Page 19 of Claimed by the Alien Assassin

JOSIE

T he night of the assault arrives wrapped in a bone-deep chill that creeps beneath my collar and lingers in my lungs.

Frost clings to the edges of the colony’s outer scaffolds like silent witnesses, and every breath I take tastes faintly of iron and engine oil.

I secure the final strap on my tech-disguised work uniform, its drab fabric pressing tight against the explosives hidden beneath.

The service cart beside me hums softly—loaded with fusion hacks and disruptors disguised beneath panels of diagnostic cable spools and rusted coolant coils. It looks like a repair rig. It’s not.

Dayn passes by without a word, his body moving like shadow poured into flesh, lean and efficient. He pauses long enough to touch the edge of the cart with a callused hand and tilt his chin toward me.

“You ready, Engineer?” he asks, his voice a low scrape of gravel and warmth.

I plant my hands on the cart’s handle and push forward. “Born ready,” I say. Not a single tremor in my fingers. Not tonight.

We split without fanfare. He disappears into the dark with the breach team, and I veer left toward the logistics bay.

The cart squeaks on a bad wheel as I cross onto Vortaxian-controlled decking, just another tired tech with a busted payload and fake credentials.

I pass two guards who don’t even lift their heads.

Their laziness is a blessing I’ve bet my life on.

The interior corridors are wider than I expected, rimmed with pipes that hiss coolant and lighting strips that flicker at the corners like lazy ghosts.

The air smells sterile—burnt ionization, metallic undertones, a faint chemical sweetness from the recycled atmosphere that sticks to my teeth.

I keep my head down and my pace slow. The engineering level isn’t far, and my crew is already peeling off, disappearing into side rooms, ducts, maintenance hatches.

I reach the first junction, punch in my override code, and roll the cart through the heavy door.

Inside, the ship’s heart pulses—quiet and alive, the way an apex predator might sleep.

Fluorescent glow casts everything in cold blue.

I slide a micro-hack into the exposed circuit junction under a coolant exchange node.

It clicks into place like a heartbeat syncing with mine.

From here, it’s all steps—measured, precise.

A gentle override of the thrust regulators.

A bypass of the ship’s safety protocols.

A packet of high-density gel folded into the base of the cart where it’ll ignite the fuel lines just enough to throw off launch protocols.

Not to destroy. Not yet. But to ruin their timing, ruin their dominance. We’re not terrorists. We’re teachers.

“Team Two to Stage C,” I whisper into the mic embedded in my collar. Tessa’s voice responds a beat later—soft static, then confirmation. Everyone’s in position.

Footsteps echo faintly beyond the next bulkhead, a steady click of regulation boots. I duck behind the service cart and slow my breath until it’s near-silent. A Vortaxian maintenance crew passes by, half-arguing in clipped syllables I barely understand. They don’t even glance my way.

When they’re gone, I finish laying the last of the charges, threading trigger wire through the bottom panel’s exhaust piping. The setup is tight, cleaner than anything I’ve ever jury-rigged in a warzone. My palms are slick with sweat, but I’m steady. Always steady when it counts.

The engineering deck’s far wall thrums with power. I stare into the glowing core for a long second, watching plasma curl around containment coils like solar flares trapped in glass. This ship is alive. And I’m about to give it a seizure.

I push the cart toward the maintenance chute—an old dumbwaiter reprogrammed to dump payloads onto the launch deck. Just as I hit the door release, a voice crackles over my comm. It’s Dayn.

“Josie. Movement on your level. Patrol just doubled back.”

My pulse kicks up, but I don’t falter. “I’m ahead of them. I’ll reroute.”

“No heroics,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to that soft edge that always unspools something inside me. “Just get out clean.”

“Copy that, assassin.” I grin, teeth bared, as the cart sinks into the chute with a hiss.

Then I’m running—light, silent steps down a side corridor.

I can hear boots two levels above now, a barking voice issuing useless orders.

The team’s creating chaos on the other decks.

Our people are sowing confusion, tapping into systems with kids’ toys and mining gear.

I built this resistance like I build everything: fast, clever, and probably on fire.

The floor shudders. A low tremor rolls under my feet like thunder in metal bones. That’s our cart—detonating the thrust inhibitors. A flash of satisfaction burns through me. We did it. We actually did it.

