Page 1 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced
1
Crash and Collared
Suki
Thealarmblaresthreecentimeters from my ear—a shrill, unrelenting banshee that’s been my constant companion for the last twenty minutes.
“Warning: atmospheric anomaly detected. Warning: atmospheric—”
“Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first fifteen times.” I smack the console with more force than necessary. The alarm hiccups, then resumes its shrieking with renewed vigor. Typical. Even my ship’s AI holds grudges.
The Rust Bucket—officially registered as the Stellar Slingshot, but she hasn’t answered to that name in years—shudders violently as we hit another pocket of turbulence. The nebula surrounding Zater Reach wasn’t on any of my charts, which means either OOPS gave me outdated nav data again, or someone really doesn’t want visitors dropping by unannounced.
My money’s on deliberate misdirection. Nothing says “keep out” quite like a cosmic cloud that eats navigation systems for breakfast.
“Rerouting approach vector,” I mutter, fingers flying across the manual controls. The autopilot gave up the ghost somewhere around the outer asteroid belt, leaving me to wrestle this temperamental heap of scrap metal toward the delivery coordinates myself.
Through the viewport, swirls of crimson and violet gases part just enough to reveal my destination: a massive obsidian structure carved directly into the face of an asteroid. Even from this distance, I can make out the angular architecture, all sharp edges and imposing spires that look like they could impale a small moon.
The fortress of Warlord Henrok D’Vorr.
Just thinking his name sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine. The package currently rattling around in my cargo hold is supposedly addressed to someone inside that nightmare of abuilding, but all I can think about is the stories. The whispers in The Junction's cantinas about the Stellar Togetherness Initiative—STI, because nothing says 'galactic authority' like an unfortunate acronym—and how one Zaterran commander had held off three of their battle cruisers single-handedly. Who'd negotiated the peace treaty from a position of strength even after his forces were decimated.
What kind of man commands that level of fear and respect? What kind of alien?
“Absolutely not,” I’d told Mother when she handed me this assignment back at The Junction. “I’ve heard stories about that place. About him.”
Mother—who earned her nickname by being the exact opposite of maternal—had simply raised one penciled eyebrow and slid the manifest across her cluttered desk.
“Triple the standard rate,” she’d said, tapping one crimson-lacquered nail against the credit amount. “Hazard pay included.”
I’d snatched up the manifest before she could change her mind. My ship needed repairs, my rent was overdue, and my stomach had been running on protein cubes and spite for the better part of a week. But now, staring at that imposing fortress, I’m wondering if any amount of credits is worth potentially meeting the most dangerous warlord in the sector.
“Just drop the package and go,” I remind myself, wrestling with the controls as another wave of turbulence hits. “No eye contact, no small talk, and definitely no—”
The ship lurches suddenly, pitching forward as if yanked by an invisible hand. The control panel erupts in a symphony of alarms and flashing lights.
“Warning: gravitational anomaly detected. Hull integrity at sixty-eight percent. Warning: grav—”
“I can see that!” I shout, though it’s not like the AI cares. My knuckles whiten as I grip the steering column, trying to compensate for the sudden pull dragging us toward the asteroid’s surface. “Come on, baby, just hold together for five more minutes...”
The Rust Bucket responds with an ominous grinding noise from somewhere deep in her belly. Never a good sign.
On the scanner, I spot what looks like a landing pad jutting out from the lower levels of the fortress. Not my intended destination, but beggars can’t be choosers when their ships are being sucked into mysterious gravity wells.
“Emergency landing protocols initiated,” I announce to no one in particular, more out of habit than necessity. “Brace for impact in three... two...”
The ship hits the landing pad with a bone-jarring crunch that sends me lurching against my restraints. Something in the cargo hold breaks free with a metallic clang, followed by the distinct sound of liquid sloshing inside a container.
Great. If I’ve broken whatever’s in that package, OOPS will dock my pay. Again.
For a moment, I just sit there, catching my breath as the ship’s systems cycle through their shutdown sequences. The alarms gradually fade, leaving behind a ringing in my ears and the soft hiss of coolant leaking somewhere behind the cockpit wall.
“Damage report,” I croak, my throat dry from shouting at inanimate objects.
The screen flickers, then displays a schematic of the Rust Bucket with several areas highlighted in angry red.
“Primary propulsion offline. Secondary propulsion operating at thirty-two percent capacity. Hull breach detected in cargo section B. Life support stable. Communications array damaged. Estimated repair time: fourteen standard hours.”
