Page 17 of Claimed by the Alien Assassin

JOSIE

T he station platform is a glare of polished metal under alien sunlight that never felt warm. Klein haze hovers near the treetops in the prefabs, borrowing from early morning mist of the rainforest. But today’s mist doesn’t soften—it feels staged, artificial, like the curtain before the show.

And Kernal’s smiling.

Oh, he is smiling . Wide enough that the sun hides behind his arrogance.

Flanked by Vortaxian guards whose armor mirrors his vindictive polish, he stands on the raised dais and pronounces in his booming tone that this is a day of Unity —a celebration, he says, to honor the Vortaxian Empire’s benevolence .

I stand in the back row of colonists—thin line of humans standing like cattle waiting for tags. My jaw is tight. My hands are wrapped around the spokes of my folded comm pack so hard I can taste metal at my fingertips.

He smiles again, teeth glinting against his fleshy round face. He gestures grandly. “Today, we feast! Music, dance, loyalty!”

Behind him, streamers unfurl, slightly sticky to the touch, shimmering ivory and gold. My voice trembles with sarcastic disbelief. “He’s throwing us a party? What’s next, death balloons?”

Dayn steps next to me, shifting sideways so I can’t glare too obviously. His hand brushes mine—solid and sure, grounding me. Good thing. Because beneath the sarcasm, the worry’s blooming—like fissure of heat under my ribs. This isn’t just showmanship; this is the trap . I know it. We know it.

Another colonist leans near, voice low and shaky. “Why are we here?”

I glance at her. “Because if he said tomorrow we all got haircuts that made us look like Vortaxians, people’d line up in craters and smile.”

She smiles back. More fear-based than anything else.

Drummers start, low rhythms thrum in my chest—a heartbeat turned into battlefield call. A Vortaxian dancer pirouettes in front of the dais; his armor jingles like wind chimes in doom. Kernal laughs, and the sound shakes metal plates.

I watch the crowd’s hesitation melt into a forced cheer. Claps follow, slow—like a stream trying to wake from winter.

I press my thumbprint into my comm pad. Just practice. My words are soft, clipped. “Team Delta—stand by. Facial sensors are scrubbed. We need to keep their eyes off the east flank zone.”

Tessa is next to me, knees slightly bent in ritual readiness. “And synchrony?”

“Group Omega’s planting the diversion crates along the corridor. Tonight’s show gets us cover.”

Hargon glances toward the stage. “Can’t wait for deejay,” he mutters.

I smirk. “Save your energy. We’ve got a different beat to drop later.”

Dayn squeezes my hand. “Whatever happens, I’m right next to you.”

I turn, nose bleeding a little from adrenaline—because I believe him. Need him right next to me. “Good. Because I’ve never had more reason to.”

The gala blasts on. Officers serve trays of sliced fruit, thickly sugared pastries that could be used as explosives if anyone bothered long enough. Plasticky, unripe, and somehow symbolic. I slip a lemon wedge to Dayn—he sniffs it, wrinkles his nose. “Tastes like war?”

I grin. “Citrus flashbang.”

He laughs—a soft rumble beneath the ceremony’s clamor.

I look around. Children dancing to Vortaxian music, drunken colonists—it’s surreal, warped. I lace my fingers through Dayn’s. We’re in the crowd, but not of it.

Behind the dais, Kernal’s speech drones on: Unity, Loyalty, Resistance Is Treason. The words are razor-edged, aimed at digestion.

My heart splinters.

Dayn’s jaw sets. I lean close. “Now.”

He inclines once. My crew eases into action: Hargon and Tessa slip away into the crowd's perimeter, Delta team glides toward the east flank, loading devices. They disappear like shadows in tracks of metal.

The performance carries on—windmachines, Vortaxian choir singing triumph falsely lined with terror.

I press a thumb against Dayn’s palm. We hold, silent choreography of warriors in disguise, ready to turn the stage into an uprising.

They don’t suspect the saboteurs who press circuit packs into vent grates behind the dais. The devices faintly pulse red—set to go in four hours, just after the gala’s climax.

My breathing steadies. Music roars—invasive, suffocating.

Dayn leans close. His voice is steel. “You ready to lead?”

My throat closes. Every sound is amplified—the faux-merry music, the hum of the crowd, my own pulse.

I lift my chin. “We’re dancing with knives today.”

He nods. “Then dance like you mean it.”

The gala reaches its crescendo. Vortaxian banners wave; guards raise their carbines for show. My comm is silent, phantom grip.

Then—I give the signal.

My voice, low but carrying: “Now.”

Delta team ignites the first row. Corridors flash with strobe of smoke grenades—pop pop pop. Crowd panics. Guards spin. Music warps as speakers cut out.

Children cry. I step forward, lifting my voice: “Citizens of Snowblossom! The time has come!”

A hush falls—sharp as ice.

Dayn stands beside me. He sees the fire in my eyes, mirrors it with his own.

“This is our Unity!” I continue, voice rising, smelling cordite and human breath—a symphony of awakening. “Not submission. Not spectacle. Resistance! ”

The crowd parts, stunned and ragged.

“Tonight," I scream, “we stand together—not for empire, but for ourselves!”

Guards level weapons. I raise my hand.

Dayn’s other arm sweeps behind me in solidarity. The room crackles with potential. Fear meets defiance.

Kernal’s stern bark echoes down. “Seize them!”

Guards hesitate. Some not willing to shoot humans. Some. Not. Willing.

Delta team flames the next trap.

Chaos blooms. Smoke, screams, shouts of freedom.

My heart pounds. My voice roars again, overlaid with hope chafed sharp. “This is our unity. Together, we fight.”

I look at Dayn. His face is half-shadows, half-promise. We’re standing on chaos now—but for the first time, the war doesn’t feel impossible.

We are unity.

I’m wearing a smile that feels like armor—bright, practiced, even a little mischievous.

The gala spirals into rebellion, and I’m playing the role of the harmless colonist with perfect timing: a nod here, a passed toast there, each gesture cradling instructions nobody suspects.

The gleaming column behind me hides a stash of firecracker charges rigged into dessert forks—delicate saboteurs in the heart of the feast.

“Kernal!” I call, lifting my glass of unsuspecting fruit punch (lab-grown cherries included), and he glides into view.

His bulky grin broadens—he thinks I’m toasting empire loyalty.

I touch my glass to his, words smooth: “To unity,” I say, voice hushed enough so only he hears.

Under the rim, a micro-etched symbol—trigger for the next phase—catches his eye.

He doesn’t notice the timing system click-ing in his mind, but our rebellion will.

Behind colorful curtains, Dayn lingers—watching us dance rather than scheme. His eyes narrow sometimes, the faintest flicker of steel jealousy shading them. I steal a quick glance at him; he catches me, jaw tightening. He mutters low: “You shouldn’t touch evil pudding.”

The dessert forks click against champagne flutes like ice shards in peace. I arch a brow, voice playful: “Relax, assassin. I’m just flirting for a cause.”

Moments later, we slip behind a curtained storage alcove. I slide close, breath soft with daisies and daring. I kiss him—sharp, fierce—and whisper, “All in good faith.”

He smiles, voice dry. “I trust your faith.”

On the main floor, the toasts continue as coded chaos unfurls: the first forks trigger micro-nukes of spark that ignite smoke grenades; laughter twists into panic as the crowd scatters.

But our colonists—trained to the signal—begin handing out secret passes under pant cuffs.

Each one, a promise: “Meet me at the east gate, now.”

I step onto the platform again—my smile magnetic, the pandemonium muffled by our coded burst. I clap my hands, voice vibrant: “Celebrate! Tonight, we stand as one!” My arms sweep across the room; I can feel the strain in Dayn’s gaze.

He’s watching me work magic—turning distrust into purpose, turning a gala trap into an uprising.

The Vortaxians here are stunned, hesitant. Some raise rifles—but their uniformed bravado quivers. The embers of rebellion flare.

Dayn passes me late, kisses my cheek. Whispered: “You’re maddening—but brilliant.”

I wink. “Come dance with me after we reset the perimeter.”

He exhales, jaw softening. “Lead.”

By the time the gala’s fireworks—actual celebratory ones—erupt in the sky above, the rebellion has seized control of three entrance gates. Food stands become weapon holds; bunting hides barricade wires; balloons are repurposed as concussion devices. The crowd turns from celebration to uprising.

In the final flare of the night sky, I find Dayn and pull him into the newly conquered stage. I press close, heart pounding in my ears. “We did it.”

He brushes paint-spackle from my cheek. “We did.”

Music begins again—reclaimed tune, stronger, human. We clasp hands against the noise, and in that heart-thunder moment, I realize we are unity: laughter, cleverness, violence, hope, and love, all cracked and bleeding together.

The crowd’s pulse trembles beneath my boots—tentative, desperate—as Colonel Kernal grips the megaphone.

The festive lights behind him still glow like false dawns, but his announcement slashes through the air, colder than any orbiting void.

“By order of the Vortaxian Empire,” he intones, voice greasy with false sympathy, “We will be relocating all children and the elderly immediately for their safety.”

He said safety. But I taste the command for what it is: leash tightened, hostage lines drawn. A power play disguised as concern. My gut twists.

“No,” I whisper, but the crowd hears. Whispers spread like infection: “They’re taking our kids.” “They want hostages.” Faces around me shift—baby-faced miners, mothers clutching baskets, old men swaying with fear. This isn’t unity. It’s petrifaction.

Dayn slides beside me—arm around my waist, shoulder hiding mine. I lean in. “They’re doing exactly what they want.”

He nods, voice low with ice. “Keep calm.”

I seethe—makes me taste metal in my mouth. Today we saved gates. Tonight we had momentum. And now he’s paralyzed us with a hostage play—and it’s working.

Children trail away in guarded lines, old folks shuffled toward hover-shuttles. Colonists stand, mouths dry, obedience programmed into every flicker of their eyes.

I swallow, heart thudding. “They can’t take them,” I whisper. “Not them .”

Dayn’s jaw tightens. “Then we don’t give them a choice.”

Something kindles inside me—anger sharpened by betrayal. We need hope more than sabotage now. We need a victory. Not rolling debris and delayed patrols. We need the Vortaxian capital ship off the ground.

I turn to him. “We hit the ship.”

He blinks. “The capital ship? Josie, that’s?—”

I cut him off. “Not sabotage. Assault. Full. We either take that ship, or they hand over at least ten thousand souls because they proved space land.”

His eyes go distant. “Do you realize how insane that is?”

My fingers grip his jacket. “Do you realize they just kidnapped children?”

He swallows. Slowly. “If we pull this off… we break them. We free everyone. We end this occupation.”

I place a hand on his cheek. “You believe that?”

His silver eyes glimmer. “With you? I’ll walk through a star to make that real.”

The rally behind us starts to stir—word of the announcement spreading, rumor and rage mixing with despair. The next plan needs to set the tide again—choosing to save all of them .

I reach out, placing both hands around his neck. “Then we build rockets.”

I meet with the core team. Inside the commandeered telecom bunker, we plot with frantic maps, improvised schematics, and frightened hope. Vortaxian defense codes, orbital readouts, thermal exhaust specs—all scrawled across holo-tables. Tessa rubs her eyes. Hargon taps a console.

“This is madness,” he says sharply. “We’re Joes and Hans. Not orbital marines.”

I level with them. “But if we don’t fight them —they’re going to make us nothing.”

Dayn steps forward. “We won’t land on their ship. We take an approach vector from the bay cluster—they’ve stripped crew rotations for the gala. We slip in, disable communications, then hit the command bridge.”

Murmurs ripple. I add, “Promise we extract civilians first. While they're focused on compliance crates, we’re pulling kids and elders. Then we do the strike.”

Hargon shakes his head. “Full frontal into orbit. People will die.”

I breathe hard. “We’ve lost souls already on the ground. This is for them.”

Silence cracks. Then Tessa says quietly, “I’m in.”

Others nod, loud enough for fear to fold into courage.

Dayn takes my hand. “We do this together.”

My muscles clench and relax; adrenaline hisses. “Start prepping. We leave tonight.”

They leave the bunker. I touch the holo-screen, the colonist faces still blinking in live feed. Kid’s laughter from earlier fades, echo in memory. Every rebel holds purpose now.

Dayn squeezes my hand. “We’re going to space.”

Soft tremor in his voice. “Together.”

I swallow. “Together.”

The plan is insane. But I taste its truth on my tongue: hope again licking earth’s dust.

Because this night, we aim not just to resist—but to win.