Page 14

SUBJECT: ELMSLEIGH, MARGARET.

THREAT ASSESSMENT: NEGLIGIBLE.

I pause in the middle of a corridor, my boots silent on the concrete. I mentally strike a line through the final entry and rewrite it.

THREAT ASSESSMENT: REVISED. CONSIDERABLE.

A civilian woman commanding an army of thousands in a world reduced to ash and warlords. She doesn’t carry a heavy weapon. She doesn’t possess the physical mass to intimidate. Yet, when she speaks, men with rifles hold their breath. The contradiction fascinates me. For centuries, my existence has been a parade of predictable outcomes and solved equations. I collect secrets. I dismantle lies. Nothing surprises me.

Until Margaret Elmsleigh’s red lips, twitching eyelid, and utter refusal to let me use her nickname.

I continue my exploration of the bunker, letting my superior senses map the layout of the space. I hear the distant thrum of generators, the rhythmic pacing of patrols, the hushed whispers of soldiers debating whether my plasma blade could cut through a tank. It can.

I wander away from the main thoroughfares, slipping past a checkpoint while the guard is busy checking his radio frequency. I find myself in a dimly lit storage sector. Crates of rations and ammunition are stacked against the walls.

A rhythmic, mechanical squeaking draws my attention.

From behind a stack of wooden crates, a small, battered machine trundles into view. It possesses a single squeaky tread, a chassis scarred by burns and deep scratches, and an articulated metal arm that looks like it belongs in a scrapyard. It bumps against the toe of my boot, whirs, and attempts to push me out of the way.

I tilt my head, crouching down. “What exactly are you supposed to be?”

The machine squeaks again, spinning its tread against the concrete in a futile effort to move an Avaren male.

“You lack the conversational grace of Kiko.” I tap a finger against its metal casing. The drone pauses, its arm lifting slightly, as if evaluating the threat. I inspect the exposed wiring, the crude pre-invasion mechanics. According to my nanites, it’s an explosive ordnance disposal unit. Primitive. Barely functional. A stiff breeze could likely disable it.

“Do not touch him.”

The voice is ice and steel. I don’t flinch. I simply turn my head, remaining crouched, and let my gaze travel up sensible black heels, tailored trousers, and a crisp white shirt buttoned to the collar.

Maggie stands in the doorway.

She has reapplied her lipstick, and the deep, violent red is absolutely flawless. Her dark brown hair falls in straight lines around her face, the curtain fringe framing large blue eyes that currently look like they want to set me on fire.

“I was merely introducing myself.” I rise to my full height in one fluid motion, enjoying the way she has to tilt her chin up to maintain eye contact. “He seems quite determined to occupy the space my boots currently require.”

“His name is Trevor.” Maggie doesn’t yield a single inch of ground. She stands perfectly straight, her arms folded across her chest. “And he is performing a perimeter sweep. You are obstructing his route.”

“Trevor.” I let the name roll over my tongue, dragging out the syllables. “Your automated defenses are adorable, Maggie. Though I suspect he might struggle against a Ghorvek. Unless his primary tactical function is to annoy them to death with that squeak.”

Her left eyelid gives a microscopic twitch. “He disables explosives. He has saved more lives in this bunker than you have, alien.”

“Orien,” I correct smoothly, stepping closer. “We are allies now. You can use my name. I promise I won’t charge you for the privilege.”

I stop just outside her personal space. Up close, the details of her face are magnetic. The harsh bunker lighting should wash her out, but it only highlights the sharp cut of her cheekbones and the fierce, unyielding set of her jaw. Avaren females are beautiful, ethereal creatures made of grace. Maggie is something else entirely. She is a fortress. She is a woman who has built a kingdom on a graveyard, and she wears her authority like a second skin.

It is profoundly, violently distracting. I find it difficult to look away from her mouth.

“I have work to do.” Her voice remains deadpan, entirely unaffected by my proximity. “I suggest you find something useful to occupy your time. Preferably in another sector.”

She turns on her heel and strides down the corridor, Trevor squeaking dutifully in her wake.

I watch her walk away, eyeing the sharp, purposeful sway of her hips. Warmth flares in my abdomen, a sudden rush of blood that catches me off guard. My twin hearts execute a slow, synchronized thump against my ribs.

UNUSUAL VITAL SIGN VARIANCE.

I smirk to myself, adjusting my dark synth-weave trousers. This assignment is going to be far more entertaining than I anticipated.

Two marks later, my enhanced hearing picks up the distinct cadence of a tactical briefing.