Page 97 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
“You’re not going solo, assassin,” she says, voice low and taut. “And you’d blow something up without me.”
I smirk, though tension tugs at me. She sits beside me, fingers brushing mine. “You’ll bring the storm. I'll bring the knives.”
She chuckles—a small light in the growl of the engines—and flexes a welder’s torch holstered at her hip. “Deal.”
The moment passes as we punch into the Dead Sector. Sensors start to blink out—first static clouds, then blank screens. Crew members flick off communications one by one. Our shuttle hums like a dying heartbeat.
Then weird shit begins.
We pass a ghost hulk—an undamaged freighter drifting empty through the void, ominous and silent. Its hull reflectsno light, just absorbs it, as if it's a hole in reality. Josie’s brow furrows, and I feel her pulse against my hand.
Then the audio beacon: a looping message in a cordial Alliance tone.
“—crew reports no external hostiles. All is well?—”
Over and over again, the same assurances, replayed for hours. That voice belonged to Captain Silas Merrow, who disappeared ten years ago.
Josie gasps. Her mask hides nothing. “This is junk code,” she murmurs. “Delirium loops.”
I swallow hard. My instincts scratch at me. Psychic warfare—something ancient, predatory, stirring. “Get wired up,” I say, nodding to the hardened VR visors. “No one thinks alone.”
Her fingers dance over the interface. “Locking in.”
As we move deeper, the shuttles queue: Hellfighters in clustered formation, nav lights dim and focused. The air is thick with static and unknown dread.
Gravity flickers for a moment. I hiccup as the world shifts. Josie grips my arm.
“Stay the blade-side up,” she mutters.
“Always.”
We drift into the debris field of the missing diplomatic vessel. Hull numbers etched: IA-C57N. Scorched but intact. No life readings.
The shuttle docks. The hatch opens: stale, heavy air stings my nostrils. I taste old cigarette smoke and fear. The corridor lights flicker like heartbeat—once, twice—and die, replaced by chilling supplemental glow.
I move first—knife out, eyes hard in the dim. Josie sweeps behind me, tools at the ready. We find bodies. Uniforms identical to Alliance diplomats, but their faces are empty, skin drained like old parchment. Each holds their own throat. Contorted. Ritual. Terrified.
She kneels beside one. “They killed themselves… thinking they were hunted.”
I suppress the word I wanted to say. “Vortaxian.”
Josie heads to the command pod. Red emergency light paints everything blood-dark. Her fingers flash across the cracked plating until she opens the core—the contamination beacon sits nestled among the circuits like a bug in honeycomb.
“No,” she breathes. “This isn’t just tech. It’s Vortaxian sorcery.”
I feel the gears in my chest click—mental defenses snapping into place. She pulls it free, and the lights flare, backbone of dread collapsing. The dead atmosphere relaxes. The shuttle’s sensors begin to wake again—heartbeat patterns returning to green.
She packs the beacon like lit TNT. “We need to erase every byte.”
I press a hand to her shoulder. “We do.”
As we back to the shuttle, I catch sight of her jaw set in that stubborn, furious way I know so well. She lifts her head and smiles, piratical and brave. “We outrun ghosts.”
I nod, voice gravel. “We make light.”
She grabs my hand as the hatch shutters close behind us.
The engines rumble awake. Stars return, the void receding, and I realize something: we didn’t just face down murder codes and sorcery. We found each other again—in the dark, in the chaos, in the alien terrors. And we — survive. Dean and Josie, storm and calm, heart and blade.
