Alien Warrior's Baby (Scifi Alien Romance) (Zoran Warriors Book 2) by Luna Hunter
Authors: Luna Hunter
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1
Kaitlyn
“ 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fluff pieces about Jillian Archer’s ‘scandalous inter-species marriage’ with General Vinz, while the real story goes unpublished: shipments of AC-19, or more commonly known as the ‘Archer Cure’, have gone missing.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
Kaitlyn
“ 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
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