Page 2 of Return to Sender
“Halt immediately,” I command, my tone carrying the full weight of diplomatic authority while my scent glands release distress pheromones that smell distinctly of antiseptic panic.
She does not halt. Instead, she pivots with surprising agility and lunges again, wild-eyed and snarling. “Get out of my way, you silver-skinned filing cabinet!”
Her voice is rough, hoarse—likely from time spent in a pod not designed for biological transport. Her appearance is chaos incarnate. Torn clothing caked with dried mud. Hair a tangled mass that might have been beautiful once. Face smeared with grime except for clean tracks that could only have been made by tears.
This level of disorder is deeply, profoundly unsettling. My left eye begins to twitch—an involuntary response I haven’t experienced since Academy training.
Instead of immediately activating the stasis field, I step back to avoid her wild swing—and catch her wrist instinctively. The contact sends fire through my neural pathways. Not pain, but awareness. Her skin is warm, surprisingly soft beneath the grime, and her pulse thunders against my fingers like a trapped bird. The scent of her—beneath the mud and chaos—floods my senses like liquid lightning.
For exactly 2.3 seconds, we’re locked together, her amber eyes blazing with fury and something else I can’t identify. Gold flecks catch the light. My grip is firm but careful—she’s smaller than I initially calculated, more delicate than her feral behavior suggests, but there’s a coiled strength in her that speaks of someone accustomed to fighting.
My scent glands betray me utterly, flooding the air with something that tastes like ozone and want and desperate, inappropriate fascination.
Her nostrils flare. By the widening of her amber eyes, she smells it. Knows exactly what it means.
“Let go of me!” she demands, and the sound of her voice this close—rough, breathless, challenging—shoots straight through my nervous system in ways that violate several biological imperatives.
I release her wrist and immediately activate the localized stasis field generator. A pulse of blue energy erupts, catching her mid-lunge. She freezes in place, muscles straining against the invisible force.
“Release me!” she demands, voice straining against the field’s partial effect on her vocal cords. “You have no right to—”
“You are an unauthorized biological entity aboard a Tier-1 diplomatic vessel,” I interrupt, maintaining what I desperatelyhope is a safe distance while my entire body thrums with unwanted awareness. My scent glands are still betraying me, releasing notes of confusion and attraction I cannot control. “Identify yourself and explain your presence, or I will be forced to implement more restrictive containment measures.”
She bares her teeth—a universal sign of aggression among many species, but the feral display affects me in ways it absolutely should not. “I am not cargo, Captain Perfectly-Pressed! And I’m not explaining anything to some pointy-eared, silver-skinned bureaucrat who probably alphabetizes his emergency protocols!”
The accuracy of this assessment is deeply disturbing. I do, in fact, keep my emergency protocols in alphabetical order. How could she possibly—?
“Having trouble concentrating, Agent Perfect?” she taunts, her sharp intelligence evident despite her disheveled state. “Do you always smell like a medical facility, or is that your ‘surprised’ scent? What other emotions are you broadcasting?”
Too many. Far too many. How does she know about Gluxian scent communication? Most humans are completely oblivious to our pheromonal subtleties.
“Your cooperation would be advisable,” I manage, fighting to keep my voice level while every instinct screams at me to either flee or move closer to her intoxicating presence. “AXIS, scan for weapons and identify species.”
“Scan complete,” AXIS responds with what sounds like barely contained glee. “Subject is human female. Approximately twenty-five standard years. No additional weapons detected beyond improvised blade. Biometric scan indicates elevated stress hormones, mild dehydration, superficial abrasions, and...” AXIS pauses with unmistakable mischief. “Agent Wi’kar, are you experiencing olfactory sensitivity? Your stress indicators are highly irregular.”
Heat rises in my chest—embarrassment and something infinitely more dangerous. The human’s eyes narrow, cataloging my reaction with predatory precision.
“Last chance,” I inform her, ignoring both her knowing look and AXIS’s entirely too-observant commentary. “Identify yourself, or I will be forced to place you in a full containment chamber until authorities can be contacted at our next port.”
Something shifts in her expression—a calculation that makes her suddenly seem far more dangerous than her improvised weapon ever did. Her chin lifts in defiance, and I detect the faintest hint of triumph in her scent.
“Fine,” she says, the word sharp as the metal shard still clutched in her frozen hand. “I am Dominique Farah of House Malren, Princess of the Human Concord, and I demand you release me, you pointy-eared protocol droid!”
The declaration strikes me like a complete systems failure. Princess. House Malren—one of the most powerful royal lineages in Human Concord space. Covered in filth. Stowing away in my diplomatic cargo pod. This is beyond a security breach. This is a diplomatic incident of catastrophic proportions.
“Identity confirmed!” AXIS announces with unmistakable excitement. “Subject is Dominique Farah Valeriana of House Malren, Royal House of the Human Concord. Current status: Reported missing from royal compound on Venturia Prime approximately thirty-six hours ago. Oh my! Alert: Consular Bonding Clause, Interstellar Diplomatic Statute 7, Subsection Gamma, has been triggered by unauthorized direct physical contact combined with formal identity declaration. Current legal status: Bonded Consorts. Congratulations!”
The last word echoes through my ship with celebratory chimes that sound absolutely obscene in the current context.
My blood turns to ice. No. That’s impossible.
“What did it just say?” Princess Dominique’s voice has gone very quiet, the color draining from her face beneath the grime.
My throat constricts. “AXIS, explain the Consular Bonding Clause. Slowly. And without the congratulatory music.”
“The Consular Bonding Clause is an ancient but legally binding provision activated when a Human Concord Royal of the Malren bloodline makes unauthorized physical contact with a designated diplomatic envoy during active transit, followed by formal identity declaration,” AXIS recites with the precision of a legal database. “Scans confirm both conditions satisfied when Subject Dominique grabbed your uniform during initial contact, and subsequently declared royal status. The Clause supersedes all prior arrangements and creates a binding diplomatic union recognized across all signatory systems of the Stellar Togetherness Initiative. Shall I begin broadcasting the happy news to all diplomatic channels? I have templates for ‘Surprise Romantic Union’ and ‘Diplomatic Marriage of Convenience.’”
“NO!” we both shout simultaneously.
