Page 10 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced (You’ve Got Alien Mail #1)
The Warlord's Weakness
Henrok
The security feed flickers before me, cycling through various sectors of the fortress. I stand motionless before the command console, hands clasped behind my back, spine rigid with centuries of discipline. Dawn is still hours away, yet sleep eludes me as it has since the courier’s arrival.
I watch her pace the confines of her quarters, restless even in slumber.
She moves with unconscious grace, trailing her fingers along crystalline walls as if reading their composition through touch alone.
Pausing at the viewport, she gazes out at the asteroid belt, her expression unguarded in what she believes is privacy.
Longing. That is what I see there. Not fear, as would be appropriate. Not calculation, as would be expected from a potential infiltrator. Simply... longing. For what, I cannot say.
I should not be watching her. It is... unseemly. Yet I find myself unable to look away.
“First Blade,” Vex’ra’s voice cuts through my thoughts as she enters the command center. “The diplomatic contingent from Corsairia requests your presence at the morning council.”
I do not turn. “Inform them I am occupied with security matters.”
She moves to stand beside me, her gaze following mine to the monitor. Her crystalline markings pulse once with disapproval.
“The human courier,” she observes. “She continues to... interest you.”
“She breached our security,” I remind her, though we both know this is not the complete truth. “Until her ship is repaired and her package verified, she remains a potential threat.”
Vex’ra’s expression does not change, but the slight shift in her posture communicates her skepticism more clearly than words could.
“The package has been thoroughly scanned,” she says. “It contains nothing but ceremonial artifacts from the Corsairian delegation. Harmless trinkets.”
“Then why was it rerouted to my personal landing pad?” I turn to face her fully. “Why was the courier’s navigation system compromised?”
Vex’ra tilts her head, the gesture almost imperceptible. “Perhaps it was simply... an error.”
“There are no such errors in Zater Reach,” I state flatly. “Not without purpose.”
She inclines her head in acknowledgment, if not agreement. “As you say, First Blade. Shall I have the human brought to you?”
“No.” The response comes too quickly. I moderate my tone. “I will collect her myself. After the morning meditation ritual.”
Vex’ra’s eyes narrow slightly, but she does not challenge me. “As you wish. I will inform the Corsairian delegation of your... security concerns.”
After she departs, I return my attention to the monitor.
The courier—Suki—has moved to the small table in her quarters where the morning meal awaits.
She prods at the Zaterran delicacies with obvious suspicion, eventually selecting the simplest item—a crystallized fruit native to our asteroid belt.
Her expression as she tastes it shifts from wariness to surprise to something like pleasure.
The sight should not affect me as it does.
I terminate the feed with a sharp gesture and turn away. The meditation chambers await, and I have never needed their clarity more than I do now.
The ancient halls of the fortress’s lower levels are seldom visited by any save the warrior caste.
Here, the obsidian walls are unadorned, the crystalline veins pulsing with a deeper, slower rhythm that echoes the heartbeat of Zater itself.
I move through them with practiced ease, my footsteps silent despite my size.
Three cycles of meditation have done little to center my thoughts.
If anything, the forced stillness has only made me more acutely aware of the disruption in my usually ordered existence.
Like a single discordant note in an otherwise perfect harmony, the courier’s presence reverberates through my consciousness.
I should assign her to Vex’ra’s care. It would be the logical course. The diplomatic.
Yet I find myself taking the path to her quarters instead.
The guards straighten as I approach, their posture shifting from alert to rigid attention. I acknowledge them with the barest inclination of my head.
“First Blade,” the senior guard greets me, hand pressed to chest in salute. “The human has been... restless.”
“Explain.”
“She has dismantled the serving droid,” he reports, a hint of discomfort in his otherwise formal tone.
This is... unexpected. “For what purpose?”
“Unknown, First Blade. She claimed it was ‘making a noise that would drive anyone insane.’ Her words.”
I suppress what might have been amusement in a lesser warrior. “Open the door.”
The guard complies, and I enter to find a scene of controlled chaos.
Suki kneels on the floor, surrounded by the disassembled components of what was once a domestic service droid.
The unit is ancient—a relic from before the War of Shattered Moons, when such luxuries were common in Zaterran households.
