Return to Sender (You’ve Got Alien Mail #3)

Chapter 1

Cargo Breach

Wi’kar

“AXIS, confirm calibration for Cargo Platform.” My voice remains level, measured—as it should be. As it always is.

My scent glands release a subtle hint of approval—the crisp, clean notes of order and efficiency. As a Gluxian, I communicate as much through pheromones as through words, but aboard my ship, alone, I maintain the practice out of discipline. Control begins with the self.

I straighten my already impeccable uniform—midnight blue with silver piping, the discreet OOPS diplomatic insignia over my left breast. The fabric adjusts perfectly to my movements, as it should.

Orion Outposts Postal Service—OOPS to anyone who’s ever cursed a delayed delivery in the Fringe.

Fifteen years I’ve served the organization that connects the galaxy’s forgotten corners, carrying everything from treaty documents to the occasional live cargo that’s better left unquestioned.

Mother Morrison, our gruff Chief and dispatcher back at The Junction, always says OOPS couriers are either the bravest fools in the galaxy or just too stubborn to admit when a job’s impossible.

Today’s mission proves her point: classified Orion Wars Peace Treaty documents that could prevent three systems from slaughtering each other. No pressure.

I run through my mental checklist, reciting the Courier’s Code, Section 3, Subsection Alpha: All cargo is to remain sealed and uncompromised from point of origin to final destination.

This particular cargo—the classified historic Orion Wars Peace Treaty documents bound for the Corsairian Summit—is especially sensitive.

Three systems teetering on the brink of renewed conflict, and these papers are the only diplomatic barrier between negotiation and devastation.

The security clearance required for their transport speaks volumes.

This is the type of mission that builds reputations.

That ensures promotions. That separates the merely adequate from the exceptional.

I am, without question, exceptional.

“Initiating pre-jump sequence,” I announce, fingers moving with practiced precision across the navigation console. “Calculate optimal trajectory to—”

“Alert.” AXIS’s voice cuts through mine. “Anomalous life sign detected in Cargo Pod Seven.”

My hands freeze mid-command. A cold sensation—dread, though I would never admit to such an emotional response—spreads from my core outward. My scent glands release an involuntary burst of sharp ozone—the Gluxian equivalent of swearing.

“Specify anomaly,” I demand, already pulling up the pod’s external schematics on my display.

“Life form. Humanoid. Vital signs indicate conscious state. Internal stasis field fluctuating,” AXIS reports with what I swear sounds like anticipation.

Impossible. Cargo Pod Seven is sealed with Tier-1 diplomatic locks. The contents were verified and secured by Orion Outpost officials themselves before loading. A breach of this magnitude is...

I don’t complete the thought. Action is required. I access the emergency protocol database in my neural implant, the information flowing directly into my consciousness.

OOPS Diplomatic Courier Code, Emergency Addendum 4.

7: In the event of unauthorized biological entities detected within sealed cargo, the courier shall: (1) Secure the vessel’s command functions.

(2) Approach with appropriate containment measures.

(3) Assess and neutralize potential threats. (4) Report to OOPS Command immediately.

“AXIS, lock down all ship systems. Authorization: Wi’kar, Alpha-Seven-Epsilon-Nine.

” I retrieve my standard-issue energy sidearm from its perfectly aligned position in the weapons locker.

The weight of it feels foreign in my hand—in fifteen years of diplomatic courier service, I have drawn it exactly twice. Both times were merely precautionary.

“Systems secured,” AXIS confirms with unmistakable enthusiasm. “Recommend caution, Agent Wi’kar. Life sign readings show elevated adrenaline levels consistent with humanoid distress or aggression.”

I move through the corridors of my ship with silent efficiency, my boots making no sound on the polished floor.

The Protocol Prime is small by most standards—a diplomatic courier vessel needs speed and stealth, not size—but its design is optimal.

Three minutes and seventeen seconds after the alert, I stand before Cargo Pod Seven.

The external panel shows green—supposedly secure—but the internal sensors tell a different story. Something inside is moving. Something that should not be there.

I position myself at the optimal angle for both defense and offense, weapon raised in the precise manner taught at the Academy. “AXIS, override security seal on Cargo Pod Seven.”

