Page 25

I groan, rubbing my temples. Gordo. The Fratvoyan is a walking disaster—loud, obnoxious, and perpetually drunk. But he’s also one of the few extraterrestrials in Sunny Cove who’s not actively trying to kill me. Plus, he’s got that Fratvoyan indestructibility going for him. If anyone can survive poking around Fishy Joe’s, it’s him.

I grab my jacket and head for the door. “Hold my calls,” I tell my assistant as I stride past her desk. “And if Pyke checks in, tell him I’m… handling something.”

She nods, already used to my vague excuses. I don’t bother with the elevator—I take the stairs, my boots echoing in the concrete stairwell. The dock district isn’t far, but it’s a world away from the polished glass and steel of Truth-1. Down here, the air smells like salt and rust, and the streets are lined with dive bars and pawn shops. Perfect hunting ground for a Fratvoyan.

I hit the first bar, a dimly lit hole called The Rusty Anchor. The bartender, a grizzled human with a face like a crumpled paper bag, gives me a once-over as I step inside. “Looking for someone?” he asks, wiping down a glass with a rag that’s seen better days.

“Short guy. Bald spot. Probably drunk,” I say, scanning the room.

The bartender snorts. “You just described half my clientele. But if you’re talking about Gordo, he was in here earlier. Tried to pay his tab with a handful of bottle caps. I kicked him out.”

“Charming,” I mutter, tossing a twenty on the bar. “Thanks.”

The next bar is a step up—or maybe a step down, depending on your perspective. The sign outside readsThe Salty Dog, and the interior is a chaotic mix of neon lights and sticky floors. I spot Gordo almost immediately. He’s slumped over a table in the corner, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand and a cigarette dangling from his lips. His human disguise is slipping—his bald spot is more pronounced, and his pot belly looks like it’s about to burst out of his shirt.

“Gordo,” I say, sliding into the seat across from him.

He looks up, squinting at me through bloodshot eyes. “Lanz? That you, big guy? Or am I hallucinating again?”

“It’s me,” I say, resisting the urge to grab the whiskey bottle and pour it over his head. “I need your help.”

He laughs, a wheezing sound that turns into a cough. “My help? What, you finally realize you’re not invincible? Need someone to hold your hand while you go pick a fight with the Grolgath?”

“Something like that,” I say, leaning forward. “Fishy Joe’s Cannery. I need intel. And you’re the only one I can trust not to get yourself killed.”

Gordo takes a long swig from the bottle, then sets it down with a thud. “You’re not wrong about that last part. But what’s in it for me?”

“Name your price,” I say, already regretting this.

Gordo leans back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight, and takes another swig of whiskey. He sets the bottle down with a thud, his eyes narrowing as he looks at me. “A job,” he says, his voice steady despite the alcohol. “That’s my price. A real job. Permanent. With benefits and everything.”

I blink, caught off guard. “I’m giving you a job,” I growl, leaning forward. “You’re helping me with Fishy Joe’s. That’s your job.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. His bald spot glints under the dim bar light. “I mean arealjob. Something that doesn’t end when you’re done using me. Something I can count on.”

I snort, leaning back in my chair. “Gordo, there’s no place in my company for an unreliable drunk. You’re not exactly what I’d call a model employee.”

His face darkens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to throw the bottle at me. Instead, he slams his fist on the table, making the glasses rattle. “You just asked this unreliable drunk for his help,” he snaps, his voice rising. “You think I’m good enough to risk my ass for you, but not good enough to work for you? That’s rich, Lanz. Real rich.”

I wince, realizing I’ve crossed a line. “Alright, alright,” I say, holding up a hand. “I’m sorry. That was… uncalled for.”

He glares at me for a moment longer, then slumps back in his chair, the fight draining out of him. “Why do you want a job, Gordo?” I ask, my tone softer now. “You’ve never been the hustle and grind type. What’s going on?”

He looks down at the table, his fingers tracing the rim of the whiskey bottle. “I’m tired, Lanz,” he says quietly. “Tired of living in the gutter. I came to Earth to escape my problems, but they just followed me here. I’m stuck in this… this cycle. Drinking, fighting, scraping by. I need a change. A new lease on life.”

I watch him, the weight of his words sinking in. Gordo’s always been a mess, but there’s a sincerity in his voice now that I’ve never heard before. “Surely there’s something you need done,” he continues, looking up at me. “Even if it’s just working in the mailroom or scrubbing toilets. I’ll take anything. I just… I need a chance, Lanz.”

I lean back, crossing my arms over my chest. I’ve never seen Gordo like this—vulnerable, almost desperate. It’s unsettling. But it’s also… honest. And I can’t deny that I feel a pang of guilt for the way I’ve treated him.

“Alright,” I say finally, nodding. “You’ve got a job. I’ll find something for you. But you’re on probation, Gordo. One screw-up, and you’re out. Got it?”

He looks at me, his eyes wide with surprise, then breaks into a grin. “Got it,” he says, raising the whiskey bottle in a mock toast. “You won’t regret this, Lanz. I promise.”

I hope he’s right.

“This had better be worth it,” Gordo grumbles, shifting in the passenger seat. “My liver needs a break, not a nature hike.”

I pull up to the curb, a good half-mile from Fishy Joe’s. “Stealth, Gordo. Remember?”