Page 26 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced
Cold dread pools in my stomach. “What are you talking about?”
“The courier who crashes conveniently at our most secure landing pad. Who carries a package that, when scanned, appears to contain nothing but ceremonial trinkets. Who is mistaken for a diplomatic gift, giving her unprecedented access to the First Blade himself.” Vex’ra rises from her seat, her height still less than mine but her presence suddenly filling the room. “A clever infiltration strategy. Almost successful.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. All this time, I thought I was just unlucky, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. But what if it was all planned? What if someone orchestrated my crash, my capture, my whole interaction with Henrok?
“I’m not a spy,” I say, but my voice sounds hollow even to my own ears. “I’m just a courier. I pick up packages, I deliver packages. That’s it. Whatever game you think is being played here, I’m not part of it.”
“Then you are a pawn,” she says, almost pityingly. “Used and discarded once your purpose is served.”
“And what purpose would that be, exactly?”
Instead of answering, she taps a sequence on her desk console. A holographic display springs to life between us, showing security footage of my ship’s arrival—the crash, the guards apprehending me, my processing as the “gift.”
“Your navigation system was precisely calibrated to fail at exactly the right moment,” she explains, advancing the footage. “Your ship’s trajectory was perfect—too perfect for a random malfunction. And the package you carried...” She pauses the display, zooming in on the standard black OOPS container I’d been transporting. “It was shielded against our scans. Primitive but effective.”
My mind races, trying to make sense of what she’s saying. Could someone have sabotaged my ship? Used me as an unwitting delivery system for... what? What could be so important that they’d go to these lengths?
And if they did, what does that mean for Henrok? The thought of him being in danger because of me sends a spike of fear through my chest that I don’t want to examine too closely.
“Where is it?” I demand, my voice steadier than I feel. “The real package. If what you’re saying is true, I need to see it.”
Vex’ra considers me for a moment, her alien eyes reading something in my expression. Then she makes another gesture at her console. A hidden compartment in her desk slides open, revealing the familiar black OOPS container.
“It remains sealed,” she says. “Our scans detected nothing dangerous, but the shielding prevents complete analysis. The First Blade ordered it untouched until a full investigation could be conducted.”
I stare at the container, my stomach knotting. It looks exactly like the one I picked up at the Junction—standard issue, nothing special. But if Vex’ra is right, someone went to a lot of trouble to make sure it ended up here, with me as its unwitting courier.
Someone used me. Violated my ship, my life, my choices. And put Henrok in danger in the process.
“I need to open it,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “I need to know what I brought here.”
“That would be unwise without proper—”
“I’m the courier,” I cut her off, reaching for the container. “It’s my responsibility. If someone used me, if they put people in danger because of me, I need to know what for.”
She studies me again, those alien eyes seeing more than I’m comfortable with. Then, with a slight incline of her head, she pushes the container toward me.
“Your funeral, human,” she says softly.
The guards shift nervously as I place my palm on the container’s biometric lock. There’s a soft beep, a hiss of releasing pressure, and the lid unseals. Standard procedure so far. I lift the lid slowly, half-expecting some kind of booby trap.
Inside is a nest of protective foam, and cradled within it, a sleek black device about the size of my palm. It’s unmarked, its surface so dark it seems to absorb light rather than reflect it. A small indicator light pulses faintly at its center—inactive but ready.
I don’t recognize the technology, but I know a weapon when I see one.
“What is it?” I ask, not touching it.
Vex’ra leans forward, her crystalline markings pulsing rapidly now. “A beacon,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “An override beacon for our defensive grid.”
The implications hit me like a physical blow. Zater Reach is a fortress world, its defenses legendary. An override beacon could render those defenses useless, leaving the entire system vulnerable to attack.
And I delivered it right to their front door.
“I didn’t know,” I say, my voice hollow. The betrayal cuts deeper than I expected—not just being used, but being used to potentially hurt people. To hurt him. “I swear, I had no idea.”
“Perhaps not,” Vex’ra concedes, her tone still wary. “But someone did. Someone who used you—your ship, your credentials, your very presence—to infiltrate our most secure facility.”
The room seems to tilt around me as pieces fall into place. The sabotaged navigation, the conveniently timed crash, the mistaken identity that put me in direct contact with the fortress’s commander. I wasn’t just delivering a package.
