Page 2 of Alien Mercenary’s Wife (Lathar Mercenaries: Warborne #7)

"Of course."

The private chamber was small and windowless, the kind of place where careers, and probably people, went to die. A simple table, a few chairs, walls that probably had enough surveillance equipment hidden in them to record a whisper from fifty meters away.

The drakeen stayed outside, which meant Daaynal was confident he could handle two mercenaries by himself. Given that he was a warrior emperor with decades of combat experience with two drakeen in the corridor outside, that was probably a safe bet.

"Please, sit," Daaynal said, settling into a chair with the easy grace of someone who'd never doubted his right to be wherever he was.

He remained standing. Control the space. Project strength… Basic tactics.

"That was an interesting signal," Daaynal said without preamble, those eyes studying him with uncomfortable intensity. "One I haven't seen in over thirty years."

He kept his expression neutral and shrugged.

“You are T'Raal of the Warborne," Daaynal continued, a statement, not a question. "Your reputation precedes you." His attention shifted to Red, and T'Raal felt a spike of protective instinct that was probably visible from orbit. "And you are?"

Red straightened, every inch the experienced mercenary she was in her black combats and openly displayed weapons.

"My daughter," T’Raal said, the words coming out harder than he'd intended. The possessive claim in his voice was unmistakable—Red was his family, his crew, his responsibility. “And also, Queen Redayne of Navarr."

Daaynal's eyebrows rose slightly. “Navarrian? Your Majesty." He inclined his head to Red with genuine respect. "An honor. It has been a long time since the Imperial Court has had the honor of such a visit.”

Red returned the courtesy, inclining her head with a regal gesture that he’d never taught her. “The pleasure is all mine, your majesty. Although I am not here in any official capacity. I am merely here to support my father.”

“Of course, of course,” Daaynal said, his gaze returning to T'Raal. "Now then… Why would a mercenary captain gain my attention with an emergency signal from an order long since dead? Since, as I am sure you are aware, the last of the Praetoviatt died many years ago?”

“I am aware. And, intelligence," he said, his voice steady despite the chaos in his head. "The Tanel are back. At least one of them, calling himself General Saak, has acquired a Krynassis reproductive halo."

Daaynal froze for a second, his diplomatic mask slipping for just a heartbeat to reveal the razor-sharp intelligence beneath.

"You're certain of this? When did this happen?”

"My source is impeccable." He kept his voice level, professional, like he was reporting ship status to the crew. "The halo was stolen recently. We've heard nothing since."

"And you brought this information to me because?"

He met Daaynal's gaze directly, unflinching. "Because if the Tanel really are back, innocent people will die."

Daaynal's expression shifted, skepticism creeping in. "The Tanel haven't been seen in over two hundred thousand years. More likely someone's taken a dead myth's name to try and scare people."

"Maybe." He shrugged. "But can you afford to be wrong?"

The emperor studied him for a long moment. "This information came at considerable risk to your source, I imagine."

"That's not your concern."

"No, I suppose it isn't." Daaynal stood, and he realized they were the same height and nearly the same build. "I appreciate you bringing this to my attention."

He shrugged. “Don't thank me yet. If I'm right, stopping him won't be simple."

"Nothing worthwhile ever is." Daaynal moved toward the door, then paused with his hand on the control panel. "Tell me, are you interested in more... official employment? I could use someone with your skills and connections."

His jaw tightened. "No."

"Pity."

"The empire has plenty of lackeys already."

The words came out harsher than he'd intended, carrying years of resentment and old pain.

Daaynal's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes.

"Indeed, we do." Daaynal's expression was neutral, giving nothing away. "Tell me, does she know?"

The question came from nowhere. He slid a glance at Red, who was watching the exchange with sharp intelligence, arms folded over her chest.

"Know what?"

"Who taught you that signal? Who you really are?" Daaynal's voice was quiet, almost gentle. "She's your family; that much is obvious. But there are things you're not telling her."

His hands clenched into fists. "She knows everything that matters."

"Does she?" Daaynal stepped closer, and he caught a familiar scent: weapon oil and leather, the clean metallic smell of well-maintained equipment. Not at all what he would have expected from the emperor himself. "That signal hasn't been used in decades."

Red went very still beside him.

