And then she turned.
Looked back through the closing doors at the poster one last time.
The alien warrior's arm around the human woman. The promise of somewhere else. Someone else. Something else.
The signing bonus paid upon acceptance.
All relocation expenses covered.
The doors slid shut. The train pulled away, taking the poster with it.
But Harper had the image saved on her comm unit. Had the contact information. Had the first real choice she'd made in twenty years.
This or nothing.
This or they were both homeless by Christmas.
Delilah linked her arm through Harper's as they climbed the station stairs toward street level. "So are you going to do it? Sign up for the alien thing?"
Harper's fingers found her scar again, pressed against the ridge of tissue that proved she was a survivor.
She always survived.
Maybe it was time to do more than just survive.
"We'll see," she said, and let Delilah interpret that however she wanted.
Kirr hit the transport bay at a pace just short of a run, Kellat keeping stride beside him. The emergency call had pulled them both from Maax's bonding celebration—multiple females in critical condition, underground location, garbled transmission that cut off before they got clear coordinates. Every second mattered when lives hung in the balance.
The bay stretched out before them in familiar lines—high ceilings, massive docking stations, the hum of idling ships mixing with the clank of maintenance equipment. Night shift meant reduced personnel, but the assigned drop ship should be prepped and ready. They'd be in the air within five minutes. Had to be.
Kirr's jaw clenched as he spotted the cluster of junior officers near their assigned berth and the maintenance crew swarming the drop ship like ants on a carcass.
"War-Commander." The lead transport officer stepped forward, datapad in hand. Young. Too young to understand that protocol killed people when you let it slow you down. "I'm afraid there's been a complication with?—"
"Status." Kirr didn't break stride, moving past the officer toward the ship. He cataloged the problem before the explanation finished—hydraulic fluid pooling beneath the port landing gear, access panels open, tools scattered. Mechanical failure. Draanth.
"Hydraulic system malfunction, sir. The tech crew estimates forty minutes for?—"
"Forty minutes." Kirr's voice came out flat. Cold. He turned to face the officer and watched the younger male's posture shift, shoulders straightening. "You're telling me we have females in critical condition on Earth and you want me to wait forty minutes while you follow proper repair protocols?"
The officer's throat worked. "Sir, safety regulations require?—"
"I'm aware of safety regulations." Kirr's hands stayed loose at his sides, but his voice dropped lower. Command tone. The one that made warriors who'd faced combat freeze in their tracks. "What ship is ready for immediate launch?"
“My lord, with respect, proper authorization channels need to be?—"
"What. Ship."
Silence filled the bay. Even the maintenance crew had stopped working, attention drawn by the shift in atmospheric pressure that happened when Kirr M'Aab ran out of patience.
The officer's fingers moved over his datapad, each tap echoing in the quiet. "Sir, we'd need to pull crew from off-shift rotation, reassign personnel, file emergency override paperwork?—"
Kirr moved. Three strides brought him into the officer's space, close enough that the younger male had to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. Close enough that every warrior in the bay saw exactly who held authority here.
"I'll ask one more time." Kirr's voice stayed level. Controlled. The kind of calm that preceded violence. "What ship is ready for immediate launch?"
The datapad trembled slightly in the officer's hands. "Prince Rohn's personal shuttle, sir. It completed routine maintenance this morning and is fully fueled, but?—"
