Page 10 of Alien Mercenary's Wife
"We take Tank’s job." His words dropped into the room like a command decision, ending the debate instantly. “Tip off the Sycthes for the demo job. It’s more up their alley anyway.”
Conversations died mid-sentence. Sparky's hand froze halfway to his mouth. Tank straightened. Even Red looked up from her reports.
"Tank's right about the credits." He folded his arms over his chest. "And the cargo. We can't let military hardware fall into the wrong hands. But we do this smart. Full tactical analysis, backup plans for every contingency, and no unnecessary risks."
Tank's grin was sharp enough to cut steel. "Copy that, boss."
"Fin, I want complete intelligence on the escort ships. Capabilities, weaknesses, and crew rosters if you can get them. Sparky..." He fixed the human with a level stare. "No improvised explosives unless I specifically authorize them."
"Aw, come on," Sparky protested. "Half the fun is the creative problem-solving."
"No."
"What about quarter-sized explosives? Just tiny ones?"
"No."
Sparky sighed dramatically. "Fine. I'll stick to the boring conventional weapons."
"Skinny, plot us the most efficient course to the intercept point, but keep escape routes in mind."
T'Raal stood. "Questions?"
"Timeline?" Skinny asked, already pulling up star charts.
"Forty-eight hours to full mission readiness. The convoy leaves Hanrakan-four in six days, which gives us time to position ourselves along their route."
"Rules of engagement?" Tank's fingers drummed against her holster, the movement sharp and precise. He’d noticed the habit before. She was itching for action.
"Disable if possible, destroy if necessary. Priority is the cargo, not the crew. If they surrender, we take prisoners. If they fight..." He shrugged. "We finish it fast."
The crew nodded, the familiar rhythm of pre-mission preparation settling over them like a comfortable jacket. This was what they were good at—taking impossible jobs and making them look easy.
"Forty-eight hours, people,” he said as they filed out. “Let's make it count."
Red was the last to leave, pausing at the doorway to catch his eye. "Good choice, Dad."
He nodded, settling back into his chair as the command room emptied. The job was dangerous, but it was the rightkindof dangerous. The kind that would keep his crew sharp without being reckless, profitable without being suicidal.
And if Tank was right about the cargo's destination, they'd be doing some real good in the galaxy. Sometimes, that mattered more than the credits.
The holographic display flickered off, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the quiet hum of the Sprite's engines. In forty-eight hours, they'd be hunting a military convoy through the depths of space.
He smiled grimly. Just another day in the life of the Warborne.
3
T'Raal settled into his reading chair with a satisfied grunt, the familiar weight of a dataflex in his hands. The crew meeting had gone well—no blood spilled, everyone relatively happy with the decision, and forty-eight hours to prepare for a job that would pay the bills. Finally, he could steal a few hours of peace before the inevitable chaos of mission prep consumed his attention.
He pulled up his current book, a human romance novel called Hearts Across the Galaxy. The cover featured a bare-chested human male with impossibly perfect features embracing a female in a torn dress against a backdrop of nebulae and starships. Ridiculous, but human romance novels were fascinating glimpses into their psychology—their concepts of love, attraction, and relationships were endlessly complex compared to the straightforward mating practices of most species.
This particular story involved a star-crossed love affair between a cargo pilot and a station administrator, complete with corporate conspiracies, family drama, and enough misunderstandings to fuel a small war. The humans seemedto thrive on emotional complications that would drive most Latharians to violence or madness.
He was halfway through a particularly dramatic scene where the female protagonist had discovered her lover's secret identity when his door chimed softly.
"Enter," he called, not looking up from the dataflex.
The door slid open to reveal Nat cradling her infant daughter against her chest. The baby was fussing, tiny fists waving as she made distressed noises that seemed impossibly loud in the small space. Nat looked exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes and a weariness on her face that suggested she'd been fighting this battle for hours.
