34. Alaina
ALAINA
The shoes don’t fit.
I stare down at Caelix’s feet poking out from his favorite too-small sneakers—one strap hanging loose, the other trying to hold on like it's got something to prove—and my throat gets tight.
“Hold still, baby,” I murmur, crouching in front of him.
He giggles, wild curls flopping as he sways like he’s dodging laserfire instead of my hands.
“Caelix,” I warn with a soft laugh, grabbing his ankle. “You’re gonna bust these seams if I don’t pry them off.”
He babbles something half-word, half-magic, and points dramatically at the mess of crumbs he dropped by the door this morning, already long forgotten.
He’s growing too fast.
One minute he was barely standing. Now he’s sprinting through the apartment like a tiny cyclone, full of questions, soft fists, and a laugh that sounds like sunlight in motion.
And every day, his face shifts.
Every day, I see him in those eyes—Troka’s stubborn brow, his crooked smirk when Caelix’s up to something, the way he watches me like he already knows I’m not telling him the whole truth.
I press a kiss to his foot and straighten with a sigh.
“We’re getting new shoes today. Right now,” I say, grabbing the diaper bag and slinging it over my shoulder. “And maybe a snack. Maybe three. Depends how long Mama keeps pretending everything’s okay.”
The mall smells like synth-donuts, fried protein, and that artificial ozone scent they pump through the air vents to make it feel “clean.” I hate it.
Too many people.
Too many sounds.
Caelix loves it.
He chatters like a cracked holo chip from his seat in the shopping cart, pointing at every toy display and snack vendor we pass like he's building a wishlist for a future where we’re all made of credits.
I keep one hand on the cart handle, the other hovering near my hip where the stun pin’s clipped under my sweater.
Old habits. War-era reflexes.
“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’re not speaking to 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.
“The Inter-Human Coalition promised support. Promised care. What we got was dust, metal limbs, and silence. So now? Now we talk back.”
The skeletal one raises a jamming beacon overhead.
Every compad, every holo-display flickers and dies.
My stomach turns to ice.
The leader scans the crowd until his eyes land on me.
More specifically, on me and my son.
“Well now,” he croons. “Would you look at that? A young mother and a hybrid brat. That’ll look real good in the news loop, won’t it?”
I turn, shielding Caelix’s head with my hand.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
But he’s already striding toward us, boots heavy against the tile.
I step forward fast, holding my ground.
“Take me,” I say, voice sharp. “Just me. Let him go.”
He snorts. “Oh, sweetheart. You think I’m after a negotiation?”
Caelix clutches my shirt tighter, face pressed to my collarbone.
“I’m not giving you the kid,” I snap.
“I wasn’t asking.”
He moves like a whip.
Backhand fast.
Pain explodes across my cheek, hot and bright and immediate. I stagger, nearly drop Caelix.
He screams.
The bastard leans down, eyes inches from mine.
“Next time, you offer the brat. Or I’ll make you watch while someone else does worse.”
He straightens, yells something in code to his crew.
They herd the rest of the crowd into the central atrium.
I follow because I have to.
Because if I run, they’ll shoot me in the back, and Caelix’ll hit the floor.
I clutch him so tight his feet lift off my hip. He buries his face in my neck, still shaking.
My lip’s split. Blood trickles over my tongue, metallic and bitter.
I stagger a little, but keep walking.
Keep holding him.
And through the haze of pain and terror, one thought pulses over and over like a drumbeat:
I should’ve told Troka.