Page 2 of Alien Peacock

But their threat is real enough — Earth girls are a prized commodity in space. The Bululg invaders have abductedthousands and sold them at auctions. That's a fate I have to avoid, and I don't like the looks of those weapons.

They can keep the sixty credits. I have more of those weird crystals that are used for money in space.

I abruptly turn and sprint down the corridor, leaving the two goons groaning on the floor. More of them are coming from the hangar area, and I don't think I'll catch any of them by surprise like I did the first two.

Hardzapsecho from the walls. They're shooting at me now, seeing their profit evaporate. I'm not all that surprised. This kind of thing was always a possibility, and I have trained for it.

I zigzag down the corridor and turn a rounded corner. At the same time I pass through a weak force field into the station proper, and the air is suddenly full of sounds like from a crowded street or a sports event. I fold the fighting stick into a small, light cylinder that fits inside my fist.

I'm in a star-shaped space with corridors leading off in all directions. Stalls and booths are placed along the wall and all over the floor without any rhyme or reason, or indeed any plan. There's a lot of chaotic life and vibrant energy. Alien vendors from all kinds of weird species are hawking their wares in a cacophony of Interspeech accents. The air is thick with mingling scents of alien foods, exotic spices, and strange, fragrant blooms.

Colorful banners and signs hang limply from poles, barely moving in the weak breeze from the overtaxed ventilation system on the station. Brightly lit screens are flickering with writing I can't read and images I don't want to look at. The whole thing is a riot of colors and activity, and it's exactly the kind of place I have to avoid.

I pull the hood further forwards on my head and quickly drape the shawl across my face, hiding my Earthling features. My shape should be hidden by the loose strips of fabric that hang down from my shoulders. Those traffickers back there aren't the only ones that would like to capture and sell someone like me.

“My art history degree never prepared me forthis,” I mutter to myself. “I should be able to sue that school. ‘Failure to prepare graduates for escaping aliens engaged in human trafficking on space stations in space.’ I’ll be rich.”

Keeping my head down and staying by the wall, I make my way past the bazaar-like market and find a narrow corridor that I can duck into and gather my wits. I sense eyes following me as I sneak along the wall, but nobody bothers me.

It turns out to be the restrooms, which suits me fine. It's all shiny metal pipes and terrible stenches, but it's also a little bit of privacy. I lock myself in a stall big enough for an elephant and steady myself on the wall, ignoring the metal contraptions in here and the many interesting stains all over it.

“Shit,” I seethe. “That was not the best start.”

I recall what the colonel said when he sent me on this mission:Don't get caught up in anything else. Focus on the mission.

Okay. I can do that. It was always a possibility that the traffickers were going to try more than just taking me into space for a fee. They were the only ones we could get to do it, so we had no choice. And I got out of that pickle.

So far, anyway. This station is known for being rowdy and seedy, way out on the fringe of galactic society. But it's just a stepping-off point to where I'm really going. Now I have to find the agent that’s going to meet me here and help me get a ride out of here.

I straighten up, peel the wrapper off an energy bar, and eat it without much of an appetite. At least I knocked out two of those jerks back there. All the hours practicing with the stick paid off already.

I find a spot on the wall that's not too dirty and take a look at my reflection. Big, haunted eyes with perpetual dark rings under them. Nose too big, chin too wide, everything just out of proportion. Mousy hair kept short because it just won't take a style. Chubby in the places I least want to be, bony where I should be meaty. It's the same old Maeve, just against a different backdrop.

“What thehellhave you gotten yourself into?” I ask my reflection.

But it's fine. I'm the obvious candidate for a mission like this. Gray and unnoticed. Invisible.

“And expendable,” I add to myself. “Best combination.”

I don't expect to survive this. And a part of me is worryingly fine with that.

Of course, if I fail in finding Tara, or I find her dead, then my life probably won’t be worth living anyway. They say twins develop unusually strong bonds, and I think they’re right.

The energy bar helps me chase the darkness away for now. I still have a few of them left, all laced with a fine cocktail of pharmaceuticals that I never asked too closely about.

I cover my face back up with my shawl, leave the bathroom, and get back to the main hall of the station, then choose another hallway at random.

It's promising — I see icons on the wall that could mean it's another hangar ahead. Good, that’s where the contact will probably wait for me. In a hangar full of spaceships. That's what I need to get away from here.

I walk quickly along the corridor, hoping not to meet anyone. There's some kind of commotion ahead, angry alien voices and pitiful whimpering, as if someone is abusing a puppy.

I clench the fighting stick. I can't get involved in anything. That's not why I'm here.

Passing a turn in the hallway, I see a group ahead. It’s tall, thin aliens in a circle around a small creature with pink fur.

One of them looks at me with three small, slitted eyes. He turns to face me, sending me an obvious message:stay out of this.

I keep my head down and walk on, determined to pass them and get on with my day.

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