Page 58 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
The sabotage sequence ripples through the starcruiser like a heartbeat thrown into convulsions. I’m crouched behind the last crate at the hangar’s edge, Dayn’s heat a steady anchor at my back. Around us, colonists arm themselves—not with forged weapons of war but with scavenged tools, flash charges, improvised shields. Every breath tastes of adrenaline and ozone, sweat lacing dust with rainbows of residue. The hangar shudders, alarms shriek, and the capital ship lifts off—angry, ungoverned, its bulk lurching as the engines spin toward chaos.
I close my eyes for a second and let the tremor pass through me. This is what we built together: fear turned into force. Defiance turned into ignition.
“Josie!” Dayn murmurs, voice low and possessive. He takes my hand, his fingers curled tight around mine. I nod. “We did it.”
He leans into me, voice fierce. “They’re retreating.”
He’s right. Vortaxian evacuation lines fray at the colony’s edge—troops spilling into transports, drones weaving last patrols. Our voices rise in triumphant defiance, echoing through the hangar like a new anthem. I taste victory on my tongue and grief for the violence we unleashed—but every spark is necessary.
We move forward, crossing scorched beams of light where the ship’s engines burn. Its hull, once a symbol of dominance,now quakes as a wounded behemoth, ripping away from the colony on raw, uncontrolled thrust. Fire rakes along exposed plating blanketing its spine. The smell of burning circuits drifts across us, mixing with the organic tang of fear and rage and hope. Under the flaming haze, I glimpse Kernal’s silhouette—his bulk marching forward at the colony’s edge, surrounded by battered guards, his face lit with unrestrained fury.
Dayn tightens his grip. “He didn’t flee.”
“No,” I whisper. Smoke curls across his armor, drifting over my cheeks like a corrupted lullaby. “He’s coming here.”
Every instinct rattles in my bones. The colonists need leadership now—not crates of bombs. Weapons fall silent in hands that once trembled. The ground steadies under our feet. It's happening: they believe again. They think we might win.
Dayn guides us toward the ridgeline overlook. Below, colonists pull Axis-designed banners—flowers aflame—over shattered crates. Their faces are exhilarated and raw with dread. They see the crumbling starship above, the retreating patrols below, and they see us. In us, they see hope incarnate.
A blue light flares in the east—Vortaxian evac shuttles departing—but no warships. The attack has crippled military response. The resistance surrounds them, and they stand exposed.
Then the rumble starts.
A thunder-metal voice echoes across the ridgeline. Kernal.
“Colonists of Snowblossom!” He strides into open ground, helmet off, face flushed red. He’s massive, ridiculous in his arrogance, his uniform stretched across his bulk. “You dare sabotage my ship? I will hunt you down until every last insurgent bleeds!”
He strips a smoking pistol from his belt and points straight at our lines—his glare lances through us.
The colonists falter. Shane, a miner turned resistance shield-bearer, stumbles in place, eyes wet. His weaponing hand shakes. My heart clenches. We are seconds away from losing them again.
Dayn steps forward, voice low but heart-powered. “You wanted fear? Look at this.” He gestures at the astral leviathan aloft—untamed. “Your empire has left. Your ship is dead in orbit. Your soldiers surrender.”
Kernal’s sneer fractures, rage bleeding panic.
I step beside Dayn. My voice proclaims across the ridgeline, clear and sweet and fierce: “You call yourselves protectors of unity? You hold children in hostage fields? You threatened our homes. They threatenedmine.This—this is unity!” My voice breaks, and I taste iron and salt. “Not submission. Not fear.Us.”
Colonists shuffle forward—the seamstress, the old gardener, the teen drone-pilot. Their weapons clatter, but they stay. Their eyes hold something unutterable: determination. Revolution.
Kernal roars in anger and fear, pistol raised, but his authority collapses under our weight. His guards drop their weapons, backing away slowly, eyes darting to mine and Dayn’s, to the shattered unity they once upheld. A Vortaxian patrol falters beside him—too afraid to shoot now. The lines dissolve; panic oversteps orders.
He spins toward us, voice slashing. “This is not over! You mark yourselves traitors!”
Dayn steps directly between him and the colonists. He doesn’t draw his pistol. He doesn’t need to. His posture radiates command. “Take a step closer, and itends.”
Kernal’s eyes flicker—uncertainty etched in his red haze. He looks at the colonists, their backs straightening, rising from fear to power. Then—defeat. A gasp in his posture, shoulders slumped for the first time.
He flicks his pistol to the ground. It clatters—not a shot. He’s beaten by a star, by will, by unity incarnate. His face twistsbeneath his armor as he realizes the entire empire has been exposed as a bluff.
He glares at me—ashes of rage and humiliation in his eyes. “This rebellion is not finished, McClintock.”
“It’s begun,” I whisper back.
He raises a gauntlet, voice rough with loss. “For now.”
He steps back, and his guards usher him toward a transport pad. The colonists press in around him—watching, silent.
Dayn pulls me back and tilts my chin upward. “You did that.”
