Alien Assassin’s Heir

Chapter 1

LUNA

The suns are ruthless today.

I wipe the back of my hand across my forehead and smear more grime than sweat.

The viewport glass is a mess—streaked with dust, salt, and the occasional splatter from some bird-lizard hybrid that’s been dive-bombing the supply yard lately.

I make a mental note to run the window droids again, even though the damn things are about as efficient as wet paper in a reactor core.

The dry heat wraps around me like a static-charged blanket, clinging to my skin, my hair, my every breath.

Even in the command booth, which is technically climate controlled, the air feels thick.

Oppressive. Arkosh never pretended to be kind, and I stopped expecting kindness from the universe three years ago.

I lean back in my squeaky chair, listening to the familiar hum of the consoles as they pulse and chirp with new droid deliveries and outgoing fabrication tags.

Metal crates trundle past on mag-rails outside.

Droids with crablike manipulators shuffle from one end of the depot to the other, stacking shipments, scanning manifests, doing the work of thirty humans with none of the conversation.

Gods, what I’d give for a little conversation.

The com panel flashes green for a second—another routine inbound—then goes still. No one's walking up. No one's making surprise inspections. Wildwood Outpost is exactly what the name suggests: remote, forgotten, and blissfully boring. Which is exactly why I’m here.

No one in the Alliance sends reps this far unless someone’s already bleeding. And the Coalition? They wouldn’t waste the gas. Not here.

I close my eyes for just a breath, forehead resting on my hand.

The smell of scorched metal and lubricating gel clings to the air, mixed with a faint citrus note from the cheap cleaner Grinna insists on using in the breakroom.

My lower back aches from too many hours in this chair.

My fingers still twitch sometimes, like they’re still tapping out clearance codes for high-level IHC ops.

Old ghosts, those reflexes.

The console pings again, and I flick the switch, muttering, “Confirm incoming. Bay 3. Standard droid intake,” before the system can even finish the sentence for me.

“Thanks, Mom-puter,” I murmur sarcastically.

No one laughs. Of course.

A light knock against the booth’s side window startles me. I jolt upright, hand already on the holster under the desk—just in case. But it’s not a stranger. It’s her.

Solie.

Her mop of tangled blonde hair glints like a halo in the sunlight. She presses her tiny hands to the glass, her grin missing a tooth and somehow still managing to make my chest ache.

I buzz open the booth door and she barrels in like a missile, giggling.

“Mama!” she squeals, arms stretched wide. “Guess what? I found a lizard that sings!”

“Oh stars,” I mutter, scooping her up into my arms, sticky fingers and all. “Please tell me you didn’t bring it into the house again.”

She tilts her head, feigning innocence. “Maybe…”

“Solie Desmond.”

“His name’s Preech!”

I sigh and plop her into my lap, ignoring the soft stick of her sun-warmed skin against mine. She’s too small to know the world is dangerous. Too bright to understand the shadows I keep behind locked doors and buried truths.

And those eyes… suns above, those golden eyes. Same color as…

No. I won’t think about him. Not today. Not when the suns are shining and my daughter smells like dust and juice pouches and possibility.

Solie wriggles in my lap, pointing at the monitor. “Are those robots your friends?”

I laugh softly, brushing her hair back. “I guess. The quiet kind.”

“Why don’t they talk?”

“Because they’re smart enough to know silence is golden.”

She squints at me. “You always say that when you’re sad.”

I freeze. My hand lingers on her shoulder a beat too long.

“I’m not sad,” I say, though my voice cracks. “I’m just tired.”

She seems to accept that, nodding like a tiny sage, and slides off my lap. “Can I color on the walls?”

“No.”

“The floor?”

“Also no.”

“The window?”

I groan and ruffle her hair. “Fine. Just the corner.”

She scrambles toward the supply cabinet where I stash her things—crayons, holo-pads, that one ragged plushie shaped like a starwhale. I watch her as I sip lukewarm recaf, the bitter taste coating my tongue like regret.

She's getting older. Smarter. Quicker.

And changing.

It happens fast—too fast. One day she’s teething on fusion keys and laughing at shadows, and the next she’s standing in the tub, shifting.

It was barely a flicker. Scales rippling across her forearms like oil on water. Her pupils narrowing to slits, her baby teeth sharpening for just a breath before returning to normal.

But I saw it.

And so did she.

She didn’t cry. Just blinked up at me and said, “Mama… am I broken?”

Stars, I nearly did cry.

I sat on the floor, soaking wet, wrapped her in a towel, and whispered every lie I could think of that would keep her calm and keep her safe. “You’re perfect. You’re special. You’re my miracle, Solie. Nothing’s broken.”

But gods help me, I felt broken.

Because someday, she’ll ask about her father. And someday, she won’t be satisfied with fairy tales about starlight and mystery men. She’ll want truth.

And what the hell am I going to tell her?

That her father was a spy?

That he seduced me to access top-secret IHC data and left me to burn when the trap snapped shut?

That I lost my career, my home, my future—because I believed him?

Because I loved him?

I slam the recaf cup down harder than I mean to. Solie glances over, crayons in hand, concern flickering across her too-old face.

“You okay, Mama?”

I paste on a smile. “Just spilled a little. Go on, sweetheart. Make me a masterpiece.”

She nods, then hums softly, something tuneless but sweet, and I sit back down, forcing my breathing to steady.

The past is dead.

The past is dust on the viewport and echoes in an empty hallway.

And I won’t let it take anything else from me. Especially not her.

The crèche smells like warm plastiform floors and overripe fruit. The kind of sticky, cloying scent that clings to your skin even after you’ve scrubbed yourself raw.

