Page 9 of Alien Mercenary’s Wife (Lathar Mercenaries: Warborne #7)

For the first time since the explosion at the metro station, she felt something other than despair. She was alive, mobile, and off the grid. Her enemies had resources and surveillance technology, but they'd made one critical error in their planning.

They'd assumed she was just another broken veteran, paralyzed by her condition and trapped by bureaucratic systems. They had no idea what a tank commander could accomplish when she had nothing left to lose.

The game was far from over. It was just beginning.

The supply manifests blurred together as T'Raal stared at the holographic display, numbers that meant the difference between eating well or rationing protein bars for another month. His office—if the cramped space wedged between the bridge and maintenance ladders that he’d claimed after getting fed up with the crew tramping through his quarters all the time could be called that—smelled faintly of recycled air and the ozone from overworked electronics.

The Sprite hummed around him, a steady vibration that spoke of engines running smooth and crew settling into their routines.

Eris appeared in his doorway without knocking, a dataflex clutched against her chest like armor. Her face carried that particular expression he'd learned to read since she'd joined the crew—the look of someone whose carefully buried past had just clawed its way to the surface.

"We need to talk."

He flicked off the display and leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight. "Talk."

She stepped inside, barely fitting in the narrow space, but didn't sit. Her stance was pure military… feet apart, shoulders squared, ready for a fight or to deliver bad news. Maybe both.

"Got a message. Encrypted channels that don't officially exist." The dataflex trembled slightly in her grip. "Someone from my old unit."

He went still. Eris never talked about her unit. The few times their ghosts had surfaced, she'd shut down conversations with the efficiency of someone slamming blast doors.

"Legitimate?"

"Authentication codes check out. Unit identifiers, personal details..." She set the dataflex on his desk with deliberate care. "Only someone who served with us would know this shit."

He studied her face in the blue glow from the device. She was a professional trained to compartmentalize, to focus on mission parameters rather than the weight of her dead friends. But her unit was different. Her unit was the wound that had never properly healed.

"What do they want?"

"Help." The word came out flat, stripped of emotion. "Says they're being hunted. Corporate teams, sounds like. They're reaching out to anyone who might still be breathing."

Her jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. "I think it's Payne. My old captain."

"You think?"

"The phrasing. The way she structures requests." Eris finally sat, perched on the edge of the chair like she might need to run. "It's her voice, you know? Even encrypted to hell and back."

He’d heard Eris mention Payne exactly three times since she'd joined the crew. Each mention carried the kind of respect usually reserved for the dead or the divine. If she was reaching through dark channels, the situation had already gone to hell.

"Tell me about her."

"Best commander I ever served under. Fair, competent, gave a damn about keeping us alive.

" Eris's voice carried an old pain, carefully contained.

"When the implants started failing, when we began showing symptoms, she tried to get us help.

Official channels first, then legal when the military stonewalled us. "

"And now?"

"Same corporate bastards who killed the others. They're cleaning house, silencing anyone who might testify." She leaned forward, intensity burning in her eyes. "Payne wouldn't reach out unless she was desperate. She's not the type to ask for help."

The decision crystallized with the sharp clarity that had kept him alive through a dozen wars. Eris was family. Her people were his people. The math was simple.

"We help her."

She blinked, clearly expecting an argument. "Just like that? You don't even know her."

He shrugged. "She's Warborne."

"She's not?—"

"She's family to you. That makes her family to all of us. Which makes her Warborne by association." He stood, already shifting mental gears toward mission planning. "What does she need?"

Relief flickered across her face, quickly replaced by a focused expression. "Extraction, probably. Safe passage. The kind of help you can't buy with credits."

"Where is she?"

"Human space. Earth, based on the routing." Her expression darkened. "Which is where things get complicated. Half our crew has murder warrants. Eric, Sparky, and I are supposed to be dead."

Valid concern. The Warborne's reputation opened some doors and welded others permanently shut. Approaching Earth space with a ship full of wanted mercenaries would create exactly the kind of attention that got people killed.

He considered their options while the ship hummed around them. Official channels meant scrutiny they couldn't afford. Commercial transport required documentation that they didn't have. Fighting their way through human security was possible, but messy.

Then he remembered their unexpected advantage.

"Lizzie." He keyed the comm with one finger. "Mind joining us?"

Minutes later, Tal's mate appeared in the doorway, her calm presence immediately shifting the room's energy. Lizzie was quiet competence personified, someone who preferred growing things to killing them, and sometimes he really appreciated that.

She was also connected to imperial nobility in ways that none of the rest of the crew knew about.

"Captain?" She settled into the chair with fluid grace.

"Need to get into human space without attracting attention. Official visit, diplomatic immunity, the kind of approach that keeps security from asking uncomfortable questions."

Lizzie's eyebrows rose slightly. "Specific requirements. May I ask why?"

"Rescue mission. Someone Eris served with."

"Ah." Understanding flooded her features. Family was family, regardless of species or political boundaries. "Imperial credentials would solve that problem."

He waited. Lizzie never made hasty decisions, preferring to consider all angles before making a commitment. It was one of the things he respected about her.

"Jessica's at Devan Station," she said finally. "Diplomatic mission, trade negotiations with human representatives. Mother's with her."

Eris frowned. "How does that help?"

Lizzie's smile transformed her serious face. "Because Jessica is Lady Jessica, consort to Laarn K'Vass and mother to Princess Miisan, current secondary heir to the Imperial throne."

You could have heard a pin drop in the office.

"So you're a fucking princess?" Eris asked, voice perfectly flat.

"Language." Lizzie shot her a look. "I'm the aunt of a princess. Subtle difference."

"Barely," he leaned forward. "Can you contact your sister?"

"Already planning to." Lizzie stood with the same fluid grace. "She'll be surprised, but pleased. And she'll understand the mission's importance once I explain."

After Lizzie left to make her calls, Eris remained seated, shaking her head slowly.

"Imperial connections." Her smirk held dark amusement. "Better than shooting our way past human security, I suppose."

"Good people are good people, regardless of bloodlines." He settled back into his chair. "Besides, Lizzie's botanical research has saved our asses more times than I can count."

Eris chuckled, some tension bleeding from her shoulders. "Fair point. So we're doing this? Going to Earth to extract my old captain?"

"We're Warborne," he shrugged. "It's what we do."

After Eris left to prepare, he returned to his supply manifests, but his mind was already racing ahead… routes, contingencies, the hundred details that turned desperate plans into successful operations.

Somewhere in human space, a former Scorperio commander was fighting for her life against corporate killers. She had no idea help was coming, or that her former subordinate had found a new family willing to go to war for her.