Not this time

"It's a *Stormcrow*-class," the mechanic interrupted, yanking the tarp aside with a flourish.

The ship wasn't pretty. It wasn't even symmetrical—one engine nacelle was visibly larger than the other, and the hull plating looked like someone had welded it blindfolded. But Susan's breath caught anyway. The angular frame screamed military surplus, all sharp edges and no-nonsense thruster arrays. The mechanic smacked the airlock door with a metallic clang. "Midsized. Holds three Voraxians or six humans if you don't mind sharing bunks. Sublight gets you point-nine-nine c without stressing the frame." He tapped a welded seam near the ventral thrusters. "Designed for fast insertions. Former Black Ops."

The mechanic's fingers twitched toward his tool belt as Vorax loomed over him, tusks gleaming under the dock's flickering lights. "Discount?" the Voraxian rumbled, his breath hot enough to ripple the mechanic's stained coveralls. "Or you think little meats vouch for weak tech-hands?"

Susan stepped between them before the mechanic could answer, her hips swaying in deliberate exaggeration as she trailed a finger down Vorax's armored chestplate. "Strong hands come in different packages," she purred, pressing close enough to feel the heat radiating off his alien skin. The scent of oil and ozone clung to him—musky and metallic, with an undercurrent of something distinctly predatory.