Page 1 of Pact with the Alien Devil

IRIA

The Dead Man’s Dock stank of desperation and cheap booze. I pushed through the crowd, ignoring the brush of fingers against my jacket and the hiss of conversations in languages I only half understood.

Thodos Station never slept, and the Promenade level hummed with life at all hours—mostly the kind that thrived in shadows.

I rubbed my thumb against the worn spot on my sleeve, a nervous habit I’d never managed to break. Four days without sleep; and the delivery should have been simple. Take the package, drop it off, collect my credits. But nothing in my life ran smoothly.

“You’re late,” the contact snapped when I slid onto the stool beside him.

“Traffic was murder,” I answered, with a shrug. The truth—that I’d spent an extra hour dodging station security patrols—wouldn’t win me any points.

He didn’t laugh. “Where is it?”

I pulled the small package from my inner pocket and slid it halfway across the bar; my hand still grasping it. Thecontact, Miggs—I remembered from our brief comms exchange—grabbed for it, but I held firm.

“Payment first.”

Miggs snorted, his greasy hair falling across his forehead. Dark circles underlined his bloodshot eyes, and sweat beaded on his upper lip, despite the bar’s chill. Something wasn’t right.

“Half now, half when I confirm it’s all there,” he countered, his fingers twitching.

I almost walked. Deals with jumpy clients rarely ended well, and I didn’t like people who changed the rules mid-deal.

But the docking fees for theStarfallwere due, and my fuel cells needed replacing, and the loan shark I’d borrowed from to cover repairs last month had sent not-so-subtle reminders that payment was expected.

“Fine.” I released my grip on the package, letting him pull it closer.

He fumbled with the seal, breaking it open just enough for us to glimpse the contents. My stomach dropped.

Not simple contraband. Not illicit pharmaceuticals. Not even weapons parts.

Alliance military tech. Shit.

Sleek, black, with the telltale blue power signatures that marked it as top-grade weapons systems tech. The kind people killed for—and not just people, but organizations. Syndicates.

I pulled back, my hand instinctively moving toward my blaster. “What the hell, Miggs? You told me this was a simple drop.”

His eyes darted around the bar. “Does it matter? Just shut up and take the credits.”

He shoved a small transfer chip across the bar. I checked the amount on my wrist scanner—only half my payment. Better than nothing, but nowhere near enough to cover both the docking fees and to keep the loan sharks at bay.

I pocketed the chip, preparing to stand. “Where’s the rest? You’ve confirmed it.”

Miggs grabbed my wrist. His fingers dug in hard enough to bruise. “You’ll get it when I deliver the goods to my client. People are looking too hard for this.”

My stomach plummeted.

“And you thought using me as your delivery girl was a good way to avoid them?” I yanked my arm away. “Goodbye, Miggs.”

“Wait—” His eyes widened, fixed on something behind me. The bar had gone quiet, the usual din of conversation had fallen to whispers. “Oh, no. Too late.”

I glanced over my shoulder and felt the air leave my lungs.

A group of Vinduthi had entered the bar. Their gray skin made them look like they’d been carved from stone; with dark markings swirling down the side of their faces and disappearing beneath their clothing. The small horns protruding from their temples caught the dim light of the bar.

“Shit,” I muttered, turning back to find Miggs already slipping off his stool. “Where are you going?”

“Sorry,” he whispered, shoving the package back into my hands. “They’ve seen me with you already. If we both run, we’re dead. This way, one of us makes it.”

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