Alien Warrior's Baby (Scifi Alien Romance) (Zoran Warriors Book 2)

“
W
hat do you mean
, you’re not running my story?!”

“It’s just not that interesting,” Philip Jenkins answers. “Nobody cares about your ‘Archer Cure’, Kaitlyn. It’s Zorans they want!”

I stare at my boss’s holographic image, my lips pulled into a tight line. I can’t believe he’s blowing my story off. “Jillian Archer is a
hero
,” I protest. “The cure she made for the black cough will save millions of lives, and—”

“Millions of poor people, yes, but they’re not the ones buying your newspaper and paying your salary,” Jenkins cuts me off. “Our readers are more interested in hearing about Miss Archer’s tryst with one of those
beasts
. If you want to keep your job, I suggest you write what I damn well tell you to write, Kaitlyn. Now, the chatter on the coms is that there’s a Zoran ship inbound for the
Vonnegut
. Don’t miss this opportunity. Come back with a story I can run… or don’t come back at all.”

The feed cuts off, and Mr. Jenkins’ narrow, holographic face disappears into thin air. I resist the urge to punch the empty space in front of me, but only barely.

This is not what I imagined my job would be like. When I started working as a journalist for Central News, I thought I’d be something of a watchdog. You know, a force for good. Keeping the Federation in line, and all that good stuff. Instead, Jenkins has got me writing fluff pieces about Jillian Archer’s ‘scandalous inter-species marriage’ with General Vinz, while the
real
story goes unpublished: shipments of AC-19, or more commonly known as the ‘Archer Cure’, have gone missing. Millions depend on it. I grew up in the slums of New Reno, I know how bad the smog can get. The cure may have come too late to save my parents, but I’m forever grateful to Dr. Archer for what she has done for the rest of humanity.

In my youthful naivety, I thought that everything would change if the world only
saw
and
heard
what life was like down in the slums. The Federation has the funds to lift everyone out of poverty, it’s only a matter of correctly allocating it. Right?

Wrong.

I quickly learned it wasn’t that nobody knew, it was that nobody
cared
. I guess it’s hard to care when you live in a luxury high-rise, with your own private air-filter system, and everything you need in life a mere finger-click away.

I clawed my way out of New Reno, busting my ass for Central News since the day I turned sixteen, and it’s gotten me… a one-bedroom tiny micro-apartment on the east-side of New Atlanta. At least I’m free of the smog – as long as the wind doesn’t blow from the west.

I stuff a few food packets and some flight sickness medication into my purse. I always get queasy on the shuttle-flights up to the space-station.

I glance around my apartment to see if I’ve forgotten anything important. Seeing as my room is only 40 square feet, it’s impossible to miss anything.

Not that it really matters: I’ll be back home by the end of the day anyway.

While going up to the
Vonnegut
remains a dream for many, it’s become almost routine for me. I don’t mean to sound blasé – I hate every single moment of being on those damned rickety shuttles. Only a paper-thin layer of metal between me and the cold vacuum of space? No thank you! If you ask me, whoever thought people ought to go into space was completely off their rocker.

Central News is entirely funded by the Federation, and that comes with certain privileges; unfettered access to the
Vonnegut
being one of them. It’s almost ridiculous if you ask me – I’ve heard that even the scientists who work there can barely afford transport to Earth and back, while us CN-reporters can hop on and off as we please.

I take one last look in the mirror before I have to run. The midday shuttle is about to leave, and I can’t afford to miss it. Not if I want to keep my job.

My shirt is stained with repli-coffee and my dark-brown hair is pulled into the messiest of buns. My eyes have got bags under them from when I stayed up all night working on the story that Jenkins had just brushed off. To be honest, I look like a right hot mess.

Good enough
.

* * *

“
H
i Kate
,” Mark greets me. “I saw you coming, so I held the door. You okay?”

My chest heaves up and down with every breath, my shirt sticking to my clammy body. “Th-thanks,” I muster. Mark Townsend, the shuttle pilot, is giving me a look from under his thick eyebrows. Damn tube was delayed, so I had to run all the way from the station to get to the shuttle in time. I rest my back against the cool, metal wall, as the door hermetically closes in front of me.

“Strap in,” Mark says. “There’s a storm overhead. Might be a bumpy ride.”

“Oh god,” I groan as I strap myself into of the seats. We take off with a thundering roar, and already my stomach protests. I dive into my purse and swallow my pill, keeping my eyes shut tight.

“Still as nervous as ever, huh?” Mark says. “You’d think after the tenth time you’d learn to relax.”

“Don’t you have a job to do?” I grit through my clenched teeth.

With a chuckle he turns around, and goes back to piloting the small vessel. Over time Mark and I have developed quite a rapport. His lame jokes help distract me from the sheer terror of space travel, and he welcomes the company. Luckily for me the turbulence is not so bad this time, and within half an hour we’re approaching the
Vonnegut
station.

“There she is,” Mark says. “What a beaut’. Gives me shivers every time.”

“It’s just a space station,” I say.

“‘Just a’? How many dang space stations have you seen?!”

“More than I care for.”

Mark shakes his head. “Pearls before swine,” he mumbles.

I smirk. Riling him up never gets old.

“Who are you interviewing? Who’s the unlucky SOB this time?” he asks.

“Tobias.”

“You’re going straight to the big boss himself, huh? Does he know you’re coming?”

“Not yet.”

“Ha! He will soon enough, then.”

The shuttle docks, and I’m glad to be on board the
Vonnegut
, and off the rickety shuttle. I’ve read the reports, I
know
how often the shuttles get serviced – and it’s not enough to make me happy about being on one! I thank Mark for his company before making my way through the halls of the station.

