Page 52 of Return to Sender
Diplomatic Immunity
Wi’kar
Thealarmsbeginseventeenhours and forty-three minutes after Mother’s message—exactly seventeen minutes before Diplomat Merida Toner’s scheduled arrival. AXIS’s voice cuts through our sleep with urgent efficiency, the metallic tone somehow conveying both alarm and calculated precision.
“Wi’kar, multiple vessels approaching Umbra-7. Configuration matches Human Concord Royal Fleet standards. Prince Dante’s flagship Sovereign Right leads a formation of six escort vessels. They are broadcasting demands for immediate station lockdown and compliance with royal directives.”
I am instantly alert, my body shifting from rest to tactical readiness as Dominique stirs beside me. Even in crisis mode, I cannot help but notice the way she fits perfectly against my side, her warmth and scent marking me as thoroughly as I have marked her. The irony is not lost on me that Dante’s arrival threatens the very peace we have found in each other’s arms.
“How long until they reach docking range?” I ask, moving to the communication terminal while pulling on my uniform with practiced efficiency. My hands move through the familiar motions, but my mind is already calculating defensive options and diplomatic escape routes.
“Fourteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds,” AXIS responds with characteristic precision. “They are demanding exclusive access to Bay 7 and surrounding sectors. Station administration has... declined to comply in what Captain Morrison described as ‘colorfully explicit terms.’”
Through our small window, I can see increased activity in the corridors as station residents react to the approaching Royal Fleet. Miners and traders are securing cargo, checking weapons, and preparing for potential trouble. Some are moving toward defensive positions with the fluid coordination of people who have faced authority before and found it wanting. Umbra-7 may operate outside standard regulations, but its residents arenot defenseless—and they clearly have little patience for royal entitlement.
“What’s happening?” Dominique asks, fully awake now and reaching for her clothes with movements that suggest combat readiness despite her royal upbringing.
“Dante has arrived ahead of schedule,” I inform her, watching as she transforms from sleep-soft mate to alert partner with impressive efficiency. “He is attempting to intimidate the station into compliance through superior firepower and royal authority.”
“Will it work?” she asks, fastening her utility belt with movements that suggest she has given serious consideration to potential combat scenarios since our time together began.
“Unlikely,” I reply, though I am calculating multiple contingency options and finding most of them unpalatable. “Umbra-7 residents have little affection for authority figures who arrive with threats. Dante’s demands will be viewed as attempted tyranny rather than legitimate diplomatic requests.”
The thought of civilian casualties caused by my presence here creates an uncomfortable tightness in my chest. I have spent my career avoiding exactly this type of situation—where personal choices might endanger innocents.
“Wi’kar,” Dominique says softly, noting my tension. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop. This isn’t your fault.”
“Dante would not be here if not for my actions,” I point out with logical precision.
“Dante would be here because of his actions,” she corrects firmly. “His obsession, his control issues, his refusal to accept that tracking us through every fuel purchase and docking fee wouldn’t eventually lead him here. You didn’t create this situation—you just gave me the courage to escape it.”
The reminder of Mother’s revelation about Dante’s systematic tracking through our OOPS financial records sends a fresh waveof anger through my system. Every legitimate transaction we made, every protocol we followed, became breadcrumbs for him to follow. He turned our own professional procedures into a hunting trail.
Before I can respond, the communication terminal chimes with an incoming transmission. Prince Dante’s image appears on the screen, and I immediately understand why Dominique found him so repulsive.
Dante is a specimen of humanity at its most physically unpleasant. His face is a study in barely controlled excess—fleshy features arranged around small, predatory eyes that glitter with the kind of intelligence that takes pleasure in others’ discomfort. His skin has the unhealthy pallor of someone who spends too much time in artificial environments, made worse by the way it stretches over his bloated features. Thinning hair has been arranged in an elaborate style that only emphasizes the expanse of scalp beneath, while his mouth is a thin slash that seems incapable of any expression except cruelty or false charm.
His body, visible in the formal diplomatic attire he wears like armor, suggests someone who has never known physical hardship. The deep blue fabric with gold trim that screams wealth and authority strains across a form that speaks of indulgence and soft living. But it’s his eyes that truly reveal his nature—cold, calculating, and utterly without empathy.
This is what Dominique was meant to marry. The thought makes my patterns pulse with protective fury.
“Agent Wi’kar,” he begins without preamble, his voice carrying the smooth confidence of someone accustomed to immediate compliance despite its unpleasant, grating quality. “I am here to retrieve my fiancée and resolve this unfortunate situation. Surrender Princess Dominique immediately, and I am prepared to overlook your... temporary lapse in judgment.”
The casual dismissal of my agency and intelligence is both insulting and tactically revealing. Dante views this as a simple retrieval operation rather than a complex diplomatic situation.
Dominique moves to stand beside me, her presence both comforting and strengthening. I can feel her revulsion at seeing Dante again, mixed with determination that radiates like a physical force.
“Hello, Dante,” she says with deceptive calm, her tone carrying the kind of sweetness that precedes violence. “Still trying to collect property that was never yours?”
His expression hardens, the small eyes narrowing to slits that make his face even more unpleasant. The muscle in his jaw ticks—a tell I file away for future reference.
“Dominique, you have been deceived by this alien’s influence,” he continues as if she hasn’t spoken, his tone suggesting he finds her voice an irritating interruption. “The tracking devices monitoring your location show clear evidence of alien interference with your judgment and decision-making capabilities. Return to my custody, and we can resolve this matter quietly without further embarrassment to either of our houses.”
“Tracking devices?” she repeats with dangerous calm that makes my patterns pulse with protective response. “You mean the financial surveillance you’ve been conducting through STI public records? Following our every fuel purchase and docking fee like a stalker with bureaucratic credentials?”
Dante’s pause is barely perceptible, but I catch the slight tightening around his eyes that suggests surprise at her knowledge. His diplomatic training is good, but not perfect—and Dominique knows him well enough to read the micro-expressions he cannot quite control.
“Transaction monitoring is standard security protocol for tracking fugitive assets,” he recovers smoothly, falling back onprotocol as justification. “For the protection of royal family members and the preservation of vital political alliances. The galaxy is dangerous for those of royal blood who abandon their responsibilities.”
