Page 2 of Alien’s Love Child
CHAPTER 2
DAVIN
T he stale air of the bar mingles with the sharp bite of cheap alcohol. I nurse my drink, watching the amber liquid swirl in the glass. The bounty board on my PerComm shows nothing but pocket change - thieves who stole bread or jumped their bail on minor infractions.
Not even enough to cover the fuel it'll take to find them.
"Another?" The bartender hovers nearby, cloth wiping endless circles on the counter.
"Not yet." The drink burns less than it should. Everything feels dull these days.
A couple two seats down argues about credits, their voices carrying across the bar. Amateur stuff. Back in my military days, I'd have three different conversations monitored, tracking potential threats while maintaining my cover. The Kaleidian Intelligence Division taught me well - how to blend in, how to disappear in plain sight, how to hear what wasn't being said.
"You military?" The bartender nods at my posture.
"Was." I don't elaborate. No need to mention the wars I prevented, the deals I uncovered, the lives saved before blood could be shed. Spy work isn't glamorous - it's hours of listening, watching, waiting. Just like now.
"Rough transition to civilian life?"
I shrug, taking another sip. The military had structure, purpose. Bounty hunting gives me the same rush of the hunt without all the red tape. No commanding officers telling me to stand down when I'm close to cracking a case. No political considerations stopping me from doing what needs to be done.
A group of miners shuffles in, their boots leaving red dust trails on the floor. Their chatter fills the space, something about a new strike. I half-listen, old habits die hard.
My PerComm vibrates against my wrist, the subtle buzz I've been waiting for. The daily bounty board update is here.
I swipe through the bounties, each one more disappointing than the last. Petty theft, minor fraud, the usual dregs no one bothers with unless they happen to pass them by on the street. My finger pauses mid-swipe as a new listing catches my eye.
Dr. Xander Gatsen.
The bounty number makes me blink twice. That many zeros can't be right. The crimes are redacted - typical Alliance bureaucracy - but for that kind of money, this guy must've done something spectacularly awful.
I tap his image to enlarge it. Tall, gangly human with wire-rimmed glasses and perfectly combed blonde hair. He looks more like he belongs in a research lab than on a most-wanted list.
"You're kidding me," I mutter, taking another sip of my drink. "This is the guy worth all those credits?"
The PerComm displays his last known location: Station 459. Not too far from here, but the intel suggests he's heading to Glimner. My jaw tightens. Glimner's a cesspool of criminal activity - perfect place for someone to vanish without a trace.
I pull up the contenders list. Only three other hunters have signed up so far. Amateur hour. They probably saw the bounty and jumped without doing their homework. But I know Glimner. Once someone drops into that planet's underground, they might as well cease to exist.
"Time's wasting," I murmur, pressing my thumb to the screen. The PerComm chirps as it registers my bid for the contract.
The bartender drifts back. "Found something good?"
"Maybe." I drain my glass and stand, leaving credits on the counter. "Or maybe I'm chasing shadows."
Station 459 isn't far, but every minute counts. If this Dr. Gatsen makes it to Glimner before I catch up, the trail goes cold. And I hate cold trails almost as much as I hate wasting time.
Station 459's landing pad gleams like polished crystal under the artificial sunlight. My boots click against the pristine surface - everything here screams money. Industrial hubs always do. The kind of place where even the maintenance workers wear designer jumpsuits.
A customs officer eyes my blue skin with barely concealed disdain. "Purpose of visit?"
"Tourism." The lie slides off my tongue easily. My military credentials are spotless, making me practically invisible to port authority checks.
"Enjoy your stay." She waves me through without a second glance.
I meander down the rows of ships, playing the part of a lost tourist. My mark is either going to pay a hefty fee to a seasoned smuggler, or dupe a vacationing family into letting him hitch a ride. My job now is to figure out which it is.
My PerComm scans each vessel, cataloging registration numbers and flight plans. Most are exactly what they appear to be - sleek corporate shuttles and luxury yachts.
Then I spot it.
The ship sticks out like a bruise on perfect skin. Mismatched hull plates, outdated registration numbers, and scoring patterns that suggest recent atmospheric entries at dangerous angles. No legitimate trader flies like that.
"Beautiful ship," a dock worker comments as he passes. "If you're into antiques."
I grunt noncommittally, pretending to admire the next vessel over - a gleaming personal yacht. But my attention stays fixed on the smuggler's ship. The wear patterns around the cargo hold tell stories of rushed jobs and tight spaces.
Perfect.
I circle around, maintaining my tourist facade while the dock grows quieter. Shift change - right on schedule. The gap in security coverage lasts exactly four minutes.
The tracking beacon sits heavy in my pocket. Military grade, undetectable by standard scanners. The kind of tech that costs more than most people make in a year.
Three minutes left.
I drop my tourist datapad, bending to retrieve it near the smuggler's ship. The beacon slides from my sleeve to my palm.
Two minutes.
A quick press against the hull, right where the shield generators create a sensor blind spot. The beacon chirps once in my ear, confirming activation.
One minute.
I'm already walking away, just another tourist who got lost among the ships. Behind me, the beacon begins its work, invisible and patient.
Just like me.
The maintenance alcove provides perfect cover as I watch the ship's airlock cycle open. My tracker wasn't wrong - this is definitely our smuggler's vessel.
A flash of red hair catches the station's artificial light. The woman moves with the practiced ease of someone who knows every bolt and weld of her ship. The captain, of course. And what a beauty she is.
The Vakutan following her draws my attention - barely old enough to be out of school, his red scales still carrying that juvenile sheen. Amateur hour.
"You sure about this place, Jesse?" The Vakutan's voice carries across the dock, higher pitched than I'd expect.
"Taluk, when have I steered you wrong?" Jesse adjusts her jacket. "Best drinks on the station, and the owner doesn't ask questions."
"That's what worries me."
They pass within meters of my position, close enough that I catch the scent of engine grease and ozone from their clothes. No weapons visible, but Jesse's jacket hangs oddly on the right side. Concealed holster, probably.
Twenty minutes pass. I occupy myself by cataloging the dock's security weaknesses. Three blind spots in the camera coverage, two overworked guards more interested in their PerComms than their surroundings, and maintenance access that hasn't been properly secured in what looks like years.
Movement catches my eye. Three figures emerge from the pub's entrance. Jesse and Taluk flank a third person wrapped in a dust-colored cloak that screams 'trying too hard to be inconspicuous.' The hood can't quite hide the glint of wire-rimmed glasses.
My lips curl into a smile. The good doctor needs to work on his disguise game. Even a rookie could spot him.
"Almost home free," Jesse's voice drifts over. "Just act natural."
The trio makes their way back to the ship, Xander's measured stride a sharp contrast to Taluk's nervous energy.
Got you.
The vibrations of Jesse's ship lifting off ripple through the dock. I count to thirty before making my way back to my vessel, maintaining the leisurely pace of a tourist finishing their visit. My boots click against the polished floor, each step measured and unhurried.
My ship's systems come online with a familiar hum. The tracking beacon pulses steady on my display, a red dot moving exactly where I expect - straight down the Alliance-approved lanes, before dipping into uncharted territory.
"Predictable." I plot a course through Alliance approved travel lanes, almost perpendicular to her own, keeping a healthy distance between us at all times. The lane's busy enough that one more vessel following standard protocol won't raise any flags.
My PerComm chimes with clearance codes as I pass each checkpoint. The border patrol barely glances at my credentials - another advantage of maintaining a spotless record. Amazing how many doors open when you play by the rules.
But even I have to hand it to her: she must have a damn good navigator on board. They're practically gliding through space debris fields without missing a beat. The kind of maneuvers I'd like to try my hand at, if I wasn't so keen on keeping my record shiny enough to get me in the places that mattered.
The red dot veers slightly. I adjust my course, maintaining distance while I check the new trajectory.
"Erebus?" I tap the navigation display. "Interesting choice."
The smuggler's ship descends toward a tiny hideaway port on the Non-Aligned League planet's surface. Smart move - Erebus is a common refueling stop on this route. Nothing suspicious about a quick pit stop.
I bring my ship down two bays over, positioning myself with a clear view of their vessel. The beacon's signal grows stronger as I power down my engines.
"Time to earn that bounty." I check my weapons - stunner set to maximum, restraints secured at my belt. Everything in its place, just like the military taught me.
Through my viewport, I watch Jesse's crew preparing for their stop. Taluk emerges first, his scales catching the harsh port lights. Then Jesse, her red hair unmistakable even at this distance. Then another woman who stretches dramatically, like she's trying to touch the sky.
No sign of Xander, understandably so, but it's starting to look like he's been left unattended. Unless he was annoying enough for them to dump him in the debris field.
"Here we go," I say to myself as I make my way towards the rust bucket ship.