I know Mr. Jenkins sent me here because Zorans are incoming, but I’m going to use this opportunity to ambush Tobias Simopoulos, the commander of this space station. According to my intel, the last few shipments of the Archer Cure disappeared from under his nose, right here on the
Vonnegut
. I want to know what Tobias has got to say about that.

I strut with a purpose past his secretary and right into his office. One of the things that I’ve learned on the job is that if you walk like you belong, most people won’t ask any questions. The round, pudgy man glances up at me, his eyes bulging.

“What in the hell are you doing here?” he mutters, trying to shield the pie on his desk from my view.

“Commander Simopoulos, I’m Kaitlyn Hunt from Central News. I’d like to hear your response to that shipment of AC-19, otherwise known as the Archer Cure, going missing on your station last week.”

I sit down across him and flip open my notepad before he has time to react. I tap the CN-badge on my chest, and a light blinks on. The small camera and mic inside turns on, recording our conversation.

Tobias still has his mouth full, flecks of pie crust dotting his cheeks. “I don’t know what in the blazes you’re talking about,” he mumbles, wiping his face with a napkin.

“You’re not aware that a shipment of the Archer Cure has been stolen from right under your nose, commander?”

“I never said—”

“Are you not in control of your station, commander?”

Tobias’s round face gets redder and redder as I fire question after question at him. My boss doesn’t think the missing shipments are newsworthy, but what about footage of the commander of the
Vonnegut
exploding in rage? I’ll leak them onto the web, and they’ll create such a buzz that Central News won’t be able to sweep this story under the rug any longer.

“Now listen here—”

“It’s the fourth shipment that has gone missing in under a month. Some are saying that perhaps it’s time for a change in leadership. How do you feel about that?”

“ENOUGH!” the beefy man bellows. He pounds his priceless, mahogany table with his fist, his face contorted with rage. “You can’t march in here and make these baseless accusations, while—”

Tobias’s anger-fueled rant is interrupted by the incessant beeping of his desk-com.

“What now?!” he cries as he mashes the button.

“Sir, it’s the Zoran,” his secretary says, her voice quivering.

“What about them?!”

“They’re here.”

The girl hasn’t even finished her sentence before the doors of Tobias’s office slide open. A tall and broad-shouldered Zoran strides into the room, and I can’t help but suck in a gulp of air when I see just how damn big he is.

Tobias rests his head on his hands. “Again? Won’t these damn aliens ever stop barging into my office?” he mutters under his breath, his fingers pressing against his temples.

The dark bronze alien warrior walks right up to me, and immediately I feel dwarfed by his immense frame. His piercing eyes, the color of autumn leaves, seem to penetrate my soul. I feel like an open book in front of him. His sleek, jet-black armor hugs every muscle in his well-defined body perfectly, and I realize this is what perfection looks like.

Luckily, the moment passes, and I regain some of my professional composure. I hop out of my seat and extend my hand.

“I’m Kaitlyn Hunt, from Central News,” I say. Judging by the warrior’s decorated chest, I’d say he’s a high-ranking official. Perhaps a general?

The man frowns at me. It looks good on him.

“Tobias Simopoulos?” he says, his voice a low growl. He ignores my introduction, but as a reporter, I’m used to it.

“Yes?” Tobias answers with a sigh. “What is it this time?”

“Are you here about the missing shipments?” I say.

The man’s vibrant eyes lock onto mine. They seem to flicker like a flame, and for a fraction of a second, my knees feel like buckling. I’m used to being around powerful men – being a pain in their ass is kinda my job – but none have his aura; none command such power.

“What do you mean?” the alien asks.

“Several shipments of the Archer Cure have gone missing,” I answer. “Were you not aware of this?”

The brooding alien glares at Tobias with such fury I fear he might spontaneously combust.

“What is the female talking about?!” he roars, and Tobias shrinks.

“No-nothing,” he stammers. “We’ve h-had a few logistical p-problems, that’s all.”

I snort. “Is that what you’re going with, Tobias? Logistical problems? Please. Over four shipments of the cure have gone missing the last month alone. I’ve been trying to get to the bottom of this, but no one seems to care.”

The alien warrior studies me, his fiery eyes scanning my frame. “Who are you again?”

“Kaitlyn Hunt. Central News. Pleasure to meet you.”

This time he shakes my hand, his giant paw making me feel small. His grip is firm and tight.

“General Tyr,” he says with a nod.

A general! Jackpot!

“I’m here because we’ve received reports that a Senator is in hiding in this sector.”

Tobias rises from his seat and puts his hands up defensively. “I can assure you that we’re not harboring any runaway Zoran Senators on this station, or on Earth for that matter. In fact, the idea alone is preposterous, as we would never—”

“That’s not what our scanners tell us,” General Tyr interrupts him. “Gorgi is his name. He’s a fugitive, and if anyone is found harboring him, I assure you, they will be dealt with
swiftly
.”

He squares his shoulders as he sizes Tobias up. I watch their exchange with bated breath, scribbling down notes as quickly as I can. An alien fugitive on Earth? I can already see the headlines!

“I’ll oversee the next shipment of the cure personally while my men search this station,” the general informs us.

Tobias starts to protest, but a stern look from General Tyr shuts him down.

“I’ll accompany you,” I say, quickly snatching my purse. “I’ve got some more questions.”
Please say yes. Interviewing a Zoran General would be the story of my life
.

Tyr is silent for a moment as he contemplates my offer, and I feel like he’s sizing me up as well. “Very well,” he says. “Tell me everything you know about the shipments, and I’ll answer your questions.”

Yes!

I follow the general down the narrow halls of the space station while I share everything I’ve learned so far, which unfortunately is not all that much. I know the shipments don’t arrive on Earth where they’re supposed to, and I know no one is willing to answer any of my questions. It surprises me that the Zoran themselves are unaware of this issue, and I can tell the general is less than pleased.