Page 1 of Alien Assassin's Heir

CHAPTER 1

LUNA

The suns are ruthless today.

I wipe the back of my hand across my forehead and smear more grime than sweat. The viewport glass is a mess—streaked with dust, salt, and the occasional splatter from some bird-lizard hybrid that’s been dive-bombing the supply yard lately. I make a mental note to run the window droids again, even though the damn things are about as efficient as wet paper in a reactor core.

The dry heat wraps around me like a static-charged blanket, clinging to my skin, my hair, my every breath. Even in the command booth, which is technically climate controlled, the air feels thick. Oppressive. Arkosh never pretended to be kind, and I stopped expecting kindness from the universe three years ago.

I lean back in my squeaky chair, listening to the familiar hum of the consoles as they pulse and chirp with new droid deliveries and outgoing fabrication tags. Metal crates trundle past on mag-rails outside. Droids with crablike manipulators shuffle from one end of the depot to the other, stacking shipments, scanning manifests, doing the work of thirty humans with none of the conversation.

Gods, what I’d give for a little conversation.

The com panel flashes green for a second—another routine inbound—then goes still. No one's walking up. No one's making surprise inspections. Wildwood Outpost is exactly what the name suggests: remote, forgotten, and blissfully boring. Which is exactly why I’m here.

No one in the Alliance sends reps this far unless someone’s already bleeding. And the Coalition? They wouldn’t waste the gas. Not here.

I close my eyes for just a breath, forehead resting on my hand. The smell of scorched metal and lubricating gel clings to the air, mixed with a faint citrus note from the cheap cleaner Grinna insists on using in the breakroom. My lower back aches from too many hours in this chair. My fingers still twitch sometimes, like they’re still tapping out clearance codes for high-level IHC ops.

Old ghosts, those reflexes.

The console pings again, and I flick the switch, muttering, “Confirm incoming. Bay 3. Standard droid intake,” before the system can even finish the sentence for me.

“Thanks, Mom-puter,” I murmur sarcastically.

No one laughs. Of course.

A light knock against the booth’s side window startles me. I jolt upright, hand already on the holster under the desk—just in case. But it’s not a stranger. It’s her.

Solie.

Her mop of tangled blonde hair glints like a halo in the sunlight. She presses her tiny hands to the glass, her grin missing a tooth and somehow still managing to make my chest ache.

I buzz open the booth door and she barrels in like a missile, giggling.

“Mama!” she squeals, arms stretched wide. “Guess what? I found a lizard that sings!”

“Oh stars,” I mutter, scooping her up into my arms, sticky fingers and all. “Please tell me you didn’t bring it into the house again.”

She tilts her head, feigning innocence. “Maybe…”

“Solie Desmond.”

“His name’s Preech!”

I sigh and plop her into my lap, ignoring the soft stick of her sun-warmed skin against mine. She’s too small to know the world is dangerous. Too bright to understand the shadows I keep behind locked doors and buried truths.

And those eyes… suns above, those golden eyes. Same color as…

No. I won’t think about him. Not today. Not when the suns are shining and my daughter smells like dust and juice pouches and possibility.

Solie wriggles in my lap, pointing at the monitor. “Are those robots your friends?”

I laugh softly, brushing her hair back. “I guess. The quiet kind.”

“Why don’t they talk?”

“Because they’re smart enough to know silence is golden.”