Page 7 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced (You’ve Got Alien Mail #1)

The Break In

Suki

The diplomatic guest quarters are nicer than any place I’ve slept in the last three years.

The bed is massive, carved from that same obsidian everything else is made of around here, but topped with a mattress that feels like floating on a gravity-free cloud.

The bathroom—sorry, “cleansing chamber”—has actual water pressure.

Like, the kind that makes you want to stand under it for an hour contemplating your life choices.

Which is exactly what I’m not doing.

I press my ear against the door for the fifth time in twenty minutes. The guard outside hasn’t moved. Hasn’t coughed. Hasn’t even shifted his weight, as far as I can tell. Either Zaterrans don’t get bored on duty, or this guy is the most disciplined sentry in the galaxy.

“Come on,” I mutter, pulling back to glare at the ornate timepiece on the wall. Its crystalline hands glow faintly in the dimmed lighting, marking what must be close to midnight in whatever system they use here. “Take a bathroom break already.”

I’ve changed back into my own clothes—mostly. My courier jacket is still torn from the crash, but my pants and boots survived intact. The ceremonial bracelet still circles my wrist, its faint blue glow a constant reminder that I’m being tracked like a package with a priority stamp.

Package. My actual delivery.

That’s what I need to find.

I’ve spent enough time around shady clients to know when something’s off, and this whole situation stinks worse than the waste recyclers on Level 3 of The Junction.

First, my nav system glitches and sends me to the warlord’s personal landing pad instead of the diplomatic outpost. Then I get mistaken for some kind of peace offering.

And now I’m stuck in luxury accommodations with a guard outside my door and a tracking bracelet I can’t remove.

Yeah. Nothing suspicious about that at all.

The diplomatic wing is on the eastern side of the fortress—at least, I think it’s east. Hard to tell on an asteroid with no proper cardinal directions.

But I’ve been mentally mapping the place since they first dragged me in.

The layout is burned into my memory: three right turns from the main entry hall, up one level via that weird floating platform, then down a long corridor lined with glowing battle murals.

If I can get out of this room, I might be able to find my way to wherever they’re keeping my package.

Or better yet, to a comm station where I can send an actual distress signal to OOPS.

The supervised communication they allowed earlier was a joke—just enough time to tell my dispatcher I was delayed, with the scary lady Vex’ra breathing down my neck the whole time.

I check the timepiece again. The crystalline hands have barely moved. Do Zaterrans measure time differently? Or is this night just going to last forever?

Screw it. I can’t wait any longer.

I move to the bed and quickly arrange the pillows under the covers in a vaguely humanoid shape—a trick I learned during my brief stint in a Venturian boarding school before they kicked me out for “creative interpretation” of their attendance policy.

It won’t fool anyone for long, but it might buy me a few minutes if the guard decides to check.

Next, I retrieve the small multi-tool I always keep hidden in my boot. OOPS regulations require couriers to carry basic repair equipment at all times—which has saved my life more times than I care to count. The Zaterrans confiscated my larger tools, but they missed this one. Amateurs.

I approach the door, studying its locking mechanism.

It’s not electronic—at least not in any way I recognize.

The surface is smooth obsidian, but with a pattern of faintly glowing lines that seem to pulse in rhythm with something.

Maybe the fortress’s power grid? Or some kind of bio-signature scanner?

Great. New alien tech. My favorite.

I press my ear to the door again. Still no movement from the guard. Here goes nothing.

I slide the multi-tool into what looks like the main seam of the locking mechanism and feel around gently. There’s a slight resistance, then a give that doesn’t feel quite right. The crystalline lines pulse brighter, responding to the metal intrusion. I adjust my angle, probing deeper, and—

Click.

The door slides open silently, revealing an empty corridor.

Wait. Empty?

I freeze, half-expecting an alarm to sound or the guard to materialize from the shadows. Nothing happens. The hallway stretches in both directions, illuminated only by those same bioluminescent crystal veins embedded in the walls.

Where did the guard go?

I don’t have time to question my good luck. I slip into the corridor, closing the door carefully behind me. The tracking bracelet pulses once, as if registering my movement, but no alarms blare. Maybe they only monitor if I try to leave certain areas.

The corridors are a maze of polished obsidian and glowing crystal, all high ceilings and angular architecture designed for beings much taller than humans.

But I’ve navigated worse. The Junction’s lower levels are a twisted nightmare of repurposed cargo holds and jury-rigged passages that would make this place look like a luxury resort.

I turn right, moving on instinct and memory toward what I hope is the central part of the fortress.

My footsteps are nearly silent thanks to the soft soles of my boots—another OOPS courier essential.

You never know when you’ll need to sneak past a sleeping security drone or an irritable recipient who doesn’t want to sign for their package.

The walls here are covered with those unsettling murals I noticed earlier—stylized scenes of Zaterran warriors locked in battle, their crystalline weapons gleaming with artistic menace.

The way the crystal veins pulse behind them makes the figures seem to move in my peripheral vision, like they’re watching my progress with alien disapproval.

I pass several doors, all closed, all with those same crystalline locking mechanisms. No labels, no signs, nothing to indicate what might be behind them. Either Zaterrans have incredible memories, or they use some kind of system I don’t understand.

