Page 4 of Salvaged By the Alien Pirate

I force a smile, though the gesture feels stiff. "Just thinking, Lieutenant. Carry on." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but it's better than admitting to the strange emptiness that's been haunting me lately, the feeling that something's missing—something I can't quite name.

The ship lurches as we prepare to move to the open hatch. My wings rustle with restless energy. Lucky for me, being a pirate means I'm far from the civilized worlds where I might catch that fatal scent—the one that would start a biological countdown in my veins. A Kyvernian's fated mate might be poetic in the oldstories, but in my line of work, that kind of vulnerability would be a death sentence.

Still, the need whispers sometimes, but I've learned to embrace the solitude and find strength in independence. No mate means no weakness. No ticking clock to drive me to abandon everything I've built here. Each successful heist, each clean getaway—proves I made the right choice leaving House Thar'Kal's suffocating protocols behind. The emptiness is a fair trade for freedom.

An alert chimes, drawing my attention to the cargo manifest. The luminore we're smuggling—worth enough to keep half Outer Orion's medical facilities running for a month. That's what matters now: the mission, the crew, the freedom to chart our own course through the stars. Not some biological imperative that would only end in disaster. The thought steadies me, gives me something concrete to focus on beyond the constant ache in my blood.

I allow myself a grim smile as we edge toward the launch zone. Better to be alone than chained to fate. Besides, what are the chances I'd find my mate out here among the star-scattered void? Nil. And that's exactly how I like it. The lie feels hollow even as I think it, but I've gotten good at ignoring uncomfortable truths.

The ship's console beeps another warning about proper departure protocols. I suppress a growl of frustration at Orion Outpost's endless bureaucracy. Even leaving this sterile hellhole requires jumping through hoops. I force my attention to the nav charts, fighting against both my instinctive disdain for their regulations and an unsettling restlessness that's been growing stronger lately. Something feels off, but I can't afford to dwell on it now. There's work to be done.

"Status report, Grig," I bark, my voice gruffer than intended as I address my first helmsman. The strange tension coursingthrough me makes it harder to maintain my usual control, but I refuse to let it affect my command.

The wiry Muspel looks up from his console, his fine features pinched with concern. His pale blue skin seems to shimmer under the bridge lights as his long fingers dance across the controls. "Captain, got a ping from our Driftspire contacts." He hesitates, mandibles clicking softly. "Black Eclipse ships have been spotted in Kyor's old territories. They're not even trying to be subtle about it anymore."

Through the viewport, the metallic walls of Orion's docking bay loom close, maintenance drones scuttling across their scarred surface like mechanical insects. "Any specifics on their plans?" I growl, gripping the back of his chair. The burning in my blood makes it harder to focus, but I force myself to concentrate on the immediate threat.

"Not yet, but—" A warning light flashes across his screen. "Power fluctuation in the port engine. Compensating." His fingers move with practiced precision, mandibles clicking in concentration as he adjusts our approach vectors.

"What's our current standing with the other captains?"

He hesitates, multi-jointed fingers dancing across the controls. "Shaky at best. Two supply routes gone dark since yesterday. Word is some of the smaller crews are talking protection deals with the Eclipse." His mandibles twitch. "Makes sense, way things are going. Eclipse has the numbers now."

The ship shudders as we clear the dock's magnetic field. I slam my fist against the nearest console, earning a startled look from my helmsman. "Dammit! We can't let those vultures destroy everything we've built. The Brotherhood isn't just about profit—we're the only ones standing between the Black Eclipse and total control of the luminore trade."

Zara's voice cuts through the tension. "Final systems check complete," my first mate reports, her fingers flying across thecontrols with practiced efficiency. "Ready for departure on your mark, Captain."

I'm about to give the order when a station-wide alert cuts through our comm system. The harsh buzz makes my wings twitch with irritation, the sound grating against my already frayed nerves.

