Interstellar: Return of the Villain
Chapter 250: New Employee

Chapter 250: New Employee

The Wyrmtrace colonization program was in full throttle, with recruitment posters plastered all over Alliance space.

They were calling out for engineers, builders, and anyone who could set up shop on the planet’s rough surface.

Skilled or not, people lined up to sign on, seeing this as a golden ticket—a chance to carve out a piece of the Alliance’s newest frontier, along with the promise of residence, status, and the rare shot at shaping an uncharted world.

But it wasn’t as simple as hopping on a shuttle and taking off. Getting a spot on Wyrmtrace required intense screening. This was the Alliance’s latest push into unknown territory, a crucial stronghold for future expeditions, and they didn’t want just anyone setting up camp.

At one of the busiest processing centers, lines stretched as far as the eye could see, with wannabe pioneers fidgeting through their last round of checks.

Meanwhile, out in the dark emptiness of space, a transport ship sped toward Wyrmtrace from the distant planet Nagano.

In the heart of that ship, Debbie stood just outside the command room, trying to gather herself for what lay on the other side.

Taking a steadying breath, she swung open the door, and a wall of noise slammed into her.

The common area was packed with a mix of scruffy characters, leaning against walls, huddling around card games, swapping half-joking whispers, and occasionally breaking out in laughter that echoed off the cold metal walls.

The second they noticed her, the crowd shifted, gathering around.

"Debbie! Are we almost there yet?" one guy asked, flashing her a cheeky grin. "How about those IDs you’ve been holding hostage?"

"Yeah, we’re ready to get started—promise we won’t make a break for it or anything!" another piped up.

"Oh, and what’s the story on the new boss? Kind of dying to see who’s calling the shots here!"

Debbie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. ’Sure you’re ready to work,’ she thought, ’just as soon as you figure out how to wriggle out of it.’

Ignoring her annoyance, she raised a megaphone and barked, "Listen up!"

The amplified sound made a few flinch, but it got their attention.

"We’ll be landing on Wyrmtrace in an hour," she said, her voice firm.

"I’ll be handing out your IDs, but first thing you all need to do is check in at the immigration office. After that, the base will send transport to pick us up, so don’t go wandering around," she warned, glancing at each of them.

’Wouldn’t be half as tough if this crowd wasn’t such a handful,’ she thought, but orders were orders—Lyra was expecting each and every one of them.

With a sigh, she pulled out a box of carefully organized ID cards and held it up. "When I call your name, come grab yours."

Someone from the crowd called out, "What about our access passes?"

Without those, they’d be limited to certain areas, stuck like visitors instead of settlers.

Debbie’s expression turned cold.

"The access passes are with the boss," she said sharply. "She’ll decide who gets them—and when."

Murmurs broke out, discontent spreading like a ripple through the group.

"Didn’t they say we’d get to meet this mysterious ’boss’ of ours? You’d think they’d treat us with a little trust!"

"Right? Expecting us to work for ’em without even a proper intro? What is this?"

Several people stepped closer, suspicion hardening their faces as they stared her down. "How do we know you’re not just holding out on us, Debbie?" one man jeered. "Maybe you’re hiding the access passes back in the command room!"

Debbie’s pulse quickened, but she held her ground. "I’d advise you to step back," she said, her voice icy. "Anyone who tries something here is looking at a one-way ticket nowhere. I’ll keep us all floating in space if I have to."

The edge in her tone made a few hesitate.

"Enough!" A clear, sharp voice cut through the crowd. A young man with close-cropped hair and a sleeveless shirt stepped forward, his eyes hard as he glared around the group.

"Remember what they told us before we left," he said, his voice low but firm. "We’re here on the Alliance’s dime, but we’re still prisoners. Let’s not kid ourselves. So we play along and don’t make waves, or it’s all our necks on the line."

Shane’s calm authority clearly had the crowd in line, though they grumbled as they relented.

"Fine, we’ll play nice—for now."

They filed up for their ID cards, and Debbie felt her shoulders ease for the first time all trip. "First up, Shane Danis," she called.

Shane, the young man with the cool intensity from earlier, put down his drink and moved toward her.

A small silver cross glinted on his tanned chest, catching the dim light as he made his way forward.

With a compact, powerful build and a gaze that cut like a knife, he radiated a magnetism that practically parted the crowd as he passed.

Debbie kept her expression neutral and quickly handed him his card, willing herself not to let his gaze throw her off.

Once she’d distributed the last ID, the ship started its descent, shuddering as they entered Wyrmtrace’s atmosphere.

Debbie headed down the narrow hallway toward the command room to input landing codes, her boots echoing softly in the dim space. She was almost at the door when a leg stretched out into her path.

"Debbie."

She stopped, heart racing as Shane emerged from the shadows, his expression unreadable and his presence as intense as ever.

"Can I... help you?" she managed, forcing her voice steady.

He leaned in, the corner of his mouth curling. "I just want to know—what kind of person is this boss of ours?"

Debbie kept her posture straight, her back against the wall. "Her name’s Lyra, and she doesn’t like her last name mentioned. What she’s like? You’ll find out soon enough."

Shane braced a hand on the wall beside her, effectively boxing her in, his gaze sharp and searching. "One more thing," he said, voice low.

Debbie’s cheeks heated as she looked anywhere but directly at him. "Wh-what’s that?"

"Are the access passes really with HER?"

His eyes held hers, and she fought to keep her expression neutral. "Trust me, SHE wouldn’t give something that important to me. I’m just the assistant."

Shane squinted, studying her with a hint of skepticism. She looked too flustered to be lying, and he lost interest, standing back and shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Alright. Fair enough."

As he turned to walk away, he muttered to himself, "Lyra... that name rings a bell."

Once he was out of sight, Debbie finally exhaled, patting her flushed cheeks as she straightened.

"Nice try, hotshot, but I’m not buying your charm," she muttered to herself with a smirk. ’Good looks aren’t gonna sway me—not as much as a paycheck does.’

She shook her head and marched back to the command room, sealing the door behind her with a sigh of relief. "Phew, that was something."

Her coworkers looked over, catching sight of her pink cheeks and stifling laughs.

"Rough shift, Debbie?"

"Hey, after this mission? You’re up for a promotion for sure."

Anton, their escort now, looked on from across the room, smirking as he sipped his drink. ’Funny how opportunity brings in all kinds of... talent,’ he thought, eyeing the crowd.

The ship landed, and Debbie barely had a moment to catch her breath before the passengers pushed toward the immigration hall, eager to start fresh on Wyrmtrace.

They practically ignored Debbie’s calls of, "Hey, don’t wander off!" disappearing into the hall in a noisy throng.

Debbie and the crew hurried after them, catching up just as the crowd gathered by the doors, suddenly silent and stiff.

Outside, two people waited—a man and a woman, both wearing a serious face that quieted even the rowdiest of the bunch.

The man, Cohen, gave the group a sour once-over. "These are the ’skilled technicians’ you promised? They don’t look like much," he muttered. Disorganized, unruly, not an ounce of discipline.

Lyra shrugged, barely looking at them. "I don’t care how they look. They’re here to be useful, not decorative."

Cohen shook his head, his expression grim. ’This lot’s trouble waiting to happen,’ he thought, eyeing their stances.

Several looked dangerously fit, and a few held themselves with the wary posture of seasoned fighters.

As he scanned the IDs, he noted a handful flagged as combat-level strength, some ranked as level-three or level-four Peculiars. One or two even showed up as level six. There was no way these people were just technicians.