Page 18 of Alien Mercenary's Wife
The maintenance tunnels called to her like an old friend. Every major facility had service corridors connecting to city infrastructure… routes used by the invisible army of technicians who kept civilization running. Her uniform was a passport to spaces where important people never looked.
She found an access hatch marked with warnings to deter civilians and keyed in a maintenance code she'd memorized during her research. The lock flashed red... denied.
"Shit," she hissed, already punching in a second code, fingers moving quickly over the keypad. Red again.
"Dammit."
She glanced over her shoulder as the voices somewhere behind her grew louder. Fuck. They were expanding the security sweep. Which meant they'd be checking service areas soon.
She punched in the third variation... the emergency override she'd hoped she wouldn't need because it would flag in the system. The lock hesitated for a heartbeat, then flashed green. The lock disengaged with a soft click, revealing a narrow corridor lined with pipes and electrical conduits.
The tunnel stretched ahead into pools of light separated by comfortable darkness. She started walking, her exo-legs finding their rhythm in the confined space. Each step carried her farther from corporate surveillance and closer to... what? Help from strangers who might be genuine allies? Another trap designed to finish what the metro bombing had started?
Only one way to find out.
The coordinates led to industrial territory on the city's edge—the kind of place where surveillance cameras had accidents andquestions weren't encouraged. If someone had really responded to her plea for help, that's where she'd find them.
The corporate teams hunting her knew her training, her background, and probably her favorite breakfast cereal. But they'd made one critical miscalculation. They'd assumed a broken veteran with failing implants would be easy prey for professionals with unlimited resources.
Time to educate them about the difference between broken and defeated.
She climbed toward street level, ready to find out if hope was just another luxury she couldn't afford.
Earth filled the viewscreen.Half his crew had come from that blue-white ball, and they were some of the toughest people he'd ever worked with. They'd left Devan Station after a remarkably smooth diplomatic transfer—Lizzie's reunion with her sister had been tearful and efficient, complete with imperial credentials that would get them through human security without uncomfortable questions.
Nothing said "peaceful mission" quite like a ship full of wanted mercenaries pretending to be botanical consultants.
The tactical display cast a hard blue light across the briefing room as he studied approach vectors and extraction routes. Eris sat across from him, her fingers drumming against the table with the restless energy of someone who preferred action to analysis. A holographic map of one of Earth's major cities rotated slowly between them.
"Warehouse district, Sector 12." Eris stabbed her finger at the coordinates where her captain had gone to ground. "We goin fast, grab Payne, and extract before corporate security knows what hit them."
"Fast and loud gets people killed." He leaned back and fixed her with a direct stare.
"Fast and loud also gets results." Eris frowned, tension radiating from her posture. "The longer we wait, the more time they have to track her down."
She had a point. Every hour they delayed was another hour for surveillance networks to tighten around their target. But rushing into hostile territory without proper reconnaissance was how good soldiers ended up as cautionary tales.
“True.” He nodded. “But how bad are Payne's symptoms? Can she run? Fight? Or are we extracting dead weight?"
"I don't know," Eris admitted, her drumming fingers stilling. "But Payne would have warned me if there were serious problems. She's not the type to hide mission-critical information." She paused, considering. "We'll have to assume she's in similar condition to how I was when the Warborne found me. Mobility issues that come and go, getting progressively worse."
"Whatever condition your old boss is in, we'll manage," he said, matter-of-factly. "We adapt the extraction to her capabilities, not the other way around."
"Look at this." He highlighted sections of the map with swift gestures. "Security checkpoints here, here, and here. Automated surveillance covers every major approach route. Corporate facilities with their response teams positioned throughout the sector."
The display shifted to show traffic patterns, security rotations, and the electronic signatures of active scanning systems. It painted a picture of urban warfare fought with cameras and databases instead of bullets and bombs.
"We go in quiet," he continued. "Combat shuttle on stealth approach, minimal equipment, extract through service tunnels or maintenance corridors. Keep it surgical."
Eris snorted. "We don't have time for elaborate infiltration plans. Payne sent that message because she's desperate, and we don't know how badly injured she might be."
"We don't have resources for frontal assault either." He pulled up a defensive analysis. "This isn't some backwater colony with local security. This is Earth. They have orbital platforms, atmospheric interceptors, and enough scanning technology to track individual heartbeats from low orbit."
The conversation had been cycling for twenty minutes, each of them approaching the problem from their own tactical background. Eris thought like a Scorperio pilot—hit hard, hit fast, overwhelm the enemy before they could respond. In contrast, he thought like someone who'd learned that the most efficient kill was often the quietest one, but who could unleash hell when the situation demanded it.
Either approach could save Payne's life… or get them all killed.
"Compromise," he said finally. "We prep for both scenarios. Primary approach is stealth… minimal footprint, civilian cover, clean extraction. But we position backup assets for rapid intervention if things go loud."