I linger by the entrance longer than I should, Solie’s small hand still curled around mine. She’s not quite ready to let go, and neither am I.

“Do I have to go today?” she asks, tipping her head back to squint up at me. Her bangs flop in her eyes. I brush them aside and nod.

“Yes, baby. Mama’s got a lot of orders to process today.”

She scrunches her nose. “Boring orders?”

“The boringest,” I say with a tired smile. “Go on. Maybe draw me another robot who sings.”

She snorts and skips forward, twirling as she moves through the auto-scan and into the crèche.

The attendant gives me a polite nod, barely glancing at the bio-readout.

Good. I’ve done everything I can to make sure Solie scans human—modified medfiles, skin overlays, neural dampeners.

It won’t hold forever. But it only needs to hold long enough.

I watch her join the others. She runs into a pack of kids playing with modular blocks, their laughter bouncing off the plastiform walls. Solie laughs, too. Loud and sweet and unburdened.

So normal.

So safe.

But I know it’s a lie.

She isn’t normal. She’s a miracle stitched together from half-truths and bloodlines no one should ever mix.

Her skin has started flaking again—scales rising beneath like gold-etched armor when she’s scared or angry.

Last week, I found her curled in bed with her fingernails hardened into claws.

She didn’t cry. She just looked at me and asked, “Mama, am I sick?”

I lied. Like I always do.

I told her it was growing pains. A normal part of becoming a “big girl.” She nodded like she believed me. But I saw the doubt in her eyes.

The guilt hits me again, sharp and nauseating. I wrap my arms around myself, watching her laugh, watching her glow. I want to bottle this moment. I want to freeze time. But even standing here, just outside the crèche’s walls, I can feel the cracks forming in the lie I’ve built.

Solie deserves the truth. But what truth can I give her that won’t destroy us both?

The door chimes again. Another parent enters, brushing dust from her sleeves, her face drawn and tired in the way all frontier parents are. I nod, stepping aside, already turning back toward the heat-rippled street.

Outside, the wind kicks up, scattering grit across my boots and whipping the hem of my jacket around my knees.

The twin suns hang high in the copper-blue sky, casting long, harsh shadows across the outpost’s rust-colored buildings.

My datapad buzzes with a new alert—shipment from Coretra due in today.

Fabrication deck wants override codes. Droids flagged the chassis welds again.

I sigh and start the walk back, boots crunching on gravel and broken shellstone.

It’s just another day in exile.

That night, the world softens.

The winds die down. The outpost goes quiet. Even the droids hum lower, their maintenance cycles kicking in.

I’m sitting cross-legged on the couch in our cramped little housing unit, Solie wrapped in a faded blanket next to me, one arm slung over her stuffed starwhale.

We just finished our usual round of storytime—today’s pick was “Luna Lancer and the Sky Fortress,” which she made me do voices for.

I can’t say no to that face, even when she asks me to do the cranky old AI with the squelchy voice that shreds my throat.

She yawns and leans against me, all soft limbs and sleep-warm skin.

And then she says it.

“Mama… why don’t I have a daddy?”

It’s so casual. So innocent. So fatal.

My heart stops.

Her voice is muffled in my side. “Other kids at crèche talk about theirs. They say their daddies take them flying, or read them sciencey books, or build stuff. Like tools and machines. Did I have one?”

I force myself to breathe. Slowly. Deliberately.

My throat closes up like it’s wrapped in wire.

I brush her hair back, buying time, buying breath. “You did, baby,” I whisper.

“Where is he?”

I stare at the wall. The crack above the heater vent. The chipped paint that looks like a star chart if you squint.

“Some daddies…” I begin, my voice cracking. “Some daddies go away before they know they’re needed.”

She’s quiet.

I glance down, terrified of what I’ll see in her face. But she just nods once, sleepy eyes drifting closed.

“He’d like me, right?” she mumbles.

My chest caves in.

“More than anything,” I whisper. “He’d love you to the moons and back.”

She smiles. And then she’s out, snoring gently against my side.

I sit there, unable to move, staring at nothing while my heart bleeds quietly behind my ribs.

It’s well past midnight when I finally get her tucked into bed. She curls around her plushie like it’s her only lifeline, murmuring nonsense in her sleep. I sit on the edge of the mattress for a long time, just watching her breathe.

When I finally shuffle back into the main room, I collapse on the couch and run my fingers through my hair until it stands up in tangled waves.

I reach for the holophoto tucked under the couch cushion.

I always say I’m going to throw it away.

I never do.

I turn it face-up.

The photo’s faded. Just a flash still frozen in time. Me and him. Kraj. Tall. Shoulders like a tank. His arm draped around me, grin sharp and bright. I’m laughing, my head tilted back, caught mid-smile.

We look… real. We look happy.

But it was all built on a lie.

He used me. Slept in my bed. Ate my food. Held my hand.

And then disappeared the moment I saw behind the curtain.

I lost everything. My clearance. My reputation. My home.

And he?

He just vanished.

But the worst part? The part that haunts me in the dead of night?

I still loved him.

I slam the holophoto back down, face-first on the cushion. My hand lingers there for a moment, fingertips trembling.

The wind howls outside like it’s laughing at me.

Far beyond this dust-choked colony, the galaxy burns. The Centuries War grinds on. Whole planets fall, rise, fall again. Names change. Flags change. Blood is spilled like water.

And somewhere out there, someone knows what Kraj was. Is. Maybe even where he is.

But not me.

I’m just Luna Desmond. A washed-up ex-IHC grunt hiding in a place no one cares enough to look.

And all I have is this child. My daughter. My miracle.

Whatever the cost, I’ll protect her.

Even if it kills me.