“Override initiated. Warning: breaking diplomatic seal will trigger automatic notification to OOPS Command and origin authorities in T-minus sixty seconds unless emergency override is implemented.”

“Acknowledged.”

The seal hisses as it disengages. My nasal receptors flare, detecting an unfamiliar scent—organic, musky, with notes of soil, sweat, and something else.

Something wild and alive that makes my perfectly controlled olfactory system send confused signals throughout my nervous system.

My scent glands respond with an involuntary mix of alarm and. .. curiosity?

The door slides open with deliberate slowness.

The figure inside launches toward me before the door fully retracts—a blur of motion, dark hair, and what appears to be actual mud.

Mud. On my ship. My pristine, sterile sanctuary.

I sidestep with practiced ease, noting with professional horror that the attacker—female, humanoid, covered in filth—wields a jagged piece of metal torn from the pod’s interior lining.

Unacceptable. Cargo Pod Seven is lined with specialized alloys designed to contain sensitive materials. The damage to OOPS property alone is a Level Two infraction. But the contamination—

“Halt immediately,” I command, my tone carrying the full weight of diplomatic authority while my scent glands release distress pheromones that smell distinctly of antiseptic panic.

She does not halt. Instead, she pivots with surprising agility and lunges again, wild-eyed and snarling. “Get out of my way, you silver-skinned filing cabinet!”

Her voice is rough, hoarse—likely from time spent in a pod not designed for biological transport.

Her appearance is chaos incarnate. Torn clothing caked with dried mud.

Hair a tangled mass that might have been beautiful once.

Face smeared with grime except for clean tracks that could only have been made by tears.

This level of disorder is deeply, profoundly unsettling. My left eye begins to twitch—an involuntary response I haven’t experienced since Academy training.

Instead of immediately activating the stasis field, I step back to avoid her wild swing—and catch her wrist instinctively.

The contact sends fire through my neural pathways.

Not pain, but awareness. Her skin is warm, surprisingly soft beneath the grime, and her pulse thunders against my fingers like a trapped bird.

The scent of her—beneath the mud and chaos—floods my senses like liquid lightning.

For exactly 2.3 seconds, we’re locked together, her amber eyes blazing with fury and something else I can’t identify.

Gold flecks catch the light. My grip is firm but careful—she’s smaller than I initially calculated, more delicate than her feral behavior suggests, but there’s a coiled strength in her that speaks of someone accustomed to fighting.

My scent glands betray me utterly, flooding the air with something that tastes like ozone and want and desperate, inappropriate fascination.

Her nostrils flare. By the widening of her amber eyes, she smells it. Knows exactly what it means.

“Let go of me!” she demands, and the sound of her voice this close—rough, breathless, challenging—shoots straight through my nervous system in ways that violate several biological imperatives.

I release her wrist and immediately activate the localized stasis field generator. A pulse of blue energy erupts, catching her mid-lunge. She freezes in place, muscles straining against the invisible force.

“Release me!” she demands, voice straining against the field’s partial effect on her vocal cords. “You have no right to—”

“You are an unauthorized biological entity aboard a Tier-1 diplomatic vessel,” I interrupt, maintaining what I desperately hope is a safe distance while my entire body thrums with unwanted awareness.

My scent glands are still betraying me, releasing notes of confusion and attraction I cannot control.

“Identify yourself and explain your presence, or I will be forced to implement more restrictive containment measures.”

She bares her teeth—a universal sign of aggression among many species, but the feral display affects me in ways it absolutely should not.

“I am not cargo, Captain Perfectly-Pressed! And I’m not explaining anything to some pointy-eared, silver-skinned bureaucrat who probably alphabetizes his emergency protocols! ”

The accuracy of this assessment is deeply disturbing. I do, in fact, keep my emergency protocols in alphabetical order. How could she possibly—?

“Having trouble concentrating, Agent Perfect?” she taunts, her sharp intelligence evident despite her disheveled state. “Do you always smell like a medical facility, or is that your ‘surprised’ scent? What other emotions are you broadcasting?”

Too many. Far too many. How does she know about Gluxian scent communication? Most humans are completely oblivious to our pheromonal subtleties.

“Your cooperation would be advisable,” I manage, fighting to keep my voice level while every instinct screams at me to either flee or move closer to her intoxicating presence. “AXIS, scan for weapons and identify species.”