Page 1 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced (You’ve Got Alien Mail #1)

Crash and Collared

Suki

The alarm blares three centimeters 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The nebula surrounding Zater Reach wasn’t on any of my charts, which means either OOPS gave me outdated nav data again, or someone really doesn’t want visitors dropping by unannounced.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 a building, 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.”

I drop my head against the headrest and close my eyes. “Fantastic.”

The Rust Bucket might be a temperamental old girl, but she’s mine, and I know how to patch her up. Fourteen hours is optimistic, but I’ve worked miracles with less before. The real problem is where I’ve landed—and who I might encounter while stranded here.

According to the OOPS briefing packet, the fortress of Warlord Henrok D’Vorr is strictly off-limits to unauthorized personnel.

The kind of off-limits where trespassers might be disemboweled for sport.

But what choice do I have? I need to get to my actual delivery point, drop off the package, and pray I can repair my ship and escape before anyone notices the unauthorized human bleeding oil all over their pristine landing pad.

The bigger question gnaws at me as I unbuckle my restraints: what will he be like?

The stories paint him as a monster, but monsters don’t negotiate peace treaties.

They don’t inspire the kind of loyalty I’d heard about from other Zaterran territories.

Is he the brutal warlord of reputation, or something else entirely?

And why does part of me—a part I’m definitely not acknowledging—want to find out?

With a sigh, I push myself out of the pilot’s seat and reach for my courier jacket. The bright orange material is hideous, but it’s also the universal sign for “don’t shoot, I’m just delivering your stuff” across most of the galaxy. At least, I hope that applies to notorious alien warlords.

I pull my hair back into a tight braid, secure my emergency blaster in its hidden holster (against OOPS regulations, but Mother pretends not to know about it), and grab my courier tablet.

The package manifest is still displayed on the screen, though several details are redacted.

Typical. OOPS loves keeping its couriers in the dark.

Recipient: Lady Vex’ra, Diplomatic Liaison Office

Contents: [REDACTED]

Handling Instructions: Deliver directly to recipient. Signature required. DO NOT leave unattended.

Special Notes: Avoid Fortress D’Vorr perimeter. Approach from southern quadrant only.

Well, I’ve already failed that last instruction spectacularly.

The cargo hold is a mess when I get there. Several supply crates have broken free of their restraints and spilled their contents across the floor. My emergency rations are now mixed with spare parts and what looks suspiciously like engine coolant.

But the package—a sleek, black container about the size of my forearm—remains securely locked in its transport cradle. Small mercies.

I punch in my authorization code, and the cradle releases with a soft click. The container is heavier than it looks, with a faint warmth radiating through its metallic surface. Whatever’s inside, it’s either valuable, dangerous, or both.

Just another day at OOPS.

After sealing the cargo hold (the breach is small, nothing a patch kit won’t fix), I make my way to the airlock. The external sensors show breathable atmosphere but warn of high mineral content and trace crystalline particles. Nothing my lungs can’t handle for a short excursion.

I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and cycle the airlock.

The landing pad extends from the fortress like a massive obsidian tongue, smooth and gleaming under the diffuse light filtering through the nebula. The air tastes metallic, with an underlying sweetness that reminds me of burnt sugar. Strange, but not unpleasant.

I’ve taken exactly three steps toward what I hope is an entrance when the ground beneath my feet vibrates. A seam appears in the obsidian surface, widening rapidly to reveal a set of stairs descending into the fortress.

And ascending those stairs are six of the tallest, most heavily armored beings I’ve ever seen.

Zaterran guards. Each easily seven feet tall, with broad shoulders and skin in various shades of slate gray.

Their armor—a mix of what looks like crystalline plates and some kind of flexible mesh—catches the light in hypnotic patterns.

But it’s their eyes that stop me cold: glowing like embers in the shadow of their helmets, in colors ranging from deep amber to blood red.

Stars above, I think, my pulse quickening. If the guards look like this, what does their warlord look like?

I clutch the package to my chest and force a professional smile. “Hi there! Orion Outposts Postal Service. I have a delivery for Lady Vex’ra? I know this isn’t the usual drop point, but my ship had a bit of a... navigational hiccup.”

The guards don’t respond. They don’t even slow their approach.

“Look, I just need directions to the Diplomatic Liaison Office. I’ll be out of your way in no time.”