Page 12 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
“Thank you for contacting the IHC?—”
I kill the feed before the false gratitude can finish.
Silence slams into me like a vacuum. I stare at my reflection in the darkened screen—eyes red-rimmed, lip still swollen, hair a mess, skin damp with sweat and smoke. I look like I’ve crawled through a war zone.
Because Ihave.
Only this war hasn’t started yet.
And I might be the only one willing to fight it.
I press my palms to my thighs, feel the tremble there. Not from fear. From rage. From sheer helpless fury. IHC won’t help. The mercs are too scared. The colony’s too quiet.
But there’s still me.
And I’m not done.
Not even close.
I don’t sleep. Not really. I lie flat on the slab of a bed and stare up at the ceiling like it owes me something. My muscles ache, my temples throb from holding in everything I want to scream. The IHC comm's final chirp still rings in my ears like an insult.
So I don’t waste the night sulking.
I get up. I move.
By the time I hit the lower levels, the station has a pulse like a festering wound—wet, clotted, alive with things that shouldn’t crawl. The stink’s worse down here. A humid mix of coolant leaks, fried protein packs, and what I’m pretty sure is cooked sting tail meat on skewers, served by a vendor with more cybernetics than jaw.
No one looks at me too long. I’m small, yeah, but I move like I’ve got something to prove, and that keeps most hands off my ass and most blades in their belts.
I hit every docking bay I can access. I climb greasy ladders, duck under hydraulic arms, and dodge a pair of naked androids arguing about fuel ratios. I talk to mercenary captains with warships older than I am and fighters so new they still reek of factory ozone.
Every conversation starts the same.
“I’ve got a job.”
And it always ends the same, too.
Because I say the wrong word.
“Vortaxian.”
And then the smiles fade. The interest dies.
I watch shoulders tense. I watch blasters get casually unholstered. I see laughter turn to suspicion, like I’m a lunatic with a ticking bomb in my pocket.
They don’t even try to hide it anymore.
One captain, a woman with half her face replaced by shimmering blue synthskin, actuallylaughsin my face when I offer her triple standard rates and a crate of tritanium ingots.
“You trying to get my crew atomized, sweetheart?” she drawls. “Or just your damn self?”
“They annexed my home,” I tell her. “Snowblossom. Drexar Seven. Ten thousand people, all too scared to fight. We’ve got ion turrets, we’ve got personnel, we just need a spine.”
“You thinkIwant to be the one to challenge the Vortaxian Empire’s grip? You got balls, girl. I’ll give you that.”
“Do you havehonor?”
She snorts. “No. I’ve got rent.”
