Page 9 of Salvation for the Alien Mercenary
"I should go," he said, backing toward the door. "But this..." he gestured to the hologram where Mira's modifications were still glowing, "this is good work. Really good."
She looked up, surprise flickering across her features before a small smile tugged at her lips.
"We'll have him talking to us in no time," she said, her hand still absently stroking the drakeen's chassis.
“You will.”
As the door slid shut behind him, he replayed the scene in his mind… the confidence in her voice, the expertise in her hand movements. He was still thinking about it when he reached the bridge, wondering what other surprises little Mira might be hiding.
* * *
The humof the washing units vibrated through the metal deck plates beneath Mira's feet, a white noise that drowned out the constant engine drone of the Lady's Dream. She snapped a gray tank top with more force than necessary, creasing it along invisible lines before setting it atop her pathetically small clothing pile.
Four shirts. Three pairs of pants. Underwear and socks. Her entire existence packed into less than a cubic foot. At least it was better than her life before…
What was the last thing she’d been doing before Davis—then calling himself Peters—crashed into her life?
Her online games. She’d loved to lose herself in them, and escape the realities of her day-to-day life. She couldn’t play on theDream, but at least she could keep ahead of who was doing what now.
"Damn it," she muttered to herself. “Should’ve brought my data tablet to check NSAT before the next tournament."
A metallic clank sounded from the corner where Spot had been sitting. Before she could say anything, the drakeen core scampered out of the laundry room. She blinked in surprise, but then shrugged and returned to her folding. Whatever had gotten into the little robot she didn’t know, but Jex had assured her it was harmless.
Less than two minutes later, Spot was back, dragging her data tablet across the floor. The screen lit up as it bumped against her foot, displaying the NeuroSyn Arena Trials stats page she'd been checking earlier in engineering.
"You..." She knelt down, surprise washing through her. "You understood what I needed?”
Spot chirped, optical sensors brightening and she smiled, reaching out to pat his back. “Well, thank you.”
She stood up, balancing the tablet on a washing unit so she could see it while she folded. Steam hissed from the unit next to it, bringing the metallic tang of recycled water and industrial detergent. The familiar scent crawled into her nostrils, oddly comforting. A warship full of mercenaries—some human, some definitely not—yet they still needed clean underwear like anyone else.
Her eyes drifted to a neatly folded stack in the basket beside hers—Rann's, judging by the distinctive high-collared shirt with its subtle blue piping. A sliver of something alien peeked out from beneath—unmistakably Latharian underwear. Her gaze jerked away, heat prickling her neck.
Then her eyes landed on another basket. Dark greys, blacks, nothing unnecessary. Davis Tell's, definitely. Her hands stilled mid-fold, the half-creased shirt forgotten between her fingers.
Boxers or briefs?
The question invaded her mind without permission. She leaned slightly closer, eyes dropping to the basket's contents, pulse kicking against her throat.
The laundry room door slid open with a pressurized hiss and she jerked back so fast she nearly toppled a detergent canister. Blood surged to her face as Davis filled the doorway, a sleek, dark grey crate balanced against one hip. His eyes, impossible to read, locked onto hers for a heartbeat too long.
Shit, he’d almost caught her looking at his underwear. Her skin crawled with mortification.
Spinning around, she yanked the shirt in her hands taut. "Hey," she managed, the word scraping past her suddenly dry throat.
“Hey Mira." His deep voice resonated through her body, settling low in her belly. "Got a minute?"
She cleared her throat, hands smoothing invisible wrinkles from her already-stretched shirt. “Yeah, sure."
Her voice sounded too high. She swallowed. "Just catching up on laundry."
She bit back her groan. ‘Catching up on laundry’? Seriously? Like… what else would she be doing in the damn laundry room?
He strode past her, his tall frame forcing her to step aside. The air shifted with his movement, carrying hints of machine oil and something distinctly male beneath it. He set the crate down on a cleared folding table, the muscles in his forearms flexing beneath tanned skin.
“I had some spare components," he said, fingers working the latches with practiced efficiency. “So I thought you might appreciate this.”
The crate's lid hissed open on hydraulic hinges.