"ATTENTION ALL VESSELS. THIS IS ORION OUTPOST SECURITY. ALL DEPARTURES ARE TEMPORARILY SUSPENDED. REPEAT: ALL DEPARTURES ARE SUSPENDED. WE ARE CONDUCTING A SEARCH FOR A CLASS-A FUGITIVE. MAINTAIN YOUR CURRENT POSITIONS AND STAND BY FOR INSPECTION."

"Well, that's inconvenient," Zara mutters from her station, ears flattening against her skull. Her russet fur bristles with barely contained tension. "This would never happen on Kyor's watch."

She's right, and the knowledge burns like acid in my gut. With Kyor imprisoned, our entire network is unraveling. The Brotherhood was meant to protect independent smugglers from the Black Eclipse's stranglehold. Now those same captains are running scared, signing away their autonomy for the Eclipse's false promises of protection. As if the syndicate won't bleed them dry with "protection fees" before forcing them to run illegal weapons or worse, trafficking alongside the luminore meant for those in need.

Through the viewport, I watch security drones swarm across the docking bay, their scanning beams cutting through the artificial twilight like predatory eyes. Armed Orion Security officers and Planetary Police prowl between the ships in their pristine white uniforms, methodically violating each vessel with their "routine" inspections. My wings flare instinctively, membrane stretched taut with ancient warnings of danger that even generations of civilization can't breed out. No matter howmany times I visit legitimate ports, some part of me will always be the hunted, not the hunter.

"How long until they reach our section?" I ask, keeping my voice level despite the tension coiling in my gut.

Grig checks his display, long fingers moving with precise grace. "At their current pace... fifteen minutes, maybe less." His pale blue skin seems to shimmer with anxiety despite his controlled tone.

I drum my fingers against the armrest, talons leaving fresh marks in the worn material. The STI would love nothing more than to find our cargo hold full of unregistered luminore. Officially, they claim the strict control is to "prevent abuse"—but tell that to the desperate clinics in Outer Orion dying for supplies. The STI's chokehold on medical resources is just as cruel as the Black Eclipse's protection rackets. Both of them creating dependants—one through policy, one through force.

But making a break for it now would only paint a target on our backs. My talons dig deeper into the armrest. One wrong move and we'll have both the STI's corporate death squads and the Eclipse's hunters on our tail. Sometimes the hardest part of being a predator is knowing when to play prey.

"Sir," Zara's voice drops to barely above a whisper. Her tail has gone completely still—a sure sign she's spotted trouble. "Someone's in the Void Reaver's maintenance tunnels. They're heading for cargo bay three."

Grig reaches for his stunner, but I wave him down. "No." My voice comes out rougher than intended, hackles already rising at the thought of an intruder on my ship. "I'll handle this myself. We're running a skeleton crew, and I won't risk anyone else getting caught in Orion's security net. Besides, none of our contacts here know your faces—let's keep it that way."

The emptiness in my chest pulses with renewed intensity, making it harder to think clearly. "Zara, keep me updated onthose security sweeps. Grig, warm up the engines—quietly. We might need a quick exit."

The corridor to the cargo bay seems longer than usual, emergency lights painting everything in shades of blood and shadow. My boots ghost silent against the deck plates, years of military training taking over despite the growing discomfort in my blood. Could be a Black Eclipse assassin, finally making their move. Or an STI agent, here to finish what they started with Kyor. Might even be one of those augmented hunters from the Rim worlds. Whatever the threat, picking this moment is the last thing I need.

"Security teams have cleared Bay 17," Zara whispers through my comm. "They're moving faster than expected."

The maintenance shaft access panel shows subtle signs of tampering—professional work, the kind that speaks of experience and technical skill. My finger tightens on the trigger of my blaster as I track the shadow of movement ahead. A refugee wouldn't have these skills. Neither would most bounty hunters.

"Bay 16 clear. Captain, they've doubled their sweep teams."

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