Page 12 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced (You’ve Got Alien Mail #1)

The Truth Doesn’t Set You Free

Suki

The Zaterran repair bay is a cathedral of broken things.

Vaulted ceilings disappear into shadow overhead, while massive crystalline support beams catch and refract the harsh work lights.

The air tastes metallic, tinged with plasma discharge and engine coolant.

My footsteps echo as I follow the silent technician through rows of damaged vessels—some military, some diplomatic, all of them sleeker and more impressive than my battered courier ship.

Which I still haven’t seen.

“Are we actually going to my ship, or is this just another scenic tour of Fortress Brooding?” I ask the technician’s back.

He doesn’t respond, just keeps walking with that eerie Zaterran grace.

After Henrok left me here with instructions to “observe but not interfere,” I’ve been led in circles for what feels like hours.

The memory of our time on the observation platform keeps intruding—the way he’d looked at me during the ion storm, the vulnerability in his voice when he shared his past. For a moment, I’d thought we were getting somewhere.

That maybe this impossible situation could become something more than just warlord and captive.

But now, surrounded by the cold efficiency of the repair bay, that moment feels like a dream.

I’m starting to think they’re stalling.

“Listen, I get that you’re probably under orders to keep the annoying human busy, but I really need to see my ship.” I quicken my pace, moving alongside the technician. “The Rust Bucket. Small courier vessel. Looks like it was assembled from spare parts and prayer? Ring any bells?”

The technician finally glances at me, his crystalline markings pulsing once in what I’m learning to recognize as Zaterran annoyance. “The human vessel is in quarantine bay. Final diagnostics.”

“Great! Let’s go there.”

“Access restricted.”

Of course it is. I stop walking, crossing my arms. “I’m not moving another step until you take me to my ship. Henrok promised.”

The technician’s faceted eyes narrow slightly. “First Blade Henrok D’Vorr,” he corrects, emphasizing each syllable like I’m a particularly slow child.

“Yeah, him. Big guy, perpetual scowl, surprisingly decent tour guide?” The words come out with more fondness than I intended.

“He specifically said I could inspect my ship and my package today.” I tap my wrist where the tracking bracelet sits snug against my skin.

“Unless this fancy jewelry means I’m actually a prisoner, not a guest? ”

Something shifts in the technician’s rigid posture—uncertainty, maybe. Or the Zaterran equivalent of ‘oh crap, the human might be right.’

“Wait here,” he finally says, then moves to a nearby console.

While he confers with a colleague via a low, rumbling conversation I can’t quite make out, I take the opportunity to really look around.

The repair bay is impressive, I’ll give them that.

State-of-the-art equipment, organized with military precision.

But there’s something else—a tension in the air that goes beyond the normal hum of a maintenance facility.

The technicians move with heightened alertness, their conversations hushed, their glances frequent toward the far end of the bay where a heavy security door stands closed.

The quarantine bay, I’m guessing. Where my ship is apparently being held.

But why quarantine a simple courier vessel? Unless they found something...

My technician returns, his expression unreadable. “Follow,” he says curtly.

We head toward that imposing security door, passing workstations where other Zaterrans pause to watch us with those unsettling gem-like eyes. The door requires three separate security protocols to open—a biometric scan, a code sequence, and what looks like a verbal password. Paranoid much?

The door slides open to reveal a smaller, isolated bay. And there, suspended in a maintenance cradle, is my ship.

Or what’s left of it.

“Oh my void,” I whisper, moving forward without waiting for permission.

The Rust Bucket looks like it’s been gutted.

Panels removed, systems exposed, the entire port side engine housing disassembled.

Tools and diagnostic equipment surround it like vultures around a carcass.

But it’s not the extent of the repairs that stops me cold—it’s the methodical way they’ve taken apart specific systems. Navigation. Communications. Cargo hold security.

They weren’t just fixing my ship. They were dissecting it.

“What the hell is this?” I demand, whirling to face the technician. The violation hits me like a physical blow—this isn’t just my ship, it’s my home, my life, my independence. And they’ve torn it apart like it’s nothing more than scrap metal.

