1
Zzzt-pop.Zzzt-pop.
Each flicker from the fluorescent light in the storage room drove another spike into Emily's skull.She pressed her palms against her eyes for a moment, then sighed, trying not to breathe in the basement’s less than fragrant odor of wet wool and industrial bleach, or the faint tang of musty clothes.
"Careful with that box, Em," Amelia grunted, sliding a crate of canned peaches across the concrete floor."Bottom's rotting out.If we lose the peaches, the Tuesday night crew will riot."
"I got it," Emily said, wiping a smudge of dust from her cheek with her shoulder.She hoisted a box of donated winter coats onto the metal shelving unit.It was heavy, awkward, and smelled like mothballs.
But she loved it.
She loved the lack of pretense.No one here gave a flying rat's ass about her last name or her mother's social calendar.Here, she was just Em, who could de-escalate a fight over a bunk in seconds and organize the pantry like a quartermaster.
Ripping open the top of the box, she snorted.Right on top lay a pristine, white cashmere coat with the tags still on.Soft, expensive, it was utterly impractical for real life."Look at this.Who donates white cashmere to a homeless shelter?"
Amelia leaned on her broom."Someone who’s never actually met a poor person?”
Emily shoved it aside, digging for the sturdy parkas beneath."I’ll take it to the consignment shop down the street.We can trade it for fifty pairs of thermal socks."
Her wrist unit vibrated.Not the gentle buzz of a text, but the jarring, teeth-rattling pulse of a Priority Alert.Frowning, she dropped the parka to shake her wrist, but the vibration refused to stop.It was the specific, high-pitched ping reserved for government emergencies.
"Is that you?"Amelia asked, looking at her own silent wrist unit."Is there a weather warning?"
"I don't know."Peeling off her work glove, Emily tapped the screen.The damn thing had better not be on the blink again.
The holographic display flared to life, projecting a gold-and-black crest into the dusty air of the storage room.The symbol was sharp, aggressive… stylized wings wrapping around a planet.Her eyes widened as she recognised it.It was the symbol of the Latharian Empire.
CANDIDATE: EVANS, EMILY J.STATUS: MATCH CONFIRMED.CLEARANCE: ULTRAVIOLET.IMMEDIATE TRANSPORT REQUIRED.
The breath left her lungs in a rush.She stared at the floating letters, but her brain refused to process them.
"Uh, Em?"Amelia peered over her shoulder at the holographic projection hovering above her wrist."Is that...is the alien thing?The mate program?”
"It’s spam," she said.The crest rotated slowly."I must have clicked a bad link on the supplier manifesto or something.”
She tapped ‘dismiss’.
The message didn't vanish.Instead, the unit buzzed—a harsh, angry error tone and the text shifted, scrolling rapidly.
CANDIDATE: EVANS, EMILY J.
GENETIC MARKERS: VERIFIED.
SOURCE: CLINICAL SAMPLE 44-B [REF: DR.ALLINSON].
STATUS: MATCH CONFIRMED.
"Dr.Allinson?”She froze, her finger hovering over the screen.
"Who's Dr.Allinson?”Amelia asked, stepping closer, her brow furrowed."Your doctor?"
“No.He’s my mother’s doctor."
Her stomach bottomed out, and the scent of bleach and stale peaches vanished.
“Shit, the blood draw…” She’d thought it was a lot of vials for a cholesterol check.
The appointment had been three weeks ago and her mother had been insistent…“It’s just a preventative screening, Emily.It runs in the family.Do it for my peace of mind.”
