Page 27 of Return to Sender
Her face pales further, though this time not from physical pain. “And you didn’t report me.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
The final treatment cycle is ready. I reactivate the regenerator, focusing on the remaining damaged neural pathways. The device’s low hum fills the space between us as I struggle to formulate an answer.
“The directive contradicted my assessment of the situation,” I say finally.
“Your assessment?” she presses, her voice tight with pain as the regeneration process resumes.
“The bounty notice clearly indicated Prince Dante’s intent to frame me as your abductor. The specific mention of ‘mind-altering substances’ suggested a predetermined narrative designed to discredit any testimony I might offer regarding your voluntary departure from the Concord.” I adjust the regenerator’s angle slightly, the movement bringing me even closer to her. “Furthermore, your reaction when discussing your arranged marriage indicated genuine distress. The probability that you would be returned to a coercive situation was 89.7%.”
She stares at me, her expression a complex mixture of emotions I cannot fully interpret. “So you... what? Decided tobecome a fugitive instead? To throw away your perfect record and disobey direct orders from your superior? For me?”
Put so plainly, my actions seem incomprehensible even to myself. I have violated core principles that have guided my entire existence. I have compromised my duty, my reputation, and potentially the diplomatic standing of my species.
Yet I cannot bring myself to regret it.
“Yes,” I say simply.
The regenerator signals the completion of the final treatment cycle. I deactivate it and set it aside, then retrieve a dermal sealer to address the superficial burns left by the disruptor. The gel is designed to cool and heal, but as I apply it to her shoulder, I am acutely aware of the way she shivers at the contact—not from cold, but from something else entirely.
“You should experience a gradual return of full neural function over the next 2.7 hours,” I inform her, my voice slightly rough as I smooth the gel across her skin with perhaps more care than strictly necessary. “Some residual tingling may persist for approximately 12 hours. I recommend limited use of the affected limb during this recovery period.”
She doesn’t respond to my medical assessment. Instead, she captures my wrist with her uninjured hand, halting my ministrations. The contact sends an unexpected current through my system—a physiological reaction that defies my attempts at control.
“Why?” she asks again, her voice barely above a whisper. “The real reason, Wi’kar. Not the logical justification you’ve constructed.”
I should withdraw from her touch. I should maintain professional distance. I should redirect the conversation to relevant tactical considerations.
Instead, I find myself answering with a truth I have barely acknowledged even to myself.
“Because you chose freedom,” I say, the words emerging with difficulty. “At great personal cost. With significant risk. You rejected a path that was predetermined for you, regardless of your desires or wellbeing. And I... I have never made such a choice.”
Her fingers tighten around my wrist. “Until now.”
“Until now,” I agree, the admission both liberating and terrifying.
A small alert chimes from the ship’s communication system. “Agent Wi’kar,” AXIS announces, “we have cleared Klethian’s orbital security range. Hyperspace coordinates are required for jump sequence initiation.”
The interruption should be welcome—a return to practical matters, away from this dangerous conversation. Yet I find myself reluctant to break the moment, reluctant to address the implications of what I have just admitted.
“Where are we going?” Dominique asks, finally releasing my wrist. The absence of her touch leaves an inexplicable sensation of loss.
“We require a secure location to reassess our situation,” I respond, though my voice lacks its usual certainty. “Given the extensive nature of the bounty notice, most established ports are compromised.”
She sits up carefully, testing the movement of her injured arm. The neural regeneration has clearly been effective, though she still favors the limb. “So we’re going somewhere unofficial. Somewhere off the grid.”
“Correct.” I step back, attempting to reestablish professional distance, though every instinct protests the separation. “AXIS, set coordinates for the Cressida Nebula, outpost designation Umbra-7.”
“Coordinates set,” AXIS confirms. “Hyperspace jump in 30 seconds.”
Dominique slides from the examination platform, her movements careful but steady. When she looks at me, there’s something in her expression that makes my chest feel tight—understanding, perhaps, or acceptance.
“You know what I think?” she says, her voice soft but intense. “I think you’re finally making the choices you should have been allowed to make all along.”
Before I can respond to this assessment—before I can process the warmth it creates in my chest—the hyperspace engines engage, reality folding around us as we leap toward an uncertain future.
