Page 60 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
“Not tonight,” I answer. “Tonight, you’re alone.”
He revs his weapon. My finger tightens on the trigger, adrenaline whipping me raw—but before I can fire, Josie emerges from behind the evac tent, protective and fierce.
He snarls, facing her. “Engineer McClintock—so this is your end!”
She doesn’t falter. “If anyone dies, it won’t beus.”
He hesitates, uncertain. His face flickers—fear, confusion, regret. Colonist faces press forward: mothers, farmers, miners—all watching him tremble.
I step forward and level my weapon at Kernal’s chest. “One step, and I shoot.”
He glances upward—where the starship, adversarial and defiant, limps into orbit. His empire at his feet, and he’s left with nothing but vengeance.
He drops the pistol. It clatters across blackened earth.
Silence roars. Ash drifts down like mourning.
A fragile peace repairs the night.
I holster my weapon and step back. The colonists advance—forming a silent shield between us and Kernal. He stands alone, stripped of his forum and forces, his face high-pitched with loss.
I reach Josie’s side, and she squeezes my hand.
We’ve won the night. We reclaimed hope. But as I look at Kernal’s hollow figure, I realize this isn’t finished. Power disfavors ashes—but only until a new fire grows.
And under the fractured stars above Snowblossom, I’m ready to fan those flames.
I move through the swinging prefab corridors like a wolf tracking scent, each step deliberate and silent. Woodchips and coolant vapor trail in my nostrils, and my pulse hums with intent. Colonel?Kernal hasn’t fled Snowblossom—and that means blood is about to be spilled. The golden monstrosity of a starcruiser is gone, but he remains, a cornered beast desperate for vengeance.
The broken commander strides through the colony’s center, heavy-footed and furious, his elite guards flanking him like tarnished sculptures of intimidation. He yells—voice gravel and venom—about traitors, executions, the inevitable wrath of the Vortaxian Empire. Behind him, villagers seize tools and shards of pipe in fear and fury, ready to defend their homes, or avengethem. I catch sight of panic flicker across a group of uniformed miners holding flamers; they’re children playing at war just to protect what they love.
I stalk into a clearing under the half-dismantled water-pump canopy where Josie once tinkered with the reclamation system—the same mile from the colony where the invasion began. The place smells faintly of mold and metal, the water lines leaking half-frozen condensation onto concrete. Kernal stands by the primary junction, his bulk dominating the rusted pipes, the same ones now dripping with our beloved freshwater. The man’s rage is fossilized in his stance—stubborn, unyielding, desperate. His guards form a ring around him, but even they stand off-center, uneasy, because they now know we can fight.
I push through the edge of the skirmish, ejecting myself between colonist and guard. The air resonates with shouted curses and the hissing of displaced water. One of Kernal’s elite steps forward, swiping his carbine. The colonist recoils—fear becomes riot. The weapon discharges too early.
I move faster.
My hands are a lethal blur—detaching the charging guard, sending metal hissing through the air, a fractal explosion of force and raw intent. The guard falls to the damp concrete underfoot, convulsing, eyes wide with primal shock. The rest freeze.
Kernal’s face leaves its mask of control—it fractures, revealing confusion, rage, mortality. He grasps his weapon as though it’s a lifeline. And then he’s sprinting toward me, stomping over drain grates slick with condensation, his red-and-black uniform soaked in slap.
When he reaches me, his fist swings. I sidestep. My teeth grind. My speed surges. I drop two strikes—left to the ribs, right under his arm—each blow drags the air out of his lungs. I’m not a soldier. I don’t lead with mercy.
Kernal staggers, but returns for me like a vulture intent on taking back dominion. His fist finds my jaw, nails cruel enough to leave bruises, eyes wide with hatred.
Then I break.
The Shorcu within me flickers into awareness: the heightening of my senses, a ghost glow in my vision, reflective scale turning silver under trauma’s light. My body moves with primal precision, faster and harder than any human muscle should—Spartan in its purpose.
I roar and charge, fists doubling. I strike with the weight of gravity, opening his shoulder, twisting his arm until he drops his weapon. The guards step back, startled.
One of them steps forward—probably to defend their commander—but they don’t know what they’re facing. There’s a hiss in my throat that’s deeper than any growl I’ve offered before. I pivot and strike faster—he drops like a puppet cut by invisible strings.
Kernal stumbles into a fractured pump, water sluicing from the joint, casting shimmering mosaic light across his worn face. I strafe around him, not letting up, emerging fully Shorcu for a flicker. He sees my face then: three bright jagged eyes where human ones should be, scales rippling beneath what he thought was flesh, a maw refined for others—translated through gore and flesh. He stumbles backward, confusion fractaling into terror.
His guards stiffen like statues—they see the monster I am. Their carbine barrels shake, their training shattered. The shot rings out—Kernal’s first guard aiming for me.
I pivot, roar fluid as battle-laced wind, and imagine blood painting his cheek in slow motion. But the trigger never breaks. He melts away instead, chains of primal fear dropping him to the ground where he trembles and weeps.