The silence is starting to get to me. No footsteps, no voices, no machinery hum. It’s like the entire fortress is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

After what feels like forever but is probably only a few minutes, I reach a junction where the corridor splits three ways.

The left path slopes downward into darkness, while the right curves upward toward what might be another level.

The center continues straight ahead, but there’s something different about it—the crystal veins in the walls pulse with a faster rhythm, almost like a heartbeat.

Central command, maybe? Worth a shot.

I take the center path, moving more cautiously now. The lighting grows brighter as I proceed, and I hear the faint hum of machinery ahead. Finally—signs of life. Where there’s tech, there’s usually communication equipment.

The corridor widens into a circular chamber that screams “important stuff happens here.” Multiple workstations are arranged around a central holographic display, currently inactive and showing only a faint blue glow.

The workstations are clearly designed for Zaterran physiology—too tall for me to use comfortably, with strange, angular interfaces that bear little resemblance to standard galactic tech.

But no personnel. The room is empty.

“Weird,” I whisper, stepping further into the chamber. My voice echoes slightly in the vast space. “Where is everyone?”

Maybe it’s a night shift thing. Or maybe Zaterrans don’t need as much monitoring equipment as other species. Either way, I’m not complaining about the lack of witnesses.

I spot what looks like a communication array to my right—a familiar configuration of receivers and transmitters, even if the specific components are distinctly alien.

The sight of it sends a surge of hope through my chest. If I can just send a quick burst transmission to OOPS headquarters with my actual coordinates and situation, maybe they can—

A soft whirring sound behind me freezes me in place.

No. No, no, no.

I turn slowly, already knowing I’m not going to like what I see.

Hovering at the chamber entrance is what can only be described as a security drone—if security drones were designed by someone with an unhealthy obsession with crystalline spiders.

It’s about the size of my torso, with multiple articulated limbs extending from a central core that pulses with the same blue light as my tracking bracelet.

Multiple optical sensors swivel to focus on me, glowing like tiny suns.

We stare at each other for a long, tense moment.

“Hey there,” I say, forcing a smile and raising my hands in what I hope is a universal gesture of peace. “Just looking for the bathroom. Wrong turn. My bad.”

The drone emits a series of sharp, clicking sounds that somehow manage to convey both disapproval and imminent violence. One of its front appendages extends, revealing what is unmistakably a weapons system—sleek, crystalline, and currently charging with an ominous red glow.

“Okay, so we’re not going with the bathroom excuse. Got it.”

I back up slowly, eyes fixed on the drone. My hand finds the edge of the communication console behind me, fingers searching blindly for anything I can use as a weapon or distraction. The drone’s optical sensors track my every movement, calculating angles and trajectories with mechanical precision.

“Look, there’s been a misunderstanding,” I try again, my voice steady despite the panic building in my chest. “I’m a guest here. Ask your boss, the big guy. Hen-rock. He invited me to dinner and everything.”

The drone pauses, its clicking growing more rapid as if processing this information. For a second, I think it might actually be working. Maybe it’s cross-referencing my biometrics with some kind of guest database, or—

Then it lunges.

I dive to the side, rolling beneath one of the workstations as a burst of energy scorches the floor where I was standing. The smell of burnt obsidian fills the air—sharp and acrid, like ozone mixed with melted stone. The heat from the blast singes my hair as I scramble deeper under the console.

“Not friendly! Definitely not friendly!” I press myself against the base of the workstation as the drone repositions, its multiple eyes swiveling to track my movement like a predator stalking prey.

I need a weapon, a shield, anything. My multi-tool is useless against this thing. I glance around desperately, spotting a loose panel on the underside of the workstation. Maybe there’s something inside I can use—a power coupling I can short out, or at least some kind of debris to throw.

The drone clicks again, this time in what sounds suspiciously like annoyance. It lowers itself, peering under the console with those multiple glowing eyes. The weapons system whines as it charges for another shot, the sound rising in pitch like a scream.

“Back off, sparkly!” I grab the loose panel and yank as hard as I can, prying it open to reveal a tangle of crystalline circuitry and what looks like power conduits. Without thinking, I grab a handful of the wiring and pull with all my strength.

The effect is immediate and spectacular.

Instead of disabling the workstation, the severed wires send a surge of energy through the entire system.

The central holographic display flares to life, projecting a massive, rotating image of the fortress and surrounding asteroid belt.

Alarms begin to wail—a harsh, discordant sound that bounces off the chamber walls and makes my teeth ache.

Great. Just great.

The drone, momentarily distracted by the sudden chaos, backs up slightly. I use the opportunity to roll out from under the console and make a break for the exit, my heart hammering against my ribs as I sprint toward the corridor.

I don’t make it three steps before the drone recovers, cutting off my escape route with alarming speed. Its weapon appendage glows brighter, taking aim directly at my chest. The multiple optical sensors focus on me with mechanical precision, and I can almost hear the targeting systems locking on.

This is it. Death by disco spider. Not how I imagined going out.

I close my eyes, bracing for impact.

Instead, I hear a familiar, deep voice cut through the alarm’s wail.

“Security override. Authorization: First Blade. Stand down.”