Page 24 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced
The technician finally glances at me, his crystalline markings pulsing once in what I’m learning to recognize as Zaterran annoyance. “The human vessel is in quarantine bay. Final diagnostics.”
“Great! Let’s go there.”
“Access restricted.”
Of course it is. I stop walking, crossing my arms. “I’m not moving another step until you take me to my ship. Henrok promised.”
The technician’s faceted eyes narrow slightly. “First Blade Henrok D’Vorr,” he corrects, emphasizing each syllable like I’m a particularly slow child.
“Yeah, him. Big guy, perpetual scowl, surprisingly decent tour guide?” The words come out with more fondness than I intended. “He specifically said I could inspect my ship and my package today.” I tap my wrist where the tracking bracelet sits snug against my skin. “Unless this fancy jewelry means I’m actually a prisoner, not a guest?”
Something shifts in the technician’s rigid posture—uncertainty, maybe. Or the Zaterran equivalent of ‘oh crap, the human might be right.’
“Wait here,” he finally says, then moves to a nearby console.
While he confers with a colleague via a low, rumbling conversation I can’t quite make out, I take the opportunity to really look around. The repair bay is impressive, I’ll give them that. State-of-the-art equipment, organized with military precision. But there’s something else—a tension in the air that goes beyond the normal hum of a maintenance facility. The technicians move with heightened alertness, their conversations hushed, their glances frequent toward the far end of the bay where a heavy security door stands closed.
The quarantine bay, I’m guessing. Where my ship is apparently being held.
But why quarantine a simple courier vessel? Unless they found something...
My technician returns, his expression unreadable. “Follow,” he says curtly.
We head toward that imposing security door, passing workstations where other Zaterrans pause to watch us with those unsettling gem-like eyes. The door requires three separate security protocols to open—a biometric scan, a code sequence, and what looks like a verbal password. Paranoid much?
The door slides open to reveal a smaller, isolated bay. And there, suspended in a maintenance cradle, is my ship.
Or what’s left of it.
“Oh my void,” I whisper, moving forward without waiting for permission.
The Rust Bucket looks like it’s been gutted. Panels removed, systems exposed, the entire port side engine housing disassembled. Tools and diagnostic equipment surround it like vultures around a carcass. But it’s not the extent of the repairs that stops me cold—it’s the methodical way they’ve taken apart specific systems. Navigation. Communications. Cargo hold security.
They weren’t just fixing my ship. They were dissecting it.
“What the hell is this?” I demand, whirling to face the technician. The violation hits me like a physical blow—this isn’t just my ship, it’s my home, my life, my independence. And they’ve torn it apart like it’s nothing more than scrap metal.
“Standard procedure for unauthorized vessels,” he replies, unmoved by my anger. “Security protocol—”
“Bullshit.” I cut him off, stalking toward my ship. “This isn’t protocol, it’s an interrogation. You’re looking for something.”
He doesn’t deny it, which is answer enough.
I duck under a support beam and climb onto the access ramp, ignoring his sharp command to stop. The interior of my ship is even worse—storage compartments emptied, paneling removed, even my bunk stripped to the frame. They’ve violated every inch of my private space, my sanctuary. The sense of betrayal burns in my chest like acid.
But they don’t know my ship like I do.
While the technician calls for backup on his comm device, I move quickly to the pilot’s seat and drop to my knees, feeling along the underside of the console. There—a small depression that, when pressed just right, releases a hidden panel. Inside is a waterproof sleeve containing my real ship manifest, emergency credits, and identification docs. I never leave these in the official logbook. In my line of work, having a backup is the difference between getting paid and getting screwed.
I slip the sleeve into my boot just as heavy footsteps announce the arrival of security. Two Zaterran guards enter, their crystalline armor catching the light as they move toward me with purpose.
“The human will exit the vessel,” one announces, his tone leaving no room for argument.
I stand slowly, hands raised in mock surrender. “Just checking my ship’s damage. You know, like I was promised I could do?”
The guard’s expression doesn’t change. “Exit now.”
“Fine, fine. I’m coming.” I make my way back down the ramp, mind racing. They’ve torn apart my ship looking for something, but what? And why are they so interested in a routine courier delivery?