Its crystalline core glows faintly, but the rest of its parts are scattered in what appears to be a methodical arrangement around her.
She doesn’t look up immediately, her focus absolute as she manipulates something in the droid’s central processor with a tool that appears to be fashioned from a hair ornament left by the attending females who prepared her upon arrival.
“If you’re here to yell at me about the robot,” she says without looking up, “in my defense, it was making this horrible grinding noise. Like metal being slowly tortured to death.”
Her ability to sense my presence without visual confirmation is... impressive.
“It is a serving droid,” I correct her. “Discontinued after the War of Shattered Moons. There are perhaps three functioning units left in existence.”
Now she does look up, her hazel eyes widening slightly. “Oh. Crap. Is this like, a priceless antique? Because I can totally put it back together.” She pauses, considering. “Probably. Most of it, anyway.”
I move closer, studying her work. Despite her improvised tools and unfamiliarity with Zaterran technology, her disassembly appears methodical, even skilled.
“You understand its mechanisms?” I ask, genuinely curious.
She shrugs, a casual gesture that somehow conveys both confidence and dismissal.
“Not specifically. But tech is tech. This little guy’s basically just a glorified beverage dispenser with some rudimentary AI, right?
The grinding was coming from his mobility core—the bearings are shot to hell.
” She holds up a small, crystalline sphere.
“See? Micro-fractures all through the structure. No wonder he sounds like he’s dying. ”
I kneel beside her, bringing myself closer to her level, though I still tower over her smaller frame. The proximity allows me to detect the faint scent of her—alien yet not unpleasant. Something sharp and clean, like the air after a lightning storm.
“The unit is over three hundred cycles old,” I inform her, taking the damaged component from her hand to examine it. Our fingers brush briefly, and I note the slight acceleration in her pulse at the contact. “Replacement parts do not exist.”
“Yeah, I figured.” She gestures to a small pile of discarded components. “That’s why I’m cannibalizing the non-essential functions to rebuild the critical ones. It won’t be able to tell those weird riddles anymore, but at least it’ll move without sounding like it’s being murdered.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You encountered its riddle function?”
“Oh yeah.” She rolls her eyes, a distinctly human expression of exasperation.
“Before it started making death noises, it asked me something about ‘the tears of the void’ and ‘the breath of stars.’ I told it I was terrible at riddles, and it called me—” She pauses, frowning.
“Actually, I’m not sure what it called me, but based on the tone, I’m pretty sure it was insulting my intelligence. ”
The corner of my mouth twitches involuntarily. “The unit was programmed to provide mental stimulation as well as refreshment. Its... personality matrix was considered quite advanced for its time.”
“Well, its personality is intact. Snarky little thing.” She returns to her work, fingers moving with surprising dexterity as she reassembles a portion of the droid’s outer casing. “So, is this a social call, or are you here to escort me to my ship like you promised?”
Her directness continues to catch me off-guard. Most beings—even my own kind—approach me with careful deference, weighing each word for potential offense. Suki speaks as if we are equals. As if my rank, my species, my very nature are incidental rather than defining.
It is... refreshing. Disruptive, but refreshing.
“Both,” I answer, surprising myself with the admission. “Your ship has been moved to our repair bay. The damage was... significant.”
Her hands still. “How significant?”
“The gravitational anomaly damaged your primary drive core and navigation system. Our engineers estimate three days for essential repairs.”
“Three days?” She sets down her tools, frustration evident in the set of her shoulders. “I can’t be stuck here for three days. I have deliveries scheduled in the Venturian sector next week.”
“The alternative would be to leave your vessel behind and arrange transport on the next diplomatic shuttle,” I offer, knowing she will refuse. The attachment between this courier and her ship is evident.
As expected, she shakes her head firmly. “Not happening. The Rust Bucket is mine. I’m not abandoning her.”
“Then three days is the minimum.” I rise to my full height, extending a hand to assist her. “Come. I will show you the damage yourself, and you may inspect your package as promised.”
She eyes my offered hand with momentary suspicion before accepting it. Her palm is small against mine, callused in places that speak of manual labor and hard-earned skill. I lift her effortlessly, careful of my strength.