Page 10 of Return to Sender
“I am not panicking,” I state with rigid control, though my voice sounds unnaturally formal even to my own ears. “I am experiencing concern regarding the inappropriate nature of your research materials.”
“Inappropriate?” She rises from the chair with feline grace, and I notice how the loose fabric of the shipsuit shifts around her form, highlighting rather than concealing the curves beneath. “Wi’kar, we’re legally bound together. Don’t you think I should understand how your body... communicates?”
The way she says “body” makes something low in my abdomen tighten with alarming intensity. I turn abruptly toward the door. “I need to access the bridge. We must establish a more secure course through the Fringe.”
“Running away again?” she calls after me, amusement threading her voice like silk.
I do not dignify this with a response, though my scent glands betray me with another involuntary release—this one edged with something that probably translates to frustrated arousal in the chemical vocabulary of my species.
In the corridor, I take a moment to center myself, drawing in a careful breath through my specialized filtration membranes—an evolutionary adaptation that allows Gluxians to process and analyze environmental compounds with exceptional precision.
The problem is that they are currently processing Dominique’s scent with exceptional precision.
Humans, I have observed in my diplomatic work, are generally unaware of their constant chemical broadcasts. Their emotions, health status, stress levels, and yes, reproductive readiness, all emit specific molecular signatures. Most species detect these subconsciously at best. Gluxians, however, evolved as highly specialized sensory interpreters. What might be a whisper to others is a shout to us.
And Princess Dominique is, metaphorically speaking, screaming.
Her baseline scent is complex—notes of cinnamon and wild berries layered over a foundation of exhaustion and determination, with occasional spikes of something sharper when she looks at me for too long. This last component is... problematic. It triggers responses in my own biochemistry that I find increasingly difficult to suppress.
I reach the bridge and immediately access the environmental controls. “AXIS, initiate atmospheric purification protocol seven-beta. Focus on humanoid pheromonal compounds.”
“Initiating protocol,” AXIS responds with what I swear sounds like amusement. “Warning: full spectrum pheromonal filtration may impact interspecies communication efficiency by 22.6%.”
“Acknowledged. Proceed.”
The subtle hum of enhanced filtration activates, and I feel immediate relief as the air begins to clear of Dominique’s molecular presence. I settle into the pilot’s chair and begin plotting a more circuitous route through the Averian Fringe, away from established patrol routes.
“You’re hiding from my smell?”
I do not startle—Gluxians do not startle—but I do turn with more haste than dignity to find Dominique leaning against the bridge doorway, arms crossed, expression caught between amusement and something that looks almost... hurt?
“I am optimizing atmospheric composition for interspecies cohabitation,” I correct, returning my attention to the navigation console.
“Right.” She pushes off from the doorway and approaches with that predatory grace I’m learning to recognize. Even with enhanced filtration, her proximity sends cascades of sensory data through my receptors. “You know, on Earth, we had these things called ‘air fresheners.’ Little scented objects you could hang in unpleasant-smelling places. Maybe we should get you one shaped like a tiny regulation manual.”
Despite my best efforts, I detect the faintest hint of amusement in my own scent response—something that makes her eyes sharpen with interest.
“Did you just... laugh? Chemically?” She moves closer, close enough that the shipsuit’s loose neckline reveals the elegant curve of her throat. The pulse there is rapid, visible, and entirely too distracting. “That’s either fascinating or deeply disturbing.”
“So,” she continues, dropping into the co-pilot’s seat with casual disregard for proper bridge protocol, “what’s the plan, Agent Stiff?”
My scent glands flare in irritation. “That moniker is both reductive and unprofessional.”
“It was a joke,” she sighs, spinning the co-pilot’s chair in a slow circle that makes the fabric pull interestingly across her form. “You know, humor? That thing that makes life bearable when you’re accidentally space-married to a walking regulation handbook?”
“We are not ‘space-married,’” I correct automatically. “The Consular Bonding Clause establishes a diplomatic union that—”
“Spare me the legal lecture.” She stops spinning to face me directly, and I notice how the movement has tousled her hair attractively. “I want to know what you’re actually going to doabout our situation. Besides filter the air every time I get within three meters of you.”
I consider my response carefully. “The optimal course of action is to proceed to a neutral system where we can assess our options without immediate threat from either your fiancé’s forces or potential OOPS enforcement.”
“So we’re running.”
“We are strategically relocating.”
She laughs—a sharp, genuine sound that creates an unexpected resonance in my auditory canals. “You can’t even admit when you’re breaking the rules, can you? Always finding the perfect technical language to justify it.”
I feel a flash of something uncomfortably close to defensiveness. “I am adhering to the highest priority protocol applicable to this situation—the protection of a bonded diplomatic asset.”
