Page 4 of Alien Mercenary’s Wife (Lathar Mercenaries: Warborne #7)

T he Veterans Affairs building squatted on the corner like a concrete monument to bureaucratic indifference, its brutalist architecture designed to crush hope before you even walked through the doors.

Reese limped across the plaza, her left leg cooperating for now, though she could feel the familiar crawl of numbness starting in her toes.

The morning's cramping episode had left her hand stiff, fingers not quite responding the way they should when she'd tried to button her jacket.

She'd dressed carefully for this meeting… a pressed shirt, her service pin displayed just so, polished shoes that still fit despite the swelling in her feet. Every detail was calculated to remind these people that she'd earned her benefits with blood and service, not charity and pity.

The lobby reeked of industrial disinfectant and stale air.

Veterans in various states of repair occupied plastic chairs designed by someone who'd never sat in one for longer than thirty seconds.

A double-amputee dozed in the corner, his prosthetics newer and shinier than anything else in the building.

An older woman clutched a manila folder thick with medical reports, her hands shaking with either neurological damage like Reese's or pure rage.

Hard to tell the difference anymore in places like this.

Reese approached the reception desk, where a clerk with dead eyes and a nameplate reading “James” processed forms with the enthusiasm of someone counting the days until retirement.

"Captain Reese Payne," she said, sliding her military ID across the scarred surface. "I have an appointment with Claims Officer Hendrick about my medical benefits review."

James barely glanced at the ID before tapping his screen with one finger. "Take a seat. He'll call you when he's ready."

She didn't take a seat. Standing was easier than getting back up, and she'd learned to pick her battles with her treacherous body.

Instead, she studied the motivational posters on the walls—glossy images of flag-waving patriotism and smiling veterans that bore no resemblance to the reality of this place.

"Our Heroes Deserve Our Best." Right. Their best was apparently fluorescent lighting and chairs that belonged in a prison waiting room.

"Payne!" The voice carried across the lobby like a drill sergeant's bark. She looked up to find it came from a soft-bodied man in a rumpled suit. Claims Officer Hendrick stood in a doorway, folder in hand, already looking bored.

"I'm Payne," she introduced herself as she walked toward him, only for him to grunt.

"Follow me," he ordered and turned, obviously expecting her to follow. She shrugged and did. She'd long since gotten used to the fact that no one in places like this considered her or any other veterans worth common courtesy.

His office was a monument to middle-management mediocrity.

Fake wood paneling, a desk that had seen better decades, and a couple of battered filing cabinets.

Hendrick settled behind his desk like it was a fortress wall, opening her file with the sort of theatrical sigh that suggested this was all a tremendous inconvenience.

"Let's see here," he muttered, flipping through pages.

"Captain Payne, decorated service record, multiple combat deployments, Scorperio unit commander.

" He looked up at her with the expression of someone who'd found something unpleasant stuck to his shoe.

"Says here you're claiming service-connected disability for. .. progressive neurological symptoms?"

"That's correct." She kept her voice level, professional. Just because he was an asshole didn't mean that she had to be. "Caused by defective neural interface implants manufactured by Nexus_Dynamics and installed during my service."

He made a noncommittal noise and turned to his computer screen, fingers pecking at the keyboard like an arthritic chicken. "According to your service records, the incident that ended your deployment was classified as equipment operator error."

The words struck her hard, but she kept her expression neutral. Years of command training had taught her never to let subordinates or the enemy see weakness, and bureaucrats like this asshole were just another form of hostile to be managed.

"I'm sorry, what incident?" she asked quietly.

"The ambush that killed your unit. Says right here—" He tapped his screen with one finger. "That the investigation concluded that Captain Payne failed to follow proper neural interface protocols, resulting in system failure during combat operations. Pilot error, essentially."

Heat rose in her chest, the familiar burning of pure, distilled rage. The kind of anger that had once made her an effective tank commander but would now get her thrown out of government buildings if she didn't control herself.

"I dispute that finding," she said, her voice dropping cold. "There were factors beyond my control during that engagement."

He shrugged with the indifference of someone who'd heard every sob story in the book. "That's not what the official investigation found. And unfortunately, we can only base our determinations on documented evidence, not personal interpretations of events."

"The neural implants are defective," she continued, fighting to keep her voice steady. "There are over fifty veterans experiencing identical symptoms. Progressive paralysis, motor control failure, cognitive impairment. All from the same batch of implants."

"Hmm." Hendrick scrolled through more screens. "I don't see any manufacturer recalls or safety bulletins. If there were a systemic problem with the equipment, surely the manufacturer would have issued some kind of advisory?"

She bit back the urge to tell this jumped-up little asshole what Nexus_Dynamics had issued instead… lawyers, bribes, and cleanup crews. Instead, she leaned forward slightly.

"Officer Hendrick, I served multiple tours in major combat zones. I commanded a Scorperio unit that never lost a single engagement until that final operation. My record speaks for itself."

"I'm sure it does." His tone said he wasn't sure of anything except his desire to get her out of his office.

"But the documentation clearly indicates operator error.

Now, we can certainly process a claim for PTSD counseling services, if you'd like.

Many veterans find it helpful for dealing with. .. adjustment issues."

She gritted her teeth to avoid snapping his head off. PTSD counseling. Because obviously, a decorated combat veteran complaining about systemic equipment failure was just having trouble adjusting to civilian life. Over a decade after leaving the service.

"I don't need counseling," she said, carefully picking her words and tone of voice. "I need medical treatment for a service-connected disability caused by defective equipment that the service authorized for implantation."

He closed her file with a soft thud, shaking his head. "I'm afraid that's not something we can approve based on the current documentation. If you'd like to appeal this decision, there are forms you can fill out. Takes about six to eight months for review."

Six to eight months.

By then, she'd probably be in a wheelchair full-time, assuming the paralysis didn't reach her respiratory system first as it had with some of the others. Each of them reacted to the breakdown of the pathways in a different way… She'd seen the progression charts that Ryans had sent her from Seattle.

She pulled out her com unit and scrolled to a contact she'd hoped never to use. Colonel Frank Martin, her former CO, now working veterans affairs liaison at the regional command.

"Mind if I make a quick call?" she asked, not waiting for permission before hitting the number.

Martin answered on the second ring. "Reese? Jesus, girl, I was wondering when I'd hear from you. How are you holding up?"

"Could be better, Colonel. I'm sitting in a VA office with a claims officer who's denying my disability claim because of that final operation report."

The silence on the other end of the line stretched long enough for Hendrick to start looking uncomfortable. When Martin spoke again, his voice carried an authority that made bureaucrats pay attention.

"Put me on speaker, Captain."

Reese set the com unit on Hendrick's desk and hit the speaker button. "Colonel Frank Martin, veterans affairs liaison, speaking to Claims Officer...?"

"Hendrick," the man squeaked, suddenly sitting up straighter.

"Officer Hendrick, what's the issue with Captain Payne's claim?"

Hendrick cleared his throat nervously. "Well, sir, she's filing for disability benefits related to neurological damage, but her final operation report shows equipment operator error. Policy states we can't approve disability claims when the injury resulted from the claimant's negligence."

"I see. And have you reviewed her full service record?"

"Well, I... the disability claim is what I'm processing today, sir."

"Pull up her complete record. Now ."

Hendrick didn't argue, his fingers flying over his keyboard as sweat beaded on his forehead. "I... yes, sir. Loading now..."

"Captain Payne served with distinction for nearly twenty years," Martin’s voice filled the small office, ringing with authority. "Three combat tours, multiple commendations, exemplary service record. She's entitled to long-service medical benefits regardless of that final report, isn't she?"

"I... yes, sir. Veterans with over ten years of active service are eligible for comprehensive medical coverage..."

"Good. Process those benefits immediately. And while you're at it, I want you to file a formal dispute against that final operation report on Captain Payne's behalf."

"A dispute, sir?"

"Yes, Hendrick. Veterans have the right to dispute findings they believe are inaccurate. It's standard procedure. And once you've filed that dispute, you'll need to submit a form KT-224."