Lost in Transit (You’ve Got Alien Mail #8)

Chapter 1

A Problem with a Bow on It

Krilly

"Baxter, you're not seriously considering this run."

Mother Morrison's voice cuts through the chaos of Junction One's dispatch center with the kind of authority that makes seasoned couriers stand up straighter. Not me. Mostly because I'm already on my tiptoes trying to see the manifest on her screen.

"It's triple rate," I point out, bouncing slightly. "Triple, Mother. Do you know what I could do with triple rate?"

"Die in a murder jungle, apparently." Steel-gray hair pulled back in its no-nonsense bun, coffee mug welded to her hand, piercing blue eyes that have seen two decades of courier catastrophes—Mother Morrison could stare down a supernova.

"Sector Nine is flagged for a reason, Krilly.

Uncharted systems, no STI presence, and black box deliveries have a habit of going wrong. "

"Kaylee. I know." Everyone at Junction One knows. Kaylee went dark six months ago, and the rumors range from pirate ambush to running off with some alien she was hauling cargo for. "But I've got Bebo, and my ship's maintenance is—"

"Obsessive to the point of concerning?" The corner of Mother's mouth twitches, which on her counts as a full smile.

"Kid, when a manifest comes through flagged for biological hazard, triple rate, and specifically requests a solo courier with no questions asked…

" She taps the screen. "That's not an opportunity. That's a problem with a bow on it."

Around us, Jinny calls out trajectory adjustments across seven systems while Venrog's meditation crystals glow steady blue, his four arms coordinating emergency reroutes with a calm that borders on smug.

Junction One, the beating heart of OOPS operations in the Outer Rim.

Where impossible deliveries get sorted and desperate couriers get assigned to them.

Usually, being here feels like home. Right now, my name at the bottom of the completed runs board is a splinter I can't stop pressing on.

"Mother." My hands land flat on her desk. "This is my first solo run. My chance to prove I'm not the rookie who talks to her tools and names her spare parts. I can do this."

"And the client is ApexCorp."

My stomach lurches. ApexCorp, the bioengineering megacorporation with enough ethical violations and out-of-court settlements to fill a cargo hold. The kind of company that chooses research locations based on how few questions the local wildlife will ask.

Mother pulls up additional files. "They're moving classified cargo from a research facility in Sector Nine to a black site in the Threshold Territories.

Contents listed as 'biological specimens' with temperature regulation requirements and 'do not open under any circumstances' plastered all over the manifest."

"So… definitely not puppies."

"Definitely not puppies." Mother's voice drops.

"Pickup point is Ursuris Prime. Jungle world on the edge of charted space.

ApexCorp runs their facility there because the planet is hostile enough to discourage visitors.

Category Five atmosphere, aggressive fauna, terrain that makes survival training look like a vacation.

" She pauses, and the pause is worse than the briefing.

"Three months ago, we got a priority alert that a Varkaani gladiator escaped from that same facility.

Maximum-security containment breach. They're still hunting him. "

The back of my neck prickles. Varkaani are bio-engineered for the fighting pits, built to be the most dangerous beings in known space. And one is loose on the exact planet where I'd be landing.

"You think he's still out there?"

"I think ApexCorp doesn't advertise their failures.

" Mother's jaw tightens. "Either they recaptured him quietly, or he's running somewhere in that jungle.

Either way, you'd be landing on a hostile world with compromised security, shady cargo, and a bio-engineered warrior between you and the facility's safe zone. "

She's right. Every instinct I have that isn't desperate and broke agrees with her.

But I grew up on a mining station where making do with failing equipment was the difference between life and death.

Where my parents kept ancient comm systems running through sheer stubbornness because corporate wouldn't fund proper maintenance.

Where the emergency beacon failed during the disaster that killed them both, because someone decided quarterly profits mattered more than replacement parts.

That's why I became a courier. Someone has to deliver the critical supplies, the emergency medicine, the messages that matter when the galaxy's regular infrastructure won't reach. And I can't do that from the bottom of the assignment board.

"I'll be careful," I say quietly. "In and out. Land at the facility's approved coordinates, load the cargo, lift off. No wandering in the murder jungle."

