Page 242 of Commander’s Mate
Then discipline failed completely.
People surged forward.
Names shouted.
Clans called.
A woman screamed when she saw her brother.
Two warriors dropped to their knees around an elderly mechanic.
Someone behind me sobbed.
I thought of Meya.
Not here.
Maybe Breskaa.
Maybe nowhere.
Harper found my hand.
I looked down.
She had come in registry uniform—not official, because we did not have one, but she had begun wearing the same dark green trousers and fitted shirt every day because pockets mattered to her more than fashion.
“Good day?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Hard day?”
“Yes.”
She understood too quickly.
The reunion lasted an hour.
Then war returned.
Dreadnought Eight brought data.
Fresh reconnaissance.
Breskaa was worse than the Ursaga records suggested.
Four thousand enslaved laborers.
Two hundred confirmed Farseek citizens.
Possibly more.
Underground mine sectors.
Automated gun towers.
Three shuttle pads.
