Page 50 of Return to Sender
“First stop: station admin for temporary housing and supplies,” I inform her as we navigate the narrow corridors leading from the docking level.
The administrative section proves to be a single desk occupied by a Morcrestian whose facial scarring suggests significant combat experience. He processes our request for temporary quarters with efficient disinterest, accepting payment without examining our identification too closely.
“Bay 7, Hab Module C, Level 3,” he grunts, sliding us access cards. “Meal dispensers on each level, market sector on Level 1. Try not to cause trouble.”
“Us? Trouble?” Dominique asks with such perfect innocence that I detect a dangerous gleam in her eyes. “We’re just a courier and his . . . consultant.”
The Morcrestian’s scarred features shift into what might generously be called a smile. “Right. Consultant.” His tonesuggests he has encountered many such “consultants” over the years.
“Trouble?” I ask as we leave the admin desk.
“Mining stations like Umbra-7 maintain order through . . . community self-regulation,” I explain. “Disputes are typically resolved through direct negotiation rather than formal legal proceedings.”
“You mean fights,” she translates.
“Among other methods,” I confirm.
“Good to know,” she says cheerfully. “I’ve been wanting to test out some of those combat techniques you taught me.”
I pause mid-stride. “I have not taught you combat techniques.”
“No, but you’ve been thinking about it,” she says with that insufferable confidence that both attracts and alarms me. “Your protective instincts are extremely readable, Wi’kar. Also, I may have accessed some OOPS training files through AXIS.”
“She has an unusual talent for bypassing security protocols,” AXIS observes dryly. “I am simultaneously impressed and concerned.”
As we make our way toward the habitation levels, I notice the way she adapts to our environment. Her movements become more controlled, her awareness heightened, her posture suggesting competence rather than vulnerability. The residents we pass give us respectful space—recognizing either my courier credentials or simply the fact that we are clearly capable of handling ourselves.
Our assigned quarters prove to be a single room with basic amenities and a communication terminal. I activate the system, entering my authorization codes to contact Mother as instructed.
Mother’s gruff visage appears on the screen, her expression carrying a mixture of satisfaction and exasperation that Irecognize as her standard reaction to successful but complicated operations.
“Wi’kar,” she begins without preamble. “Good timing. I was hoping you’d call soon after arrival. Now sit down, both of you, because we need to talk.”
Dominique moves to stand beside me, her hand finding my arm in a gesture of support that steadies my sudden uncertainty. “This should be interesting,” she murmurs.
“First,” Mother continues, “you should know that your little joyride across the galaxy has created quite the diplomatic incident. Prince Dante has been throwing his weight around, demanding OOPS cooperation in tracking down his ‘kidnapped’ fiancée. He’s threatened sanctions, trade restrictions, and formal complaints to the Stellar Togetherness Initiative.”
“Kidnapped?” Dominique interrupts angrily. “I stowed away on his ship!”
“I know exactly what happened, princess,” Mother replies with a slight smile. “Wi’kar’s reports have been . . . illuminating.”
I feel heat rise in my patterns. My reports have been strictly professional, with no mention of personal developments between Dominique and myself.
“That brings me to my second point,” Mother continues with obvious amusement. “Wi’kar, your biometric reports through AXIS have been extremely educational. Elevated stress hormones, increased protective behaviors, territorial marking through scent-bonding . . . honestly, I was wondering when you’d finally find a mate.”
Dominique turns to stare at me. “Biometric reports?”
“Standard courier monitoring protocols,” I explain quietly, though my patterns are pulsing with embarrassment. “AXIS transmits health and safety data during regular check-ins.”
“Including mating behaviors?” she asks, her voice climbing an octave.
“All significant biological changes are monitored,” I confirm reluctantly.
“Oh, this is priceless,” she says with dawning amusement. “Mother’s been watching our relationship develop through medical telemetry.”
“Focus,” Mother’s voice cuts through our discussion. “We have bigger problems than your mating rituals. Prince Dante has convinced the Human Concord that Wi’kar is a rogue agent who kidnapped and corrupted their precious princess. There’s a formal diplomatic complaint filed with the STI, demanding Wi’kar’s extradition for trial.”
The implications hit me like a punch to the gut. Extradition to Human Concord custody would mean trial under their legal system, with predetermined conclusions and severe penalties. Dominique’s hand tightens on my arm, her protective instincts immediately triggered.