Mother studies me for a long moment. Around us, Venrog's crystals pulse as another crisis resolves itself. This is what OOPS does. We deliver to the places no one else will touch, because sometimes the difference between life and death fits in a cargo hold.

Finally, she sighs. "You've got your father's stubborn streak and your mother's inability to walk away from a bad idea." Her console chirps as the manifest transfers to my datapad. "Buttercup's maintenance is current?"

"Passed inspection yesterday. Bebo's running optimal, full emergency supplies."

"Which you'll need if one thing goes wrong.

" Mother pins me with a look. "The facility has automated landing protocols.

You follow them exactly. You do not deviate from the approved flight path, you do not explore, and you absolutely do not go looking for escaped gladiators.

First sign of trouble, and I mean first, not 'oh this is probably fine' first, you dump the cargo and run. No delivery is worth your life."

"Yes, Mother."

"I mean it, Baxter. ApexCorp doesn't get to add another disappeared courier to my tally." Her voice roughens. "You check in every six hours, or I'm sending Luzrak to extract you, and trust me, you don't want to explain your choices to a territorial Kytherian."

A grin sneaks through despite my nerves. "I'll check in. Promise."

"Famous last words." But she's already approving the assignment. "Get your optimistic ass to the loading dock. And Krilly?" She doesn't finish the sentence, but she doesn't need to. If a bio-engineered gladiator wants something, not much will stop him.

Four hours later, the numbers on the cargo manifest don't add up, and my palms are damp against the console.

"Bebo, walk me through this one more time." Buttercup's displays glow steady amber, the cargo data arranged in columns that should be routine. "These crates are supposed to weigh how much?"

"Manifest indicates seventy-three kilograms per unit.

" Bebo's calm voice fills the cockpit. My ship's AI has gotten me through more tight situations than I can count, mostly by being relentlessly logical when I'm being relentlessly optimistic.

I built his personality protocols myself during my first month at OOPS, because Mother said courier AIs don't need character and I said mine does.

Four years later, Bebo has more character than half the couriers on Junction One.

"Actual weight per unit: one hundred forty-seven kilograms."

"So double." The cargo hold sits behind me, six identical crates humming softly in their restraint harnesses, whatever temperature regulation is keeping their contents happy. "That's not concerning at all."

"Concerning is an accurate assessment. Additionally, thermal scans indicate the crates are maintaining an internal temperature of thirty-nine degrees Celsius."

Body temperature. The hum of the crates takes on a different quality in my ears, something organic and wrong. "Bebo, what's in those crates?"

"Manifest lists contents as biological specimens, classification restricted."

"That's not an answer."

"That is all the information available in accessible files."

My fingers tap the console, a rhythm I don't realize I'm keeping until Bebo's proximity alert chimes and breaks it.

The coordinates for Ursuris Prime glow on the nav display.

The planet where ApexCorp does the research they don't want anyone asking about, where the wildlife keeps corporate secrets by eating anyone who gets curious.

"Plot me the fastest route. And keep active scans running; anything bigger than a cargo pod crosses our path, I want to know."

"Course plotted. Estimated travel time: four hours, seventeen minutes. Warning: route passes through the Helios Belt. Automated systems recommend the longer approach."

"How bad is the belt today?"

"Current drift patterns are within acceptable parameters for experienced pilots."

"You think I'm experienced?"

"I think you are adequately reckless."

That startles a laugh out of me. "Might be the nicest thing you've ever said. Belt route it is."

Buttercup lifts off from Junction One's dock with the smooth purr of an engine I've maintained to obsessive perfection.

My little yellow courier ship isn't the fastest or the prettiest, but she's mine; every repaired relay, every optimized system, every quirk and hum that means home.

Through the viewport, Junction One recedes, that sprawling maze of docking bays and living quarters built from repurposed cargo haulers.

The last outpost before the unknown. Somewhere in that station, Mother is already watching my departure trajectory and muttering about rookies with death wishes.

The jump to hyperspace is smooth, and for two blessed hours, nothing goes wrong. The cargo hums. Systems hold optimal. A ration bar goes down without choking on my own nerves, which feels like an accomplishment.

Then we hit the Helios Belt, and Bebo's voice goes clinical.

"Warning. Detecting multiple large masses on intercept vector."