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Every sheath and holster was filled with weapons.
He didn’t plan to utilize them. His goal was to remain as inconspicuous as possible.
But a warrior should always be prepared for battle.
According to the databases, the locals were currently observing a major religious event. Every being would be dressed in hooded cloaks. Their identities would be concealed.
That was a situation manufactured for security breaches.
He would be one of those breaches.
Strike donned black hand coverings and one of the black life-form-scan-blocking cloaks that had been packed with the excess flight suits. He drew up the hood.
Humans might have black hair. Though theirs didn’t absorb the light as his did. No humans had his gray skin and energy-infused blue eyes.
The garment would keep his face shrouded in concealing shadow. He shouldn’t be identified…by humans and most humanoids. Their visual systems didn’t function optimally in low-light situations.
He moved through the ship. According to his scans, there were no life-forms situated close to his location.
Exercising caution, he drew two guns, clasping one in each hand, and he exited the vessel.
His weapons weren’t necessary. Cleaning bots whizzed around the modified freighter. There were no other signs of activity.
The planet’s solitary sun was setting. Darkness stretched across the simulated stone covering the site. Warmth radiated from that manufactured surface.
A light breeze fluttered the fabric of Strike’s cloak. He breathed deeply. The air smelled of engine lubricant and dust.
He closed the doors to his vessel and locked it against any outsiders.
The modified freighter was situated too close to other ships to activate perimeter alarms. The sealed doors would have to be sufficient.
Strike sprinted between the parked ships. The space was unsettlingly quiet. There were no beings loitering around their vessels. No repairs or restocking of supplies were happening.
“Yeah. I’m the only one on this planet rotation.” A gruff voice reached his auditory system. The being communicated in the universal language. “But it’s triple credits for any shift during The Guidance, so here I am.”
A human male in a gray uniform stood by the exit. He had a holstered gun strapped to his hip.
Strike ducked behind a transport shuttle’s right wing and listened to the one-sided chatter.
The being’s role was protecting the site. He might have inputs about the pulsing sound.
“Did you hear Alec got an invitation to that big event this shift, the party at the Minister of Manufacturing’s domicile?” The male spoke into the handheld pressed to his face. “Yeah. I don’t know how he did it either. He isn’t the type to rub shoulders with the leaders. Can you imagine him doing that?” He laughed. “I guess we’ll hear about it next planet rotation.”
Strike scanned the information he’d downloaded about Syndiculous 5. The Minister of Manufacturing lived in a structure that was a quick run…for a cyborg…from the current location.
The guard talked about females and other guards.
He hadn’t noticed Strike’s presence. And he was located within visual range of the human.
Strike’s lips twisted.
There was a 99.9869 percent probability the guard wouldn’t notice any high-frequency pulsing sounds. That required perception the male didn’t have.
The planet’s leaders should have finer-honed observational skills. They would also have the most-advanced technology…for their kind.
That would increase the probability they’d detected the sound.
Strike rushed past the guard, and he ran at his top speed toward the Minister of Manufacturing’s domicile. Land transports whizzed around him.