“Standard procedure for unauthorized vessels,” he replies, unmoved by my anger. “Security protocol—”

“Bullshit.” I cut him off, stalking toward my ship. “This isn’t protocol, it’s an interrogation. You’re looking for something.”

He doesn’t deny it, which is answer enough.

I duck under a support beam and climb onto the access ramp, ignoring his sharp command to stop.

The interior of my ship is even worse—storage compartments emptied, paneling removed, even my bunk stripped to the frame.

They’ve violated every inch of my private space, my sanctuary.

The sense of betrayal burns in my chest like acid.

But they don’t know my ship like I do.

While the technician calls for backup on his comm device, I move quickly to the pilot’s seat and drop to my knees, feeling along the underside of the console.

There—a small depression that, when pressed just right, releases a hidden panel.

Inside is a waterproof sleeve containing my real ship manifest, emergency credits, and identification docs.

I never leave these in the official logbook.

In my line of work, having a backup is the difference between getting paid and getting screwed.

I slip the sleeve into my boot just as heavy footsteps announce the arrival of security. Two Zaterran guards enter, their crystalline armor catching the light as they move toward me with purpose.

“The human will exit the vessel,” one announces, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I stand slowly, hands raised in mock surrender. “Just checking my ship’s damage. You know, like I was promised I could do?”

The guard’s expression doesn’t change. “Exit now.”

“Fine, fine. I’m coming.” I make my way back down the ramp, mind racing. They’ve torn apart my ship looking for something, but what? And why are they so interested in a routine courier delivery?

Unless it wasn’t routine at all.

The package. I still haven’t seen the actual package I was supposed to deliver.

“Where’s my cargo?” I ask as the guards escort me away from my ship. “The package I was carrying? Henrok promised I could inspect that too.”

The guards exchange a look I can’t interpret, but their silence is telling. Something about that package has them on edge.

“Take me to Diplomatic Liaison Vex’ra,” I say, trying a different approach. “The package was addressed to her, right? I need to confirm delivery.”

More silence, but they change direction, leading me through a different door and into a series of corridors I haven’t seen before.

We pass through what appears to be an administrative section of the fortress, with Zaterrans in less militaristic attire moving purposefully between rooms. Finally, we stop before an ornate door etched with symbols I can’t read.

One guard announces our presence via some kind of comm panel.

After a moment, the door slides open to reveal a chamber that’s more like a small museum than an office.

Display cases line the walls, filled with artifacts from what I assume are various worlds—trophies, maybe, or bribes. The thought makes my stomach turn.

In the center, a large desk of polished obsidian dominates the space, and behind it sits Vex’ra.

She’s different from the other Zaterrans I’ve met—smaller, her crystalline markings more delicate, her movements more fluid. But her eyes are just as sharp, just as evaluating. And right now, they’re fixed on me with the intensity of a predator who’s found something interesting.

“The courier,” she says, her voice surprisingly melodic. “I wondered when you would seek me out.”

The guards take positions by the door as Vex’ra gestures for me to approach her desk. I notice how she doesn’t invite me to sit—a deliberate power play that sets my teeth on edge.

“You were the intended recipient of my package,” I say, getting straight to the point. “I’d like to verify delivery, if you don’t mind. Professional courtesy.”

Her mouth curves in what might be a smile on a human face.

On hers, it’s more like a predator baring teeth.

“Professional courtesy,” she repeats, as if tasting the words.

“How... quaint.” She gestures to a small, ornate box on her desk.

“Your package was delivered, though not in the manner expected.”

I eye the box skeptically. It’s beautiful—carved from some iridescent material that shifts colors as the light hits it—but it’s not what was in my cargo hold. My package was a standard OOPS security container: black, nondescript, triple-sealed.

“That’s not my delivery,” I say flatly. “Where’s the real package?”

Vex’ra’s expression doesn’t change, but something in the air does—a subtle shift in tension, like the moment before lightning strikes. The crystalline patterns on her arms pulse faster, and I realize she’s not as calm as she appears.

“The contents were transferred to a more appropriate vessel,” she says smoothly. “The original container was... unsuitable for diplomatic quarters.”

She’s lying. I don’t need Zaterran facial cues to know that. But why lie about a simple package transfer?

Unless there was nothing simple about it.