
“I think it starts something,” I say.
Vihl nods once, then disappears through the door.
The bridge falls quiet again, the hum of the ship settling back into the foreground. I let the projection hover in front of me, watching the data, the patterns, the inefficiencies that everyone else accepts because they have never considered anything else.
Baronet Kleid Lorens.
A small name in a large system.
A weak point.
An opportunity.
I lean back in the chair, my claws resting lightly against the armrests as I let the plan settle into something sharper, more defined.
“This isn’t about the debt,” I murmur to the empty bridge.
It never was.
This is about proving a point.
And for the first time in a long time, I can feel something like anticipation building beneath the surface, not the hunger for violence that has driven me before, but something cleaner, more precise.
Something that might actually last.