“Pick one,” I say as we roll into the shoe aisle, kneeling in front of a rack full of toddler boots with self-adjusting straps. “But only one, okay?”
Caelix grunts in agreement—his version of solemn promise—and reaches immediately for the ugliest, sparkliest blue pair with light-up heels.
I snort. “Seriously? These are hideous.”
He grins.
I grab the pair in his size, then let him hold the box while I scan the area—like always.
And that’s when I see them.
Three humans. Two Vakutan males. One more alien I can’t place, tall and skeletal with a loping gait and bright red ocular implants.
They aren’t shopping.
They’re watching.
Eyes sharp. Movements tight.
And worst of all—they’renot speakingto each other.
No idle chat. No wrist comms. No list checking.
Just… hovering.
Lurking.
Like vultures with blasters.
I freeze for half a second, then pivot the cart toward the escalator. My fingers tighten on the grip like it’ll steady my gut.
I snag a floor security officer near the snack plaza, keeping my voice low.
“There are five of them,” I whisper. “They’re scoping patterns. Not shopping.”
He frowns. “You sure?”
I gesture subtly. “I’ve seen it before. Watch their eyes. They’re testing line-of-sight and timing.”
He nods, mutters something into his cufflink mic, and turns toward the corridor.
Too late.
A sharp, synthesized voice booms across the intercom system—except it’s not the mall’s.
“This facility is now under control of AIV-Justice. Do not attempt to flee. Do not call for aid.”
The lights flicker. A low hum pulses through the ceiling.
Caelix drops the shoe box.
I scoop him up immediately, heart ramming into my throat.
The roughest-looking human—the one with the eye scar and that sadistic smile you don’t forget even in sleep—steps onto a display table like he’s about to preach.
“We are the abandoned. The used. The ones left behind after the galaxy had its war and wiped its hands clean.”
He sweeps a hand dramatically toward the security station, now empty.
