Page 11 of Return to Sender
“Asset,” she repeats, her amusement fading. “Is that how you see me? An asset to be managed?”
“It is the correct terminology under—”
“Under protocol, yes, I know.” She leans forward, eyes suddenly intense, and I catch another wave of her scent—warmer now, with notes of something I can’t quite identify. “But what about under that perfect skin of yours, Wi’kar? What do you think, not what your rulebook tells you to think?”
The question is unexpectedly destabilizing. I have never considered my personal opinions as separate from my professional obligations. The distinction she draws feels... uncomfortable.
Before I can formulate a response, AXIS interrupts.
“Incoming priority transmission from OOPS Central Dispatch. Caller identification: Dispatcher Morrison, Classification: Immediate Response Required.”
My blood temperature drops several degrees. Mother Morrison calling personally means this situation has escalated far beyond normal parameters.
Dominique’s eyebrows rise. “Mother?” she mouths silently.
“Accept transmission, audio only,” I command.
“Well, well, well,” a gravelly female voice fills the bridge, dripping with sarcasm. “Agent Wi’kar. Fancy meeting you on an open channel when you’re supposed to be delivering treaty documents to Corsairia.”
“Dispatcher Morrison,” I respond with carefully controlled formality. “I am currently experiencing complications with my assigned route.”
“Complications?” Mother’s laugh is sharp as broken glass. “Agent, I’ve got three different departments breathing down my neck about your ‘complications.’ The Diplomatic Corps wants to know why their precious treaty documents are still sitting in a loading bay on Venturia Prime. STI Intelligence is asking pointed questions about unauthorized course deviations. And somehow—somehow—the Human Concord Royal Liaison has gotten involved, asking about a missing princess.”
I feel Dominique tense beside me, her scent shifting to something sharp with anxiety.
“I can explain—”
“Oh, I’m sure you can,” Mother cuts me off. “Fifteen years of perfect service, and suddenly Agent By-the-Book goes rogue? This wouldn’t have anything to do with that anomalous life sign AXIS reported in your cargo bay, would it?”
Silence stretches between us. Beside me, Dominique is studying my face with keen intelligence, probably wondering if I’m about to sacrifice her for my career.
“The situation is... complex,” I finally manage.
“Complex,” Mother repeats flatly. “Agent, are you harboring a fugitive member of Human Concord royalty?”
“I am protecting a diplomatic asset under the Consular Bonding Clause,” I state, choosing my words with extreme care.
The silence that follows is so complete I can hear the subtle hum of the ship’s life support systems.
“Well—shit,” Mother finally says. “AXIS, confirm: has Agent Wi’kar invoked the Consular Bonding Clause?”
“Confirmed,” my AI responds cheerfully. “The Clause was triggered approximately fourteen hours ago when Princess Dominique Farah of House Malren made physical contact with Agent Wi’kar while formally declaring her identity during active diplomatic transit. Current legal status: Bonded Consorts.”
“Bonded... consorts,” Mother repeats slowly. “Agent Wi’kar, are you telling me you’ve accidentally space-married a runaway princess?”
Dominique snorts with poorly suppressed laughter, earning a sharp look from me.
“The terminology is diplomatic union, not—”
“I don’t care if you call it a tea party,” Mother interrupts. “What I care about is that you’ve created the biggest diplomatic clusterfuck in OOPS history. Do you have any idea what kind of paperwork this generates?”
“I am aware that the situation presents administrative challenges—”
“Administrative challenges?” Mother’s voice rises dangerously. “Agent, three separate governments are currently involved in what amounts to an interstellar missing persons case. The Human Concord is threatening to revoke OOPS diplomatic immunity. Prince Dante is demanding your head on a ceremonial platter. And somehow, I’m supposed to explain to my superiors why one of my best couriers has gone completely off the rails for a woman he met less than twenty-four hours ago.”
I open my mouth to protest this characterization, but Mother isn’t finished.
“Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to lay low in the Fringe until I can figure out how to spin this mess. Do not—and I cannot emphasize this strongly enough—do not contact any OOPS facilities, STI outposts, or anything more official than a fuel depot. Keep your heads down, keep your princess alive, and for the love of all that’s regulated, try not to start any wars.”