"That's not relevant," he said roughly.

"Isn't it?" Daaynal's smile was sad, tired. "Signals like that... they're not common knowledge. And that signal is unique. Known only to two people."

The words hung in the air between them. A statement. Or maybe a question they were both dancing around.

"The past is complicated," he said quietly.

"Yes," Daaynal agreed. "It usually is." He paused. "Your mother trained you well."

His chest tightened until he could barely breathe. "Don't."_

Daaynal moved toward the door again. "The offer stands, T'Raal?—"

"Verran," he cut in. "My name is T'Raal Verran."

Daaynal frowned. "What?"

"My name. It's T'Raal Verran. Not whatever you think it is."

Something flickered in Daaynal's eyes—disappointment, maybe, or just acceptance. "Of course. T'Raal Verran. The offer stands, based on your character and skills. Think about it."

The door slid shut behind him with a soft hiss, leaving them alone in the small chamber.

"Well," Red said finally. "That was interesting."

He turned to face her, expecting questions he wasn't ready to answer.

"You want to tell me what that was really about?" she asked.

"No."

"Didn't think so." She was quiet for a moment. "But whatever history you've got with His Imperial Majesty?—"

"It doesn't matter. The past is the past."

"Is it?" Red stood, moving to his side. "Because it seemed like it mattered plenty to him. And to you."

He met her look directly, but didn’t answer. She sighed, her expression filled with frustrated affection. “Come on then, we'd better get back to the ship. The others will want to know how the intelligence drop went."

He snorted. "That's what we're calling it?"

"What else would we call it?" Her grin was sharp.

He chuckled as he followed her out of the room. "To steal a Sparky-ism… situation normal, all fucked up?"

Her left leg gave out on the third step.

Reese caught herself against the bathroom doorframe, breathing hard as sensation crawled back into the limb like ants under her skin.

The neural implant had been fucking with her balance for weeks, but this morning it decided to get creative with her nervous system.

She tested her weight, shifted her stance, and tried again.

This time the leg held, though it trembled.

"Piece of shit," she muttered, though she wasn't entirely sure whether she meant the implant slowly destroying her motor control or her own treacherous body.

The apartment reeked of instant coffee and the industrial-strength disinfectant the building management slathered on everything to mask decades of wear and tear.

Military pension housing wasn't exactly luxury accommodations, but it was cheap, anonymous, and the management didn't ask awkward questions.

She limped to the kitchenette, her left foot catching on the fold in the linoleum that had probably been white sometime in the previous century.

The coffee maker wheezed to life when she jabbed the power button, gurgling like it was drowning in its own mechanical misery.

Everything in this place was secondhand, broken, or both.

Just like the people who lived here. Just like her.

Steam rose from the ancient machine, fogging the small window that looked out over an alley filled with dumpsters and overflowing trash bins.

Wiping the condensation away with her sleeve, she peered down at the street below.

Mrs. Rodriguez walked her ancient terrier with the precision of a drill sergeant…

same route, same pace, every morning at seven-fifteen sharp.

Some patterns were comforting in their predictability.

Others could get you killed.

Her tablet buzzed against the counter. She grabbed it and scrolled through messages from veterans scattered across the country.

Each message was another entry in her catalog of corporate-sponsored suffering: muscle weakness, coordination problems, the slow, inexorable creep of paralysis that the doctors insisted was all in their heads.

Ryans in Seattle could barely hold a pen anymore, his handwriting dissolving into illegible scrawls.

Williams in Detroit had started using a cane, the proud scorperio unit commander reduced to shuffling like an old man.

Dubois in Jacksonville was having seizures that the doctors dismissed as panic attacks…

She snorted. Yeah, right. She’d heard that one before.

Apparently, watching your nervous system shut down was just another case of veteran hysteria.

Opening her console, she cross-referenced the symptoms with implant serial numbers.

The pattern was unmistakable to anyone who bothered to look…

Neural interface units between batches KTV-3099 and STV-4092 were failing at catastrophic rates, turning elite soldiers into broken shells of their former selves.

Oh, they’d all complained, gone through the official channels, but Nexus Dynamics had deep pockets and deeper connections, the kind that made inconvenient data disappear behind walls of classification and corporate privilege.