I sprint toward the rendezvous, dodging a wall-mounted camera that blinks just a hair too slowly. When I burst onto the hangar floor, I find Dayn already there, crouched behind a cargo rack, rifle slung low. His eyes find mine immediately. “Explosion went off clean.”

“Systems are in chaos,” I say, chest heaving. “They’ll be grounded for hours.”

He pulls me into the shadow of a stack of cooling coils and presses a kiss to my forehead. “We live to fight another day.”

“Or tonight,” I whisper back, teeth flashing.

All around us, alarms scream. But through the chaos, something new rises—a chorus of resistance fighters in retreat, but not running scared.

Running together. Laughing, shouting, calling out names and victories as they flee into the colony’s night.

No casualties. Minimal damage to the ship. Maximum message sent.

When Dayn grabs my hand and pulls me toward the exit tunnel, I don’t hesitate. We bolt across the landing platform, the cold biting our cheeks, hearts hammering in sync.

I don’t look back at the capital ship until we’re safe in the hills. From here, it looks like a wounded predator—smoking, listing, humiliated. Still dangerous. But no longer invincible.

We built that. With scraps, smirks, and stubborn fire.

I didn’t expect awe to be part of tonight.

Even as my pulse hammers against the back of my throat, I find myself awestruck by the sheer scale and elegance of Vortaxian engineering.

Passing through the hatch, I press my palm against gold-plated circuit panels that hum with power, the warmth thrumming under my fingers like some living thing.

Force-field emitters pulse softly overhead—thin sheets of energy that shimmer like veils in light barely dimmed by tension.

The corridors breathe with silent hydraulics, their walls subtly expanding and contracting in the way a chest does, as if the ship inhales with quiet pride.

The scent of ozone clings to my clothes, sharp and chemical, layered over the richer warmth of the ship’s atmosphere.

It’s heady, intoxicating, like wheeling into clean power lines at high voltage.

A faint hum pulses underfoot—a deep thrumming bass note of reactors and thrusters housed deeper in the spine of the vessel.

Ahead, I can see junctions leading toward the core systems. My service cart, left just around the corner, holds my gifts: fusion blocks fitted with coded timers, each set to detonate in coordinated silence.

I leave one behind a maintenance panel—an innocent looking package among wires that shift with the living shimmer of conduit.

I slip another into the base of a force-field emitter at the next intersection, timer ticking quietly inside, invisible but potent.

With each placement, I feel both exhilarated and fearful—like I’m building darkness into a masterpiece.

Every breath tastes like a promise and a threat: I’m rewriting their power into vulnerability, repurposing their brilliance to crumble from the inside out.

But this place is a cathedral to warcraft. Every fuse box is polished chrome; every panel seam is perfectly flush, no loose edges. Joining plates carve protective curves. This isn’t brutality. This is elegance forged in ambition.

Time becomes a sharp sculpture. I set the last time-coded block just as I hear distant voices echoing down the corridor. They are low, clipped—Vortaxian guards doing rounds, their voices reverberating off the energized walls.

I freeze mid-breath, heart's rhythm spiking. The voices come closer. I risk a glance: two figures, armored suits polished to muted sheen, stride past less than six feet away. My hands press against the wall as I slide into a maintenance shaft—just big enough for me, wide enough for my hips and shoulders, tight enough to stifle big moves. The corridor’s low hum fades to a hollow replay in my ears. I hold my breath.

A bead of sweat trickles down my temple. The gold circuitry glints at my arm, a reminder of how close I am to a power they never meant me to touch.

They stop at the junction I just booby-trapped.

I can hear their facemask filters faintly—like distant breathing, measured and alien.

One of them murmurs and punches in a code, then moves on.

Their footsteps recede. My chest loosens.

I exhale, whispering a vow to every ancient sky their empire ever conquered.

A crackle in my comm. Dayn’s voice, low and constant comfort, cuts through the tension: “I’m at the breach point. Time to fly, sunshine.”

My lips twitch into a smile even as my gut clenches tighter. “On my way,” I whisper back, voice hushed to a feather. I wait another breath for the guards to fade into mechanical rhythm. Then I push myself upright against the wall, brushing dust from my uniform and steadying my shaking hands.

I return to the junction and grab my cart, sensing the fire inside each fusion block. The ship's hum kicks back in full volume as corridors come back online; I’m moving against the pulse, timed seconds from mayhem.