31. Ursa #3
The first leg passes under heavy encryption and heavier silence.
I review the evidence again, not because I need to but because fear loves idle hands.
Dakkor radiation data. Bravax civilian pleas.
Coalition capital ship entry logs. Treaty negotiation gaps.
Protectorate clause revisions. Alliance intervention draft timelines.
Combine shell vessel tracking. Dawson’s suppression attempts.
Every piece has to survive the trip in enough places that no single missile, arrest, theft, or betrayal can bury it.
Halfway to Ceres, Rana’s compad chirps once.
She reads.
Her posture changes.
“What?” I ask.
“Two ships altered course.”
My mouth goes dry. “Toward us?”
“Toward our projected transfer window. One registered as a medical inspection cutter. The other has no current transponder, but its mass profile matches private security.”
“Combine?”
“Likely.”
The transport cabin seems to shrink around me. Across the aisle, a real medical courier sleeps with her head against the wall, unaware that death may be doing math around us. A cargo handler watches a comedy feed without sound. The engines hum steadily, indifferent to fear.
I open the next contingency.
Rana watches my hands. “What are you sending?”
“Breadcrumbs.”
“To whom?”
“Everyone who becomes useful if I die.”
“That’s cheerful.”
“I’m a delight.”
I transmit a partial route exposure to Bellamy, a sealed alert to Vale, and a delayed packet to Gnash that will send only if our transport drops relay contact for more than ninety seconds. Then I consider the evidence drive hidden beneath my jacket.
If they board us, they will search the obvious places first.
So I remove the drive from the seam, slip it into an empty medical cartridge, and hand it to Rana.
She looks at it. “That the good stuff?”
“That’s enough to start a bad week for very rich criminals.”
She tucks it into her toolkit. “I’ll guard it with my sparkling personality.”
“Halfway.”
“Fair.”
The pilot’s voice comes over the cabin speakers, artificially calm. “Minor routing adjustment for inspection traffic. Please remain secured.”
Rana and I look at each other.
“That’s not good,” she says.
“No kidding.”
My compad vibrates.
Gnash, live text.
Your route just lit three threat monitors.
My pulse kicks hard.
I type back.
I noticed.
His reply comes immediately.
Turn back.
I look at the sleeping courier, the cargo handler, the narrow aisle, Rana’s too-calm face, and the evidence moving in hidden places around me. I think of Guyver’s shelters, of the Alliance officer’s sister on Bravax, of Tomas, of Rekk, of Gnash telling me revenge had failed him.
Then I type the truth.
Too late.
For several seconds, no reply comes.
Then:
Then be harder to kill than they expect.
I almost laugh.
Rana arches a brow. “Good news?”
“He’s being supportive in Reaper.”
“Which means?”
“Basically, don’t die and make it humiliating for them.”
“Solid relationship.”
“It has texture.”
The transport changes course.
Not much.
Enough.
My stomach understands before the navigation display confirms it. We are being nudged toward the medical inspection corridor where the registered cutter waits. Maybe legitimate. Maybe hostile. Maybe someone’s idea of a polite abduction.
I activate the third contingency and open a public-safe recording window. My face appears in the preview, pale but steady, with the transport cabin behind me.
“My name is Ursa Ramone,” I say quietly.
“I am aboard medical freight transfer Hestia-Seven en route to Ceres Relay under committee authorization. If this recording publishes, our route has been illegally intercepted while carrying evidence relevant to the Badlands crisis, including data tied to Combine shell vessels, Alliance intervention planning, Coalition treaty leverage, and civilian casualty events at Dakkor and Bravax.”
Rana watches me with unreadable eyes.
I continue, voice low enough not to panic the cabin. “Any attempt to detain, disappear, or discredit this transport should be understood in the context of that evidence. The files are distributed. The chain of custody is preserved. The story will not die with me.”
I stop the recording and set it to deadman release.
My hands shake after.
Only a little.
Enough.
Rana notices and says nothing, which I appreciate.
The inspection cutter appears in the viewport as a small white shape against the darkness ahead. Too clean. Too perfectly positioned. The unmarked vessel hangs farther back, almost lost against the starfield.
Enemy forces have found my route.
Good.
Let them know I see them too.
The pilot’s voice returns, tighter this time. “We have been ordered to submit to inspection.”
Rana unbuckles her harness. “Time for the worse part.”
I stand with her, case in hand, fear alive under my skin and evidence scattered like sparks through every channel I could reach.
Somewhere ahead, Guyver Station waits.
Somewhere behind, Earth’s polished towers pretend war is a matter of maps and statements.
Somewhere in the dark between, people with money, ships, and secrets have decided I am easier to stop in transit than answer in public.
I check the seal on my cuff transmitter, meet Rana’s eyes, and smile because terror hates being mocked.
“Let’s be inconvenient.”