Page 4 of Alien's Love Child

"Not yet." The drink burns less than it should. Everything feels dull these days.

A couple two seats down argues about credits, their voices carrying across the bar. Amateur stuff. Back in my military days, I'd have three different conversations monitored, tracking potential threats while maintaining my cover. The Kaleidian Intelligence Division taught me well - how to blend in, how to disappear in plain sight, how to hear what wasn't being said.

"You military?" The bartender nods at my posture.

"Was." I don't elaborate. No need to mention the wars I prevented, the deals I uncovered, the lives saved before blood could be shed. Spy work isn't glamorous - it's hours of listening, watching, waiting. Just like now.

"Rough transition to civilian life?"

I shrug, taking another sip. The military had structure, purpose. Bounty hunting gives me the same rush of the hunt without all the red tape. No commanding officers telling me to stand down when I'm close to cracking a case. No political considerations stopping me from doing what needs to be done.

A group of miners shuffles in, their boots leaving red dust trails on the floor. Their chatter fills the space, something about a new strike. I half-listen, old habits die hard.

My PerComm vibrates against my wrist, the subtle buzz I've been waiting for. The daily bounty board update is here.

I swipe through the bounties, each one more disappointing than the last. Petty theft, minor fraud, the usual dregs no one bothers with unless they happen to pass them by on the street. My finger pauses mid-swipe as a new listing catches my eye.

Dr. Xander Gatsen.

The bounty number makes me blink twice. That many zeros can't be right. The crimes are redacted - typical Alliance bureaucracy - but for that kind of money, this guy must've done something spectacularly awful.

I tap his image to enlarge it. Tall, gangly human with wire-rimmed glasses and perfectly combed blonde hair. He looks more like he belongs in a research lab than on a most-wanted list.

"You're kidding me," I mutter, taking another sip of my drink. "This is the guy worth all those credits?"

The PerComm displays his last known location: Station 459. Not too far from here, but the intel suggests he's heading to Glimner. My jaw tightens. Glimner's a cesspool of criminal activity - perfect place for someone to vanish without a trace.

I pull up the contenders list. Only three other hunters have signed up so far. Amateur hour. They probably saw the bounty and jumped without doing their homework. But I know Glimner.Once someone drops into that planet's underground, they might as well cease to exist.

"Time's wasting," I murmur, pressing my thumb to the screen. The PerComm chirps as it registers my bid for the contract.

The bartender drifts back. "Found something good?"

"Maybe." I drain my glass and stand, leaving credits on the counter. "Or maybe I'm chasing shadows."

Station 459 isn't far, but every minute counts. If this Dr. Gatsen makes it to Glimner before I catch up, the trail goes cold. And I hate cold trails almost as much as I hate wasting time.

Station 459's landing pad gleams like polished crystal under the artificial sunlight. My boots click against the pristine surface - everything here screams money. Industrial hubs always do. The kind of place where even the maintenance workers wear designer jumpsuits.

A customs officer eyes my blue skin with barely concealed disdain. "Purpose of visit?"

"Tourism." The lie slides off my tongue easily. My military credentials are spotless, making me practically invisible to port authority checks.

"Enjoy your stay." She waves me through without a second glance.

I meander down the rows of ships, playing the part of a lost tourist. My mark is either going to pay a hefty fee to a seasoned smuggler, or dupe a vacationing family into letting him hitch a ride. My job now is to figure out which it is.

My PerComm scans each vessel, cataloging registration numbers and flight plans. Most are exactly what they appear to be - sleek corporate shuttles and luxury yachts.

Then I spot it.

The ship sticks out like a bruise on perfect skin. Mismatched hull plates, outdated registration numbers, and scoring patternsthat suggest recent atmospheric entries at dangerous angles. No legitimate trader flies like that.

"Beautiful ship," a dock worker comments as he passes. "If you're into antiques."

I grunt noncommittally, pretending to admire the next vessel over - a gleaming personal yacht. But my attention stays fixed on the smuggler's ship. The wear patterns around the cargo hold tell stories of rushed jobs and tight spaces.

Perfect.

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