Page 26 of Alien Assassin's Heir

They’re early.

I slide my claws across the control band on my wrist, flipping through scrambled frequencies until I hit the right pulse. Two quick bursts, one long, then a silent beacon ping. The signal spikes—encrypted, masked through a dummy weather satellite.

The skiff tilts slightly mid-flight.

Acknowledged.

They veer wide, curving past the Wildwood grid like good little ghosts. Bypassing any Helios scans. No unauthorized flyovers, no broken treaties. On paper, they never came.

I kill the signal.

Sigh.

That’s the game.

Make just enough noise to seem loyal. Not enough to draw attention. They’re watching me—I’d be stupid to think otherwise. Targen might’ve said “observation only,” but when did spies ever say what they meant?

I scrape my claws against the rock and stand.

Time to act normal.

Which, for a killer in exile, apparently means getting drunk in a backwater cantina full of Helios grease-heads and tired contractors.

Wonderful.

The cantinaoutside Wildwood is exactly as I remember it—loud, sticky, and soaked in that peculiar scent of sweat, plasma residue, and fermented rootshine. The air pulses with synth bass and old mercenary ballads, distorted through overworked speakers embedded in the walls.

I duck low to get through the doorway, tail twitching to avoid knocking over some idiot’s drink.

“Watch it, lizard!” some guy slurs near the entry.

I bare my teeth in a smile that’s all fang.

He shuts up real fast.

I slide into a corner booth, away from the main floor. The lighting’s low, warm and greasy, casting long shadows over dented tables and half-broken holo projectors. A waitress glides by, eyes tired, tray balanced on one shoulder.

“Rootshine. Cold,” I grunt.

She nods and disappears.

I scan the room, half out of habit, half because I know every threat worth dodging wears a smile first.

That’s when I hear him.

Loud. Sloppy. Arrogant.

“...stole the damn thing right out from under the Alliance’s nose,” the man crows, holding court near the bar. He’s mid-forties, wearing Helios silver with a cheap executive brooch pinned crookedly to his collar.

Fat fingers. Sweaty face. Too many rings.

My ears perk.

He’s laughing, voice brimming with the smugness of someone who’s never once paid the price for his mouth.

“New fab algorithm. Cuts production time by nearly half. Ship-wide dissemination starts next quarter. And the best part? They think it’s still under development!”

The table of junior suits around him cackle, raising half-filled glasses.