Page 3 of Destined For Her Alien Daddy

“It should be. The whole team’s been waiting for you. Well, half the team’s been waiting for you. The other half is convinced you’re going to say something academically explosive and get us all buried under nondisclosure orders.”

“Only if I’m having a good day.”

Teren shifts the cases with a grunt and nods toward the central pit. “Welcome to Nareth-Kul. It’s cold, it’s haunted in the purely metaphorical sense, and if you hear singing from below level four, no you didn’t.”

I look at him sharply. “Singing?”

He grimaces. “That was a joke.”

“Was it?”

“It was mostly a joke.”

Before I can ask the follow-up question any sane person would ask immediately, a small, broad-bodied Fratvoyan stomps out from behind a cargo sled, dragging a cable thicker than my wrist. He is covered in grease from the tips of his furred ears to the heavy boots strapped over his squat feet. A welding visor sits crooked on his head, and he has the general air of someone who considers personal hygiene a conspiracy invented by soap merchants.

“Terry, if you misplaced my coil spanner again, I’m feeding your implants to the waste grinder,” he snaps.

Teren closes his eyes. “Brakk, we discussed threats before introductions.”

“We discussed you not touching my tools with your skinny little panic fingers.”

“I borrowed one stabilizer clamp.”

“You borrowed a stabilizer clamp from a live generator.”

“It was barely live.”

Brakk turns and notices me. His gaze travels from my hood to my field boots to the credential tags at my hip, and his whiskered mouth curls into something like approval.

“You’re the new ruin reader.”

“I prefer exo-archaeologist.”

“Sure. I prefer independent contractor with reasonable hazard compensation, but everybody here keeps saying mechanic.” He spits to the side, though the saliva freezes in a sad little bead before it hits the ground. “Brakk.”

“Anita.”

“You got any sense?”

“Not enough to stay away.”

“Good. Sensible people slow things down.”

Merrow arrives beside me, breathing harder than the walk justifies. “This is exactly the sort of uncontrolled interaction I am trying to prevent.”

Brakk looks at him. “Are you still here?”

Merrow stiffens. “I am the League liaison assigned to this expedition.”

“Congratulations. Try liaising somewhere else.”

Teren makes a strangled sound that might be a laugh trying to survive in hostile territory. I decide immediately that I like both of them, which is terrible judgment on my part and therefore consistent with my professional record.

I gesture toward the main pit. “How far down have you mapped?”

Teren’s humor thins. He glances toward Brakk, then toward the ruins. “Officially? Three primary levels and a partial fourth.”

“And unofficially?”