Page 54 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
He hesitates. Our team positions around him in seconds. I taste tension in the air—smoke, sweat, fear.
He’ll die unless he stops one word. He steps back. “You’re—insane.”
“You think this is madness?” I snap. “Try this: letting them paralyze us and take our children.”
He lowers his weapon. “What is it you seek?”
I glance at Josie; she nods. “Their ship.” I feel weight in my voice. “Our hope.”
He slumps, face hollow.
The corridor hum softens—understanding, dread, or relief. I can’t parse.
Back in the core room, alarms chirp a warning. Hargon is scrambling circuits. Josie finishes the final weld: “We have ignition.”
I help haul heavy panels into the emergency airlock. Pressure hisses; we cram through the hatch—blood pounding—just as the rumble starts.
The ship shudders. Lights flicker red. I taste ozone. Josie shoves the solenoid release—doors slam shut behind us. We’re sealed in the cargo spine.
Up above, I feel a shift. The docking clamps disengage with a shuddering groan. We hear the gasp of millions of gallons of air drawn into breach-muffled roar.
I press a hand to the hull, feel the outside beginning to… tremble. Then vibration surges through the deck. This is it.
Outside, the megaship lifts—lurching away from the planet in defiance. Above us, massive engines flare.
We duck—metal bends overhead. Lights burst. Smoke chokes. Fire blooms across grates. My heart roars.
“Haven’t died yet?” Josie shouts.
I grin with bitter pride. “Not today.”
We stagger out into the hangar—ship still moving skyward. Colonists and rebels spill into view, awed. Some cheer. Some weep.
Josie stands beside me, hair singed, face streaked with soot and sweat.
We watch as the capital ship drifts—leaders snuffed mid-arrogance—bound for orbit but severed from colonization.
Hope ignites.
She touches my arm. “We did it.”
I scan the faces—my heart curls with fierce loyalty.
“We will win this,” I murmur. “Together.”
She smiles, fierce as dawn. And for the first time, the stars feel likeoursagain.
I stand in the open hangar, the residual hum from last night's operation still vibrating in my bones. Around me, we’re assembling an army—of farmers and miners, not soldiers. Flicking a glance at the dozen-odd faces gathered before me, I swallow. Each one grips improvised weaponry: irrigation-tube catapults, handheld railcrush tasers, even gardening rakes reforged with jagged edges. It looks absurd on paper—and terrifying in practice.
Josie stands beside me, face shining with purpose, offering that steady warmth I trust more than any armor. She’s arranged kits for each fighter, modified sacrifice detonators wired into canister grenades disguised as supply scraps. The sight makes a pit grow in my gut: brilliant, yes, but damned dangerous.
I clear my throat. “Alright, team. We’re not Marines. We’re scrappers. But that works to our advantage. You know this land better than any uniformed force ever could.”
A miner named Voss—hard lines etched into his features—etches forward, catapult cradled like a rifle. “So, erm… how do we use one of these?” He gestures at the long PVC barrel strapped to his shoulder.
I step forward, sliding a glove across the polished tube. “Think of it like a trebuchet. These irrigation tubes are pressurized—you calibrate pressure, release a valve, and it fires a mesh-pack with flash charges. Step one: aim low and fast.”
Children perch on crates nearby, toy drones humming overhead like curious flies. I glance up; a ten-year-old pilot hovers a drone so close I can almost see the wires. The little girl cycles the craft back and forth, eyes bright and hopeful.
