Page 9 of Claimed By the Condemned Alien

“Kharon-Veil.”

A murmur passed through the guards. Kesta felt the name before she understood it. The alien on the gurney had known.

“I request appeal.”

“Appeal is unavailable after civil death.”

“What does that mean?”

The avatar’s expression did not change.

“It means Kesta Frank is deceased as of this judgment.”

A printer beside the tribunal produced a narrow white strip. Her death certificate. One guard avoided looking at it. Another fastened a black transport band around her throat.

As they led her away, Kesta saw Major Senn standing beyond the chamber glass. He had cleaned her spit from his cheek. He watched her with the mild interest of a man observing a problem removed. Kesta curled her injured hand against her stomach. The officers had confiscated the medical cuff. They had searched her clothing, scanned her bones, and washed the blood from her skin. They had not found the sliver of memory crystal she had pushed beneath the torn flesh of her palm.

The dead, Kesta thought as the transport doors closed, did not breathe.

But apparently they could still carry evidence.

CHAPTER TWO

Eleven Minutes

The empire processed its dead efficiently. Within six hours of Kesta’s tribunal, her name disappeared from the hospital roster, her quarters were sealed, and her financial accounts transferred to the state. A custody clerk recited the losses while scanning her irises.

“Property rights terminated. Contract rights terminated. Familial notification deferred. Medical license void. Citizenship void.”

Kesta sat naked on a metal bench beneath a decontamination spray and tried not to shiver.

“Familial notification?” she asked.

“Next of kin will receive notice of death.”

“My brother is on a mining station beyond relay range.”

“Then he will receive it when available.”

“He’ll think I’m dead.”

The clerk looked almost puzzled. “You are legally dead.” Kesta laughed once. The sound was ugly in the tiled room. A guard shoved a gray shift through the slot. “Dress.”

The fabric had no pockets. Of course it did not. She pressed her wounded palm against her thigh while pulling the shift over her head. The crystal beneath her skin burned with every movement.

They fitted a narrow collar around her throat. Unlike the transport band used at tribunal, this one carried a translation node, pulse reader, and shock contact.

“Tampering will trigger restraint,” the clerk said.

“Restraint meaning pain?”

“Restraint meaning compliance.”

The answer followed her through three security doors and into a holding compartment already occupied by two women. The first sat cross-legged on the lower bunk, copper-colored hair braided tightly against her skull. She looked Kesta over with the calm concentration of someone assessing an injury.

The second paced the narrow aisle. She was younger, perhaps twenty-two, with a swollen lip and a strip of torn cloth tied around one wrist. The door sealed behind Kesta.

“Another volunteer,” the red-haired woman said.