Page 1 of Return to Sender
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Cargo Breach
Wi’kar
Thechronometertickspreciselyat 0700 hours as I complete my final pre-jump diagnostic sequence. Perfect. Exactly on schedule.
“AXIS, confirm calibration for Cargo Platform.” My voice remains level, measured—as it should be. As it always is.
“Life support in Cargo Platform optimized for inert diplomatic materials,” AXIS responds, the ship’s AI maintaining the same efficient tone I’ve programmed. “Temperature: 19.2 degrees Celsius. Pressure: 101.3 kilopascals. Stasis field: Active.”
I nod, satisfaction warming my chest as I scan the pristine control deck of the Protocol Prime. Every surface gleams. Every readout glows the correct shade of blue. Not a dust particle out of place. This is how a Tier-1 OOPS diplomatic vessel should be maintained. This is how I maintain it.
My scent glands release a subtle hint of approval—the crisp, clean notes of order and efficiency. As a Gluxian, I communicate as much through pheromones as through words, but aboard my ship, alone, I maintain the practice out of discipline. Control begins with the self.
I straighten my already impeccable uniform—midnight blue with silver piping, the discreet OOPS diplomatic insignia over my left breast. The fabric adjusts perfectly to my movements, as it should. Orion Outposts Postal Service—OOPS to anyone who’s ever cursed a delayed delivery in the Fringe. Fifteen years I’ve served the organization that connects the galaxy’s forgotten corners, carrying everything from treaty documents to the occasional live cargo that’s better left unquestioned. Mother Morrison, our gruff Chief and dispatcher back at The Junction, always says OOPS couriers are either the bravest fools in the galaxy or just too stubborn to admit when a job’s impossible. Today’s mission proves her point: classified Orion Wars Peace Treaty documents that could prevent three systems from slaughtering each other. No pressure.
I run through my mental checklist, reciting the Courier’s Code, Section 3, Subsection Alpha: All cargo is to remain sealed and uncompromised from point of origin to final destination. This particular cargo—the classified historic Orion Wars Peace Treaty documents bound for the Corsairian Summit—is especially sensitive. Three systems teetering on the brink of renewed conflict, and these papers are the only diplomatic barrier between negotiation and devastation. The security clearance required for their transport speaks volumes. This is the type of mission that builds reputations. That ensures promotions. That separates the merely adequate from the exceptional.
I am, without question, exceptional.
“Initiating pre-jump sequence,” I announce, fingers moving with practiced precision across the navigation console. “Calculate optimal trajectory to—”
“Alert.” AXIS’s voice cuts through mine. “Anomalous life sign detected in Cargo Pod Seven.”
My hands freeze mid-command. A cold sensation—dread, though I would never admit to such an emotional response—spreads from my core outward. My scent glands release an involuntary burst of sharp ozone—the Gluxian equivalent of swearing.
“Specify anomaly,” I demand, already pulling up the pod’s external schematics on my display.
“Life form. Humanoid. Vital signs indicate conscious state. Internal stasis field fluctuating,” AXIS reports with what I swear sounds like anticipation.
Impossible. Cargo Pod Seven is sealed with Tier-1 diplomatic locks. The contents were verified and secured by Orion Outpost officials themselves before loading. A breach of this magnitude is...
I don’t complete the thought. Action is required. I access the emergency protocol database in my neural implant, the information flowing directly into my consciousness.
OOPS Diplomatic Courier Code, Emergency Addendum 4.7: In the event of unauthorized biological entities detected within sealed cargo, the courier shall: (1) Secure the vessel’s command functions. (2) Approach with appropriate containment measures. (3) Assess and neutralize potential threats. (4) Report to OOPS Command immediately.
“AXIS, lock down all ship systems. Authorization: Wi’kar, Alpha-Seven-Epsilon-Nine.” I retrieve my standard-issue energy sidearm from its perfectly aligned position in the weapons locker. The weight of it feels foreign in my hand—in fifteen years of diplomatic courier service, I have drawn it exactly twice. Both times were merely precautionary.
“Systems secured,” AXIS confirms with unmistakable enthusiasm. “Recommend caution, Agent Wi’kar. Life sign readings show elevated adrenaline levels consistent with humanoid distress or aggression.”
I move through the corridors of my ship with silent efficiency, my boots making no sound on the polished floor. The Protocol Prime is small by most standards—a diplomatic courier vessel needs speed and stealth, not size—but its design is optimal. Three minutes and seventeen seconds after the alert, I stand before Cargo Pod Seven.
The external panel shows green—supposedly secure—but the internal sensors tell a different story. Something inside is moving. Something that should not be there.
I position myself at the optimal angle for both defense and offense, weapon raised in the precise manner taught at the Academy. “AXIS, override security seal on Cargo Pod Seven.”
“Override initiated. Warning: breaking diplomatic seal will trigger automatic notification to OOPS Command and originauthorities in T-minus sixty seconds unless emergency override is implemented.”
“Acknowledged.”
The seal hisses as it disengages. My nasal receptors flare, detecting an unfamiliar scent—organic, musky, with notes of soil, sweat, and something else. Something wild and alive that makes my perfectly controlled olfactory system send confused signals throughout my nervous system. My scent glands respond with an involuntary mix of alarm and... curiosity?
The door slides open with deliberate slowness.
The figure inside launches toward me before the door fully retracts—a blur of motion, dark hair, and what appears to be actual mud. Mud. On my ship. My pristine, sterile sanctuary. I sidestep with practiced ease, noting with professional horror that the attacker—female, humanoid, covered in filth—wields a jagged piece of metal torn from the pod’s interior lining.
Unacceptable. Cargo Pod Seven is lined with specialized alloys designed to contain sensitive materials. The damage to OOPS property alone is a Level Two infraction. But the contamination—
