Page 13 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced
I’ve changed back into my own clothes—mostly. My courier jacket is still torn from the crash, but my pants and boots survived intact. The ceremonial bracelet still circles my wrist, its faint blue glow a constant reminder that I’m being tracked like a package with a priority stamp.
Package. My actual delivery.
That’s what I need to find.
I’ve spent enough time around shady clients to know when something’s off, and this whole situation stinks worse than the waste recyclers on Level 3 of The Junction. First, my nav system glitches and sends me to the warlord’s personal landing pad instead of the diplomatic outpost. Then I get mistaken for some kind of peace offering. And now I’m stuck in luxury accommodations with a guard outside my door and a tracking bracelet I can’t remove.
Yeah. Nothing suspicious about that at all.
The diplomatic wing is on the eastern side of the fortress—at least, I think it’s east. Hard to tell on an asteroid with no proper cardinal directions. But I’ve been mentally mapping the place since they first dragged me in. The layout is burned into my memory: three right turns from the main entry hall, up one level via that weird floating platform, then down a long corridor lined with glowing battle murals.
If I can get out of this room, I might be able to find my way to wherever they’re keeping my package. Or better yet, to a comm station where I can send an actual distress signal to OOPS. The supervised communication they allowed earlier was a joke—just enough time to tell my dispatcher I was delayed, with the scary lady Vex’ra breathing down my neck the whole time.
I check the timepiece again. The crystalline hands have barely moved. Do Zaterrans measure time differently? Or is this night just going to last forever?
Screw it. I can’t wait any longer.
I move to the bed and quickly arrange the pillows under the covers in a vaguely humanoid shape—a trick I learned during my brief stint in a Venturian boarding school before they kicked me out for “creative interpretation” of their attendance policy. It won’t fool anyone for long, but it might buy me a few minutes if the guard decides to check.
Next, I retrieve the small multi-tool I always keep hidden in my boot. OOPS regulations require couriers to carry basic repair equipment at all times—which has saved my life more times than I care to count. The Zaterrans confiscated my larger tools, but they missed this one. Amateurs.
I approach the door, studying its locking mechanism. It’s not electronic—at least not in any way I recognize. The surface is smooth obsidian, but with a pattern of faintly glowing lines thatseem to pulse in rhythm with something. Maybe the fortress’s power grid? Or some kind of bio-signature scanner?
Great. New alien tech. My favorite.
I press my ear to the door again. Still no movement from the guard. Here goes nothing.
I slide the multi-tool into what looks like the main seam of the locking mechanism and feel around gently. There’s a slight resistance, then a give that doesn’t feel quite right. The crystalline lines pulse brighter, responding to the metal intrusion. I adjust my angle, probing deeper, and—
Click.
The door slides open silently, revealing an empty corridor.
Wait. Empty?
I freeze, half-expecting an alarm to sound or the guard to materialize from the shadows. Nothing happens. The hallway stretches in both directions, illuminated only by those same bioluminescent crystal veins embedded in the walls.
Where did the guard go?
I don’t have time to question my good luck. I slip into the corridor, closing the door carefully behind me. The tracking bracelet pulses once, as if registering my movement, but no alarms blare. Maybe they only monitor if I try to leave certain areas.
The corridors are a maze of polished obsidian and glowing crystal, all high ceilings and angular architecture designed for beings much taller than humans. But I’ve navigated worse. The Junction’s lower levels are a twisted nightmare of repurposed cargo holds and jury-rigged passages that would make this place look like a luxury resort.
I turn right, moving on instinct and memory toward what I hope is the central part of the fortress. My footsteps are nearly silent thanks to the soft soles of my boots—another OOPS courier essential. You never know when you’ll need to sneak pasta sleeping security drone or an irritable recipient who doesn’t want to sign for their package.
The walls here are covered with those unsettling murals I noticed earlier—stylized scenes of Zaterran warriors locked in battle, their crystalline weapons gleaming with artistic menace. The way the crystal veins pulse behind them makes the figures seem to move in my peripheral vision, like they’re watching my progress with alien disapproval.
I pass several doors, all closed, all with those same crystalline locking mechanisms. No labels, no signs, nothing to indicate what might be behind them. Either Zaterrans have incredible memories, or they use some kind of system I don’t understand.
The silence is starting to get to me. No footsteps, no voices, no machinery hum. It’s like the entire fortress is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
After what feels like forever but is probably only a few minutes, I reach a junction where the corridor splits three ways. The left path slopes downward into darkness, while the right curves upward toward what might be another level. The center continues straight ahead, but there’s something different about it—the crystal veins in the walls pulse with a faster rhythm, almost like a heartbeat.
Central command, maybe? Worth a shot.
I take the center path, moving more cautiously now. The lighting grows brighter as I proceed, and I hear the faint hum of machinery ahead. Finally—signs of life. Where there’s tech, there’s usually communication equipment.
The corridor widens into a circular chamber that screams “important stuff happens here.” Multiple workstations are arranged around a central holographic display, currently inactive and showing only a faint blue glow. The workstations are clearly designed for Zaterran physiology—too tall for me touse comfortably, with strange, angular interfaces that bear little resemblance to standard galactic tech.
