Page 51 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
I’m wearing a smile that feels like armor—bright, practiced, even a little mischievous. The gala spirals into rebellion, and I’m playing the role of the harmless colonist with perfect timing: a nod here, a passed toast there, each gesture cradling instructions nobody suspects. The gleaming column behind me hides a stash of firecracker charges rigged into dessert forks—delicate saboteurs in the heart of the feast.
“Kernal!” I call, lifting my glass of unsuspecting fruit punch (lab-grown cherries included), and he glides into view. His bulky grin broadens—he thinks I’m toasting empire loyalty. I touch my glass to his, words smooth: “To unity,” I say, voice hushed enough so only he hears. Under the rim, a micro-etched symbol—trigger for the next phase—catches his eye. He doesn’t notice the timing system click-ing in his mind, but our rebellion will.
Behind colorful curtains, Dayn lingers—watching us dance rather than scheme. His eyes narrow sometimes, the faintest flicker of steel jealousy shading them. I steal a quick glance at him; he catches me, jaw tightening. He mutters low: “You shouldn’t touch evil pudding.”
The dessert forks click against champagne flutes like ice shards in peace. I arch a brow, voice playful: “Relax, assassin. I’m just flirting for a cause.”
Moments later, we slip behind a curtained storage alcove. I slide close, breath soft with daisies and daring. I kiss him—sharp, fierce—and whisper, “All in good faith.”
He smiles, voice dry. “I trust your faith.”
On the main floor, the toasts continue as coded chaos unfurls: the first forks trigger micro-nukes of spark that ignite smoke grenades; laughter twists into panic as the crowd scatters. But our colonists—trained to the signal—begin handing out secret passes under pant cuffs. Each one, a promise: “Meet me at the east gate, now.”
I step onto the platform again—my smile magnetic, the pandemonium muffled by our coded burst. I clap my hands, voice vibrant: “Celebrate! Tonight, we stand as one!” My arms sweep across the room; I can feel the strain in Dayn’s gaze. He’s watching me work magic—turning distrust into purpose, turning a gala trap into an uprising.
The Vortaxians here are stunned, hesitant. Some raise rifles—but their uniformed bravado quivers. The embers of rebellion flare.
Dayn passes me late, kisses my cheek. Whispered: “You’re maddening—but brilliant.”
I wink. “Come dance with me after we reset the perimeter.”
He exhales, jaw softening. “Lead.”
By the time the gala’s fireworks—actual celebratory ones—erupt in the sky above, the rebellion has seized control of three entrance gates. Food stands become weapon holds; bunting hides barricade wires; balloons are repurposed as concussion devices. The crowd turns from celebration to uprising.
In the final flare of the night sky, I find Dayn and pull him into the newly conquered stage. I press close, heart pounding in my ears. “We did it.”
He brushes paint-spackle from my cheek. “We did.”
Music begins again—reclaimed tune, stronger, human. We clasp hands against the noise, and in that heart-thunder moment, I realize weareunity: laughter, cleverness, violence, hope, and love, all cracked and bleeding together.
The crowd’s pulse trembles beneath my boots—tentative, desperate—as Colonel Kernal grips the megaphone. The festive lights behind him still glow like false dawns, but his announcement slashes through the air, colder than any orbiting void. “By order of the Vortaxian Empire,” he intones, voice greasy with false sympathy, “We will be relocating all children and the elderlyimmediatelyfor their safety.”
Hesaidsafety. But I taste the command for what it is: leash tightened, hostage lines drawn. A power play disguised as concern. My gut twists.
“No,” I whisper, but the crowd hears. Whispers spread like infection: “They’re taking our kids.” “They want hostages.” Faces around me shift—baby-faced miners, mothers clutching baskets, old men swaying with fear. This isn’t unity. It’s petrifaction.
Dayn slides beside me—arm around my waist, shoulder hiding mine. I lean in. “They’re doing exactly what they want.”
He nods, voice low with ice. “Keep calm.”
I seethe—makes me taste metal in my mouth. Today we saved gates. Tonight we had momentum. And now he’s paralyzed us with a hostage play—and it’s working.
Children trail away in guarded lines, old folks shuffled toward hover-shuttles. Colonists stand, mouths dry, obedience programmed into every flicker of their eyes.
I swallow, heart thudding. “They can’t take them,” I whisper. “Notthem.”
Dayn’s jaw tightens. “Then we don’t give them a choice.”
Something kindles inside me—anger sharpened by betrayal. We needhopemore than sabotage now. We need a victory. Not rolling debris and delayed patrols. We need the Vortaxian capital ship off the ground.
I turn to him. “We hit the ship.”
He blinks. “The capital ship? Josie, that’s?—”
I cut him off. “Not sabotage. Assault. Full. We either take that ship, or they hand over at least ten thousand souls because they proved space > land.”
His eyes go distant. “Do you realize how insane that is?”
