Page 13 of Destined For Her Alien Daddy

I step closer, enough that the overhead light catches the black ridge markings along my jaw in the polished storage wall. “Who?”

Jessa rubs her scarred fingers together. “Some off-site engineer. Message came through the contractor band.”

“Name.”

“I didn’t get one.”

“Do not waste my time.”

“I didn’t get one,” she snaps, and the anger sounds real enough to contain fear. “It was text only. Said the lower winch was throwing vibration faults and that if it seized, the western fracture scaffolds could drop. I checked because that is the sort of thing that gets people killed.”

“Show me the message.”

She hesitates.

I say nothing.

With a muttered curse, she pulls her compad and flicks the message into the air. The text is short, technical, and stripped of identifying markers. It instructs her to access lower winch bay, bypass a secondary lockout, and verify manual override function. Hidden inside the phrasing is a detail only someone with internal mapping data would know: the western fracture scaffolds do not draw from the lower winch unless the emergency grid is rerouted.

“Did you reroute anything?” I ask.

“No.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“No. But…” She looks toward the corridor, then lowers her voice. “When I left, I saw a relay drone outside the bay.”

Pell, standing beside me with his compad, looks up sharply. “We don’t use relay drones inside the lower structure. Too much interference.”

“I know what I saw.”

“What kind?” I ask.

“Small. Black casing. No lights. League make, maybe, but stripped. It was sitting against the wall like a dead bug. When I got closer, it woke up and zipped down a vent.”

Pell swears softly in Alzhon.

Jessa points at him. “Yeah. That was my reaction.”

I take a slow breath. Coolant stings the back of my tongue. “Did you report it?”

She looks away.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m a contractor on a League-funded dig full of people trying to make sure nothing embarrassing happens. You know what happens when people like me report weird black drones in restricted zones? We get drug tested, locked out, and replaced by somebody cheaper.”

Her bitterness is practical. That makes it trustworthy.

“Forward the message to Pell,” I say. “Then return to your quarters and speak to no one about this.”

Jessa’s eyes flick toward mine. “Are we in trouble?”

“Yes.”

She laughs once, without humor. “Well, that’s refreshing. Most people here say everything is under review.”

“Everything is always under review before it explodes.”