Chapter 1 #2
“Scan complete,” AXIS responds with what sounds like barely contained glee.
“Subject is human female. Approximately twenty-five standard years. No additional weapons detected beyond improvised blade. Biometric scan indicates elevated stress hormones, mild dehydration, superficial abrasions, and...” AXIS pauses with unmistakable mischief.
“Agent Wi’kar, are you experiencing olfactory sensitivity?
Your stress indicators are highly irregular. ”
Heat rises in my chest—embarrassment and something infinitely more dangerous. The human’s eyes narrow, cataloging my reaction with predatory precision.
“Last chance,” I inform her, ignoring both her knowing look and AXIS’s entirely too-observant commentary. “Identify yourself, or I will be forced to place you in a full containment chamber until authorities can be contacted at our next port.”
Something shifts in her expression—a calculation that makes her suddenly seem far more dangerous than her improvised weapon ever did. Her chin lifts in defiance, and I detect the faintest hint of triumph in her scent.
“Fine,” she says, the word sharp as the metal shard still clutched in her frozen hand. “I am Dominique Farah of House Malren, Princess of the Human Concord, and I demand you release me, you pointy-eared protocol droid!”
The declaration strikes me like a complete systems failure. Princess. House Malren—one of the most powerful royal lineages in Human Concord space. Covered in filth. Stowing away in my diplomatic cargo pod. This is beyond a security breach. This is a diplomatic incident of catastrophic proportions.
“Identity confirmed!” AXIS announces with unmistakable excitement.
“Subject is Dominique Farah Valeriana of House Malren, Royal House of the Human Concord. Current status: Reported missing from royal compound on Venturia Prime approximately thirty-six hours ago. Oh my! Alert: Consular Bonding Clause, Interstellar Diplomatic Statute 7, Subsection Gamma, has been triggered by unauthorized direct physical contact combined with formal identity declaration. Current legal status: Bonded Consorts. Congratulations!”
The last word echoes through my ship with celebratory chimes that sound absolutely obscene in the current context.
My blood turns to ice. No. That’s impossible.
“What did it just say?” Princess Dominique’s voice has gone very quiet, the color draining from her face beneath the grime.
My throat constricts. “AXIS, explain the Consular Bonding Clause. Slowly. And without the congratulatory music.”
“The Consular Bonding Clause is an ancient but legally binding provision activated when a Human Concord Royal of the Malren bloodline makes unauthorized physical contact with a designated diplomatic envoy during active transit, followed by formal identity declaration,” AXIS recites with the precision of a legal database.
“Scans confirm both conditions satisfied when Subject Dominique grabbed your uniform during initial contact, and subsequently declared royal status. The Clause supersedes all prior