Page 32 of Destined For Her Alien Daddy

“Wow. That was almost sweet if you ignore every word choice.”

Brakk mutters, “I’m going to vomit into a battery casing.”

By the time I finish inspecting the outer approach to C-9, the site has entered its scheduled evening ration period. I find tool marks near the sealed excavation tunnel, thin scoring along the lower plate that confirms what the scan suggested. The intruder used a heat lance with a narrow beam and a patient hand. No scavenger trash. No careless tracks. No obvious explosives. No immediate ambush.

That worries me more.

The tunnel beyond the resealed plate exhales cold air through microscopic gaps. It smells faintly of ozone and old stone, but beneath both I catch a trace of something chemical. Sealant, perhaps. Or residue from equipment brought in and removed.

Something has come through there.

Or someone.

When I return to the mess module, conversation fades for one breath before rising again in altered form. That is another thing civilians do badly. They pretend not to notice danger, then notice the person assigned to handle it.

The mess is a long prefab room filled with folding tables, warming units, and the exhausted smell of reheated protein stew. Condensation beads along the windows where cold presses against the heated interior. Workers sit in clusters by specialty, species, and tolerance for one another. Alzhon technicians argue quietly over cable load. Human diggers shovel food into their mouths with the dull concentration of people too tired to taste anything. Brakk occupies one end of a table like a small, greasy monarch, guarding a bowl of stew and three stolen rolls.

Anita sits near the far wall with Teren and Sira-Vel.

My attention finds her before I choose to look.

She has changed out of her ruined coat, but dust still hides in the curls near her temples. She holds a spoon in one hand and argues with Teren through a mouthful of stew, which should be undignified. It is somehow not. Her animation fills the space around her. Her hands move when she talks. Her green eyes cut toward each idea as if pinning it in place. Sira listens with serene patience. Teren looks delighted to be verbally assaulted.

I take a tray from the warmer and choose a table across the room.

This is intentional.

This is wise.

This lasts six minutes.

Anita appears opposite me carrying her bowl and wearing the expression of someone who has decided subtlety is an underperforming tool. “Is this seat being occupied by your emotional unavailability, or can I sit?”

I look at the empty bench. “You may do what you want. You usually do.”

She sits. “Excellent. We’re growing as people.”

I continue eating.

She watches me for several seconds. “That was the part where you ask why I’m here.”

“I know why you are here.”

“Do you?”

“You want to argue about C-9.”

“I want to discuss it.”

“You begin discussions by breaking into locked rooms.”

“That is unfair. Sometimes I begin them by insulting officials.”

Despite myself, I nearly smile.

Her gaze catches the movement before I suppress it, and something softer passes over her face. It is gone quickly, buried under wit and caution, but I saw it. The sight unsettles me more than the arguments do.

She stirs her stew. “Sira says you believe in the Precursors differently than the Alzhon.”