Page 5 of Alien Mercenary’s Wife (Lathar Mercenaries: Warborne #7)

"KT-224?" Hendrick sounded like he was drowning. Or wished he was as long as he was anywhere but here.

"Interim benefits authorization. Allows you to pull down temporary disability payments while disputes are being resolved. Captain Payne shouldn't have to wait months for medical care while bureaucrats shuffle papers."

"Yes, Colonel. Of course. I'll... there seems to have been an oversight on my part. Let me process these forms immediately."

Hendrick's fingers pecked frantically at the keyboard, the sound like nervous applause. Within minutes, he'd printed out multiple forms, though his hands shook slightly as he handed over the paperwork.

"This covers your long-service medical benefits, the dispute filing, and the interim disability authorization," he said, not quite meeting her eyes. "Should take care of everything while we... resolve the matter."

Taking the forms, she stood, her left leg holding steady for now. Thankfully. The last thing she needed was to fall flat on her face in front of this little weasel. "Thank you, Officer Hendrick. I appreciate your thoroughness."

Martin’s voice came through the com unit one more time. "Reese, you call me if anyone gives you any more trouble, you hear? And Officer Hendrick? Captain Payne won't need to make another trip down here for something that should have been handled correctly the first time, will she?"

"No, sir. Absolutely not."

"Excellent. Reese? Don't be a stranger, okay?"

"Not at all, sir, thank you."

Ending the call, she slipped the com unit back into her pocket. "Have a good day, Officer Hendrick."

She walked out of Hendrick's office with her head high, though she felt his eyes boring into her back. The temporary approval was a victory but a hollow one. The money wasn't the issue; getting someone to listen to her and the others was.

In the lobby, she passed the same veterans who'd been waiting when she arrived. The double-amputee was still dozing, the older woman still clutching her folder. All of them were fighting the same battle against a system designed to grind them down until they gave up and went away.

Outside, the morning sun felt warm on her face, though she could barely feel it through the numbness spreading up her left arm.

The temporary approval bought her time, but time for what?

More meetings with doctors who'd dismiss her symptoms as psychological?

More lawyers who'd hit classified roadblocks every time they tried to subpoena Nexus Dynamics?

She pulled out her com unit and scrolled through her contacts, looking at the names of veterans who'd been part of her lawsuit.

Half of them had been crossed out in the past month—accidents, suicides, sudden illnesses that had nothing to do with defective implants and everything to do with corporate cleanup operations.

The pattern was clear to anyone willing to see it. Question was, how long before her name joined the list of tragic accidents? And how much damage could she do to Nexus Dynamics before they managed to silence her permanently?

Her left hand cramped suddenly, her fingers curling up into a claw that took thirty seconds to release. The timer was running down, and she was running out of moves.

But she wasn't out of the game yet. Not by a long shot.

The holographic display flickered above the command table, casting blue light across the faces of his crew as they studied the available contracts.

"The weapons job pays three times our usual rate," Tank said as she paced behind her chair, fingers tapping rapid patterns against her thigh. "High-grade military hardware, probably stolen from some imperial depot. We intercept, we keep what's useful, sell the rest."

T'Raal leaned back in his chair, arms folded, watching the debate unfold. This exact argument had played out dozens of times before as the crew picked the next job.

"Sure," Sparky countered from across the table.

"But look at this one." He gestured at a different contract with a grin that made T'Raal wonder if humans had a death wish encoded in their DNA.

Probably, knowing Sparky. "Explosive demolition on a corporate mining platform. Boom, crash, done. What's not to love?"

Fin pulled up tactical data with a frown.

"Err, the fact it has a twelve percent survival rate? Where Tank’s pick has a sixty percent survival probability rate, based on the last known cargo manifest…

We’re talking hardened shields and automated defense systems. The whole shooting match. Literally."

"Those are rookie numbers," Sparky chirped. "I've survived worse odds than that. Remember that thing on Korvain?"

"You mean when you nearly blew yourself up?" Red asked from her position at the engineering console, not looking up from her maintenance reports. "And took half the dock with you?"

"Key word being 'nearly.'" Sparky grinned at her. "Besides, explosions are just chemistry with attitude. Very predictable once you understand the molecular?—"

"The client reliability index on both jobs is questionable," Mayce interrupted. “The jobs history shows delayed payments, contract modifications mid-job, and one instance of outright refusal to pay."

Red snorted. “Yeah, no… We need the credits. Ship maintenance, supplies, ammunition... None of that comes free."

"What about this one?" Skinny's deep voice cut through the argument, the heavy-worlder's massive frame making his seat creak as he pointed at a different contract. "Cargo escort through the Veil Nebula. Moderate risk, decent pay, straightforward job."

"Boring," Tank muttered.

"Safe," Skinny arched an eyebrow at her. "Credits in the bank, no one shooting at us, everyone goes home intact."

"Where's the fun in safe?" Sparky asked, though his tone had lost some of its manic edge. There was one thing that got Sparky’s interest as much as blowing things up, and that was money.

T'Raal studied the three main options displayed.

There was the job that Tank favored—dangerous but lucrative, the kind of job that would set them up for months.

Then, Sparky's demolition nightmare that would probably get half of them killed.

Bringing up the rear was Skinny's sensible escort run that would pay the bills without unnecessary risk.

"Tal?" he asked, glancing over at their medic. “You got an opinion? You’ll be the one patching us up if this shit goes sideways.”

The ship's medic looked up from the readouts with a grimace. "If we hit resistance on the weapons job we’re talking probable casualties. Combat injuries and possible fatalities if we're unlucky. The demolition... I'd recommend updating everyone's wills and next of kin details first."

"Cheerful," Red muttered.

"Realistic," Tal corrected. "The escort run means maybe some minor injuries if pirates decide to test us. Nothing I can't handle. I might even get lollipops for the medbay if you’re all good girls and boys.”

“Asshole.”

Tank leaned forward, her hands flat on the table. "We're mercenaries, not merchants. The dangerous jobs pay well because they're dangerous. That's the whole point."

"The point is staying alive long enough to spend the credits," Fin replied.

"Look." Sparky's usual manic grin faded, his expression growing serious. "I know the demolition job sounds mental, but the target is a corporate facility. They've been dumping toxic waste into inhabited systems. Someone needs to stop them and fast.”

T'Raal raised an eyebrow. It wasn't often that Sparky revealed the moral compass hidden beneath his chaotic exterior.

"The weapons shipment could be heading to slavers," Tank pointed out. "Or worse. Military-grade hardware in the wrong hands..."

And there it was. The real reason Tank wanted the job. Not just the credits but the chance to make a difference. To strike back at the systems that had chewed up soldiers like her and spat them out broken.

He studied the display for another moment, weighing options against personalities, risks against rewards. His crew was family, and like any family, they each needed different things to stay healthy and whole.

"We take Tank’s job." His words dropped into the room like a command decision, ending the debate instantly. “Tip off the Sycthes for the demo job. It’s more up their alley anyway.”

Conversations died mid-sentence. Sparky's hand froze halfway to his mouth. Tank straightened. Even Red looked up from her reports.

"Tank's right about the credits." He folded his arms over his chest. "And the cargo. We can't let military hardware fall into the wrong hands. But we do this smart. Full tactical analysis, backup plans for every contingency, and no unnecessary risks."

Tank's grin was sharp enough to cut steel. "Copy that, boss."

"Fin, I want complete intelligence on the escort ships. Capabilities, weaknesses, and crew rosters if you can get them. Sparky..." He fixed the human with a level stare. "No improvised explosives unless I specifically authorize them."

"Aw, come on," Sparky protested. "Half the fun is the creative problem-solving."

"No."

"What about quarter-sized explosives? Just tiny ones?"

"No."

Sparky sighed dramatically. "Fine. I'll stick to the boring conventional weapons."

"Skinny, plot us the most efficient course to the intercept point, but keep escape routes in mind."

T'Raal stood. "Questions?"

"Timeline?" Skinny asked, already pulling up star charts.

"Forty-eight hours to full mission readiness. The convoy leaves Hanrakan-four in six days, which gives us time to position ourselves along their route."

"Rules of engagement?" Tank's fingers drummed against her holster, the movement sharp and precise. He’d noticed the habit before. She was itching for action.

"Disable if possible, destroy if necessary. Priority is the cargo, not the crew. If they surrender, we take prisoners. If they fight..." He shrugged. "We finish it fast."

The crew nodded, the familiar rhythm of pre-mission preparation settling over them like a comfortable jacket. This was what they were good at—taking impossible jobs and making them look easy.

"Forty-eight hours, people,” he said as they filed out. “Let's make it count."

Red was the last to leave, pausing at the doorway to catch his eye. "Good choice, Dad."

He nodded, settling back into his chair as the command room emptied. The job was dangerous, but it was the right kind of dangerous. The kind that would keep his crew sharp without being reckless, profitable without being suicidal.

And if Tank was right about the cargo's destination, they'd be doing some real good in the galaxy. Sometimes, that mattered more than the credits.

The holographic display flickered off, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the quiet hum of the Sprite's engines. In forty-eight hours, they'd be hunting a military convoy through the depths of space.

He smiled grimly. Just another day in the life of the Warborne.