Page 16 of Alien Devil's Prey
"We'll need a cover story," I said. "Something that gets us past the outer defenses and into the station proper."
"I've been thinking about that." She called up another display, showing shipping manifests and cargo schedules. "The Kythara take delivery contracts from legitimate businesses that don't ask too many questions. If we can forge the right credentials, make ourselves look like a routine cargo delivery..."
"They'll still scan us."
"Not if we're carrying exactly what they expect to find." Her smile carried sharp edges. "I know a forger on The Rustbucket—a waystation in the Hadrian Belt. She owes me favors, and she's good enough to fool Kythara sensors. It's also the kind of place we can get off-the-books parts and labor to fix theDrifter."
The Rustbucket. I'd heard of it—a ramshackle trading post that catered to the kind of people who valued anonymity over comfort. Exactly the sort of place where someone like Tamsin would have contacts.
"How long to reach this waystation?"
"Four hours, if we leave now." She was already plotting the course, her movements confident and decisive. "We can be in and out with new identities, cargo, and repairs within a day. That gives us just enough time to reach The Maw before the Conclave's system goes live."
The timeline was tight, but workable. More importantly, it gave us the tools we needed to approach Kelloch's fortress without triggering every alarm in the sector.
"There's something else," she said, her voice carrying a new weight. "Something you need to understand about The Maw before we commit to this."
I waited, recognizing the tone of someone about to reveal an uncomfortable truth.
"Kelloch isn't just a slaver," she said, her voice dropping. "He supplies the entire sector. The Maw is the central hub for human trafficking. We're not just hitting a fortress—we're walking into the beating heart of an empire."
The implications settled over me like a cold wind. Success would cripple the Kythara's operations for years, striking a blow against the Conclave's network that would resonate throughout the criminal underworld. Failure would mean worse than death—it would mean becoming part of Kelloch's collection, another trophy in his monument to suffering.
"You're having second thoughts," Tamsin observed, reading something in my expression.
"No." The answer came without hesitation. "I'm calculating the cost of failure."
"And?"
"It's acceptable." I looked at her directly, letting her see the resolve that had carried me through three years of hunting my master's murderers. "The prize is worth the risk. What it could accomplish—it's worth any price."
Something shifted in her expression then, a recognition that went deeper than tactical partnership. She understood the weight of carrying a cause larger than yourself, the burden of being responsible for something that mattered more than your own survival.
"Then we do this," she said simply.
I watched her plot the course to The Rustbucket, feeling the ship's systems respond. The next few days would determine whether we were heroes or corpses, but in this moment, with Tamsin beside me and our target finally within reach, I felt something I hadn't experienced since the Sovereign's death.
Hope.
TAMSIN
The Rustbucket hung in space like a mechanical tumor, cobbled together from derelict ships and salvaged station modules. It had no official designation, no registered ownership, and absolutely no pretense of legitimacy. Which made it perfect for our purposes.
"Welcome to the armpit of the galaxy," I said as we approached the docking bay. "Try not to touch anything you don't have to."
Talon studied the station through the viewport, his eyes tracking weapon emplacements and potential escape routes. "How many people know about this place?"
"Thousands. But they all have reasons to keep quiet." I guided theDrifterthrough the approach vector, avoiding the more obvious hazards. "The Rustbucket exists because it's useful to people who can't afford to be noticed. Everyone here has something to hide."
The docking fees were astronomical, the facilities were questionable, and the atmosphere was probably carcinogenic. But the forger I needed was here, and that made it worth the risk.
"Stay close once we're aboard," I continued, running through the docking checklist. "The Rustbucket has rules, but they're enforced by whoever has the biggest gun at any given moment."
"Understood."
We docked without incident, though I caught Talon noting the weapon emplacements that tracked our approach. The Rustbucket might be a haven for criminals, but it wasn't defenseless.
The interior was just as I remembered it—cramped corridors lined with improvised shops, the air thick with smoke and the smell of unwashed bodies. Vendors hawked everything from illegal cybernetics to stolen cargo manifests, their voices blending into a constant babble of commerce and desperation.
