Page 5

I’ve checked every way into the Alien Bride Race. The only thing I can do is get myself assigned as her personal security detail. I don’t have a contract, so I have to forge one. I don’t like breaking the law, but I’m not letting those greedy fucks lay one hand on her.

I cannot let the few good people who inspire hope in the lost like me be used and broken, or their kindness will be viewed as weakness.

I must get inside the lunar shield. Many have done so without permission in recent years, so I’m faced with extra security precautions.

Outside the windows of my ship, I look out at Earth’s only moon base, surrounded by opalescent shields. Two Terran patrols orbit the moon along with an Alien Bride Race cameradrone, no doubt broadcasting the pre-race feed. I watch it on one of my dash screens.

Zariah’s responses to her questions don’t surprise me. But I wonder what she said when they cut the camera.

Starships glint in the light of the sun as they enter the shield, all staying close to the few privileged human females lucky enough to grow up so safe and secure.

My screens blink green as they pull up the documents necessary for me to become assigned to protect Zariah. If I can’t get in on my own, I’ll have to hitch a ride like a leach in a suit—the old-school way. But I will get to her, whatever it takes.

A window flashes with the laws I can bend to get in. In my line of work, I don’t always work within the law.

I copy the regulations into a file I store in my wristband in case anyone challenges me. Then I fill out the ship inspection report, contract with Zariah, and all items I have to claim.

Weapons are not allowed.

Shit. How the hell are we supposed to protect our humans if we can’t use weapons?

I glance back at my racks of guns, grenades, shield bombs, and blades that line my ship’s interior. The only options are to take everything down and store it all in a crate in an isolation chamber or lock it all down for hyperspace.

“MONA, lock all weapons for hyperspace travel.”

Every rack behind me seals up, and the lights darken.

“Are we jumping soon, sir?” the soft, slightly masculine artificial voice asks.

“No.”

“Then I am to assume we are locking-up to conceal weapons for entry into the lunar shield.”

“A-firm,” I reply, looking through the forms again.

“May I suggest you take a look at this form? You have missed it.” MONA opens a document on a nearby screen.

Compensation form? Ugh.

I run a hand through my hair, trying to figure out what to put. I can’t charge her for a service she might not even want. I can’t say it’s free, or they’ll know something is up. I can’t have been hired by someone else to protect her because that opens a whole new folder of paperwork. I need this to be fast.

Scanning the rules MONA found, I select the only one that makes sense, one I’ve never used before.

A Life Debt owned by The Protected (as The Former Protector) can initiate a non-monetary contract if both parties are willing, for a duration as determined by The Protected and The Protector and mutually agreed upon.

I type out a statement of agreement I hope she will accept. Then I break the law and forge her signature from a shipping document I got my hands on years ago while I was tracking her.

When my documents are completed, I open a double-encrypted file and pull out the approval seals I need.

With my files notarized and ready, I grab a flash drive from a hidden storage compartment under my controls and plug it into my dash. I really hope you didn’t screw me, old friend.

My wristband buzzes softly, alerting me to a change in Zariah’s status. Her heart rate is up. Blood pressure is rising. I hope she’s just excited. I hope she’s not in trouble yet because I’m not there to keep her safe.

Sending the documents to the necessary organizations, I tag them with the program that runs and request that it backdate their arrival to thirty minutes before Zariah left the spaceport.

The files load into the Terran Security Headquarters’ Customs and Private Security Check-in sites. Then I send one to Abr.

The program’s cursor blinks over the date and time of all three files. Anxiety grows with every passing second that the creation and send dates and times don’t change. Then one switches. And the next. Finally, Abr shows it arriving before Zariah left.

Thanks, Aurelius. I owe you.

After one more check of my ship to be sure I’m going to clear their scan, I call the spaceport tower.

“Tower, Elix, disengaging from dock.”

“Elix, tower. One Lathelite approaching departure space. Hold your position.”

I could easily dart around them, but I don’t want to give anyone a reason to stop me and inspect my ship.

The helical Leosantian vessel passes, its crystalline facets reflecting the lights of Catalyst Five and the few green lights on my stealth model medical rescue transport. Its pace is frustratingly slow.

I grip my thruster controls, track the ship visually, strain to keep my control, and then punch it the moment the Lathelite is out of the way. Rocketing across Terran space, I fall into line with the other security ships, most of them broad-winged and oily black SolaTacks or light gray AtomicFires with a bold array of small blue thrusters coating their exteriors.

A few are one-offs like me, but I’m in the only Scintilla. I’m fairly certain I have the only one left in operation.

The ships ease into the gate in the shield. Port security flashes their lights at the ship ahead of me. It gets detained for what I wager is a torn aileron by the flecks of damage I can see on the aft section.

A replacement port security vessel glides up to me and hails onscreen. I accept.

“Deimos195, this is Lunar Security team Dragon Thirty-one to your starboard side. Please state your reason for requesting entry, your pilot registry number, and your certification as private security.”

They hover like a set of pinchers with a bubble between them. If I tried to make a run inside, they could pierce the ship, rotate and sandwich me in their grasp, or take me out from the front like a reverse repossession, targeting my engines with destabilized grenades in the weapons mounted to their long decks. I see it clearly as MONA flashes their capabilities over my screens. MONA then pulls up details about the team members. I see their faces, rank, and their bios.

“I am assigned as a personal guard to Zariah Landing. Pilot certification: 25947Dl691.”

“Elix Isorvas,” they call back. “Holy shit.”

A face blinks on my screen with a green bracket. MONA has matched voice patterns.

“Something wrong, Rory?”

“How do you know my name?”

“Private security badge SRTBW5691. It’s kind of my job,” I reply.

I hover in space, watching the lights beside the gate, hoping they turn my favorite color.

“You’ve been in battles all over the galaxy,” Rory says. “Special Forces, Nebulous Empire Recon, Medical Rescue.”

“I’m a multipurpose operator that just works personal security now.”

“Yes, of course. What color is the planet Aterna?”

“Yellow. Gold in the winter.”

I’m not sure what that question was referencing for him, except maybe to see if my backstory checks out.

“What does Zariah say is her favorite food?”

“Cheese. It’s hard to come by in space. She prefers mozzarella sticks, no sauce, extra garlic.”

“And your ship, are you carrying any weapons?”

“Only what is necessary to protect my client.”

Communication falls silent. I sit and wait, watching their ships, anticipating an attack. I don’t know what’s taking so long and fear they’ve contacted Zariah only to have her deny my assignment to her.

The lights flash green.

“You are cleared for entry. Please hover to the rear of the complex, opposite the race fields. Look for the gardens with the fountain. A light will switch green above your designated dock door.

“Understood. Thank you, Rory.”

As I reach for my throttle, he comes over the coms again.

“One more thing.”

I pause. “I’m listening.”

“You’re a target here.” His tone suggests it’s a warning, not a threat.

I sigh. “I’m a target everywhere.”

“Seems like a bad plan for private security.”

“I have my ways of dealing with it. Now can I get inside? My Protected is in distress. I must check in with her. Unless you need something else.”

“Apologies. Please attend to your Protected.”

“Thanks.” I smother a grumble of frustration and hope I’m not too late.