Page 18 of Claimed by the Alien Assassin

DAYN

I stare at Josie as though she's grown a second head—planets colliding, fire and wonder in her eyes. “We’re going to assault a Vortaxian capital ship?” My voice is low, ragged with incredulity. She nods. No hesitation.

It feels simultaneously brilliant and suicidal.

The rebel command bunker is dim except for holo-screens mapping the ship’s docking bay—the one scheduled to receive shipments at midnight. Its precision glow casts angles of tension across her face. She studies the layout as a sculptor studies marble.

“This is insane,” I whisper. Insane but terrifyingly perfect.

She tilts her head, expression steady. “So?”

Blood hammers against my ribs. I pace, boots clicking—only thing keeping me from pacing wildly. “Suicide.”

Her mouth quirks. “With stolen fusion blocks, we force-launch the ship before the Vortaxians can lock ground control. It becomes a bomb in orbit—or at least disables their supply chain.”

I stop, grip the console edge. “If one timer fails or feed valve… boom. We’re inside a pressure vessel melting in space.”

She shrugs—flat, fearless. “Well. We weren’t planning to live forever, right?”

I swallow the acid in my throat.

“This night, we do two things: take them away from us, and show colonists we can win big . Tell them it’s not just survival—it’s reclamation.”

Distant thrum of rebel boots echoes in the corridor—the tremor of souls choosing hope. I look at Josie . . . how she stands there, luminous in conviction.

I grit my jaw. “Am I insane for wanting to help?”

A playful spark flashes across her eyes. “Let’s call it truth.”

I exhale slow. “Truth is this: I live for chaos. But this . . . this is all annihilation in a single breath .”

She smiles faintly. “Then make it count.”

We assemble in the shuttle bay minutes later—Hargon, Tessa, two teens from the ridge, and us. Trenches of tension etch every face. Fuel lines hiss. Engines rumble cold.

We gear up in salvage-plate armor—too heavy for boarding but necessary for interior burst hazards. I strap on an old plasma pistol, the weight familiar and reassuring.

Josie taps my arm. “You okay?”

I nod, throat tight. “If we do this, there’s no coming back.”

She cups my jaw with one scaled-fingertip. “Come back with me.” Her voice trembles just enough that I believe her.

At docking time, our stolen transfer craft settles onto the ship’s underbelly. Magnetic tethers lock with a click. It smells of anti-freeze and burning ozone—recycled god-knows-how-often.

Inside, we move like predators: delayed lights flicker overhead. They’ve gutted the crew quarters for the gala, so most corridors are empty. My pulse hammers—this is malevolent poetry.

I cover Josie’s flank as she hacks a console, bypassing security feeds.

“Fusion blocks in place?” I whisper.

She nods, lines of concentration carved across her brow.

We advance toward the core—an infernal room humming with reactors and thrusters, humming lullabies of death. She slams open panels, begins rigging charges. Sparks hiss. The heat is oppressive—like a furnace tailored for dying.

Tessa covers the door. Hargon sets the timing sync. I stand watch, gun drawn, adrenaline and terror coiling in my chest like twin serpents.

Josie’s voice cuts the haze: “Four minutes to launch — then we eject.”

My jaw clenches. “We just hijack them?”

She grins—bright enough it could melt steel. “We smuggle their pride into the void.”

Footsteps—metal on alloy. Not ours. They’ve returned early. Four Vortaxian crew materialize at the corridor mouth. Their stances are disciplined; recognition flickers.

Tessa steps up. “Issue with docking.”

The officer steps forward, pistol raised. “What are you doing here?”

I raise mine instantly. “Clear the hall—now.”

He hesitates. Our team positions around him in seconds. I taste tension in the air—smoke, sweat, fear.

He’ll die unless he stops one word. He steps back. “You’re—insane.”

“You think this is madness?” I snap. “Try this: letting them paralyze us and take our children.”

He lowers his weapon. “What is it you seek?”

I glance at Josie; she nods. “Their ship.” I feel weight in my voice. “Our hope.”

He slumps, face hollow.

The corridor hum softens—understanding, dread, or relief. I can’t parse.

Back in the core room, alarms chirp a warning. Hargon is scrambling circuits. Josie finishes the final weld: “We have ignition.”

I help haul heavy panels into the emergency airlock. Pressure hisses; we cram through the hatch—blood pounding—just as the rumble starts.

The ship shudders. Lights flicker red. I taste ozone. Josie shoves the solenoid release—doors slam shut behind us. We’re sealed in the cargo spine.

Up above, I feel a shift. The docking clamps disengage with a shuddering groan. We hear the gasp of millions of gallons of air drawn into breach-muffled roar.

I press a hand to the hull, feel the outside beginning to… tremble. Then vibration surges through the deck. This is it.

Outside, the megaship lifts—lurching away from the planet in defiance. Above us, massive engines flare.

We duck—metal bends overhead. Lights burst. Smoke chokes. Fire blooms across grates. My heart roars.

“Haven’t died yet?” Josie shouts.

I grin with bitter pride. “Not today.”

We stagger out into the hangar—ship still moving skyward. Colonists and rebels spill into view, awed. Some cheer. Some weep.

Josie stands beside me, hair singed, face streaked with soot and sweat.

We watch as the capital ship drifts—leaders snuffed mid-arrogance—bound for orbit but severed from colonization.

Hope ignites.

She touches my arm. “We did it.”

I scan the faces—my heart curls with fierce loyalty.

“We will win this,” I murmur. “Together.”

She smiles, fierce as dawn. And for the first time, the stars feel like ours again.

I stand in the open hangar, the residual hum from last night's operation still vibrating in my bones. Around me, we’re assembling an army—of farmers and miners, not soldiers.

Flicking a glance at the dozen-odd faces gathered before me, I swallow.

Each one grips improvised weaponry: irrigation-tube catapults, handheld railcrush tasers, even gardening rakes reforged with jagged edges.

It looks absurd on paper—and terrifying in practice.

Josie stands beside me, face shining with purpose, offering that steady warmth I trust more than any armor.

She’s arranged kits for each fighter, modified sacrifice detonators wired into canister grenades disguised as supply scraps.

The sight makes a pit grow in my gut: brilliant, yes, but damned dangerous.

I clear my throat. “Alright, team. We’re not Marines. We’re scrappers. But that works to our advantage. You know this land better than any uniformed force ever could.”

A miner named Voss—hard lines etched into his features—etches forward, catapult cradled like a rifle. “So, erm… how do we use one of these?” He gestures at the long PVC barrel strapped to his shoulder.

I step forward, sliding a glove across the polished tube. “Think of it like a trebuchet. These irrigation tubes are pressurized—you calibrate pressure, release a valve, and it fires a mesh-pack with flash charges. Step one: aim low and fast.”

Children perch on crates nearby, toy drones humming overhead like curious flies. I glance up; a ten-year-old pilot hovers a drone so close I can almost see the wires. The little girl cycles the craft back and forth, eyes bright and hopeful.

Catching her gaze, I nod, and she grins. I step back and continue. “These are your eyes in the sky. If you spot Vortaxian patrols forming—call it in.”

The girl tilts her head, voice steady: “Like birdwatching?”

“Exactly,” I reply. She nods solemnly, and I marvel at how quickly she shifts from polite colonist to wartime scout.

Temperature climbs as the morning sun peers over the rooftops.

I lead them through drill layouts: entry ambush, rapid barricade deployment, extraction vector patterns.

Their lack of training gives them unpredictability, and we bake it into their methods: metal noise mines buried beneath rubble, sound grenades strapped to lamp posts.

They’ll all bear the fruit of rebellion soon.

I pause, taking in their faces: the seamstress-still clutching her knitting needles, the retirees clutching shovel blades repurposed as short swords. It should terrify me—putting non-combatants into conflict—but I feel something else: pride.

“Good,” I say, feeling the roughness in my voice—calloused, weighed with truth. “You’re learning. You’re growing stronger with every loop and shuffle. Today, we carve memories into this colony. Tomorrow, we drive them off our planet.”

Soft laughter drifts from Josie’s side. She’s already disarmed a crabby technician with charm, redirecting him to help tweak the irrigation tubes until they whistle like angry wasps.

My chest hammers. Her brilliance fuels them—and terrifies me. They trust her. Their hearts, swollen with hope, beat louder than any Vortaxian war drum.

In a pause, Josie sidles up, curling an arm through mine. “Hey, killer of impossible,” she murmurs.

I smirk. “Killer, right.” My eyes darken. “You keep doing miracles. I’ll?—”

She cuts me off with a slow grin. “I know you’re scared.”

I stiffen. “I’m not.”

She kisses my shoulder—scorching. “Yes, you are. But that's okay.” She nods toward the children arranging toy drones, their little fingers fumbling over controls with solemn care.

She steers me closer. “You’re doing this because you believe in them. Not just because you love me.”

Something roars in my gut—terrifying pride. I pull her in. “Aye.”

The children shout—muffled alerts sent through headset comms—and dozens scramble into action. Irrigation catapults rise, cords tangle, dust erupts. The rebels—imperfect, unpredictable—are alive.

I watch them go, thinking of all the wars I’ve waged alone, all the kills that left me hollow. Now, I stand amid hopeful chaos. I let dread curl in my chest only long enough to remind me how high we fly—and how far we could fall.

Then I shake it off and step forward, voice booming: “Remember the plan—ambush points, then regroup at the east ridge. And for the love of everything, keep that drone pilot fed.”

They laugh—whisper-shouting assent. Weapons clang. I watch them go, bounding after freedom like a half-trained pack of wolves.

I turn to Josie; she smiles, fierce and brave. Her leather glove brushes mine. “Loveliest chaos I’ve ever seen,” she says.

I nod. Then resolve steels in my bones. “Let’s go finish this.”

She drags me forward, the children drone-pilots buzzing overhead like dissonant angels. We move toward the ridge, ready to change the world—one makeshift missile at a time.