Page 94 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
I slap it to my face like a lifeline. “This planet’s trying to exfoliate my lungs,” I wheeze, pulling in filtered breaths like precious gold.
He rolls his eyes but keeps the mask in place. “Welcome to Zeyda 9. Don’t breathe the fashion.”
The colony lies ahead: a sprawl of ramshackle domes and rusted mining rigs, all coated in a matte crimson that makes everything look abandoned—or cursed. Miners in worn suits emerge from a gate, gaunt, haunted shadows in the dusty noon. One of them raises a gauntleted hand, dirty smile flickering under the dust.
“We’re the ones who sent the beacon,” he says, voice low and frantic. “Didn't think anyone’d come.”
I let out a breath so slow it hurts. “We came. Now talk.”
Inside the main hub, the walls vibrate with the hum of dormant machines. The power’s fluctuating—lights flicker like heartbeat stutters. Every dust mote glows in the harsh overhead artificial lights.
A tired engineer woman gestures at the console. “They left the tech. Vortaxian autos still dig, still haul—but recently… they’ve started killing. Sleeper guards, we call ‘em.”
I glance at Dayn, nerves knotting into resolve behind the mask. “Sleeper guards?”
He nods, jaw tense. “Robots with kill-switch codes.”
My fingers itch to dance across exposed wiring. “Show me.”
The engineer leads us to a ventilation shaft—barely big enough for Dayn, but I patient-dance inside with him behind me. The metal cage is coated in red grit, slick and alive.
He signals me forward, and I grip a dusty ladder rung. I glimpse the convective hum of sand blowing through the shaft’s slats.
That’s when the first mechanical arm lunges around a corner—thick, serrated mandible edges flexing in challenge. My scream echoes like a violin in a tomb.
I spin, gritting my teeth. “I swear to every star, if one more robot tries to grope me?—”
Dayn slices through it mid-lunge—knife flashing, pow-pow metallic blade severing circuits. Sparks cascade like fireworks meeting soot. The arm twitches on the floor, dead.
I exhale loud enough to blow the dust off my mask. “Is that foreplay?”
He plants his blade on his shoulder, white-knuckle breath steady. “Just warm-up.”
We reach the central tower—an angular spider of metal, 40 meters tall, with pylons and cables hanging like vines.
The wind gusts into the colony, whipping around us. Our masks constrict with each breath. I cling to a grated catwalk, gripping a dusty cable. My boots echo across metal snaps.
Dayn hooks his belt to the railing. “Ladies first?”
“Nah—I’m climbing to install the jamming override, then I’ll... you know.” I flash a grin.
He arches an eyebrow, grins back. “Keep that polish even after dust.”
Up the last rung, I stand at the AI control terminal, flicking switches that hum with malicious code—voices buried deep inside metal walls babbling Vortaxian syntax. My fingers race over Holopad; circuits respond with brief red flickers.
A surge slams the console. Software defenses ignite, and walls resonate with grinding servo motors. We feel it before we see it: autoguard legs trundling up behind me.
“Dayn!” I hiss, stepping aside as twin robotic legs pound the floor.
He roars, rushing beside me—knife flicking across panels. Sparks, screams, clashing metal. The mechguard collapses, spraying dust red as blood onto my boots and launder.
I jab the pad. The AI core pulses erratic, flickers, then coughs—lights slow, warping to a slow cadence, then shudder to silence. A deep sigh hiss ripples across systems—like the planet just exhaled relief.
I lean into Dayn’s arms, clumsily hugging him. “Think—I’ll be able to scrub this dust off my lungs?”
He presses a chin kiss atop my mask. “Only if the next assault is over water.”
I wipe red grit across his shoulder. “That was foreplay, right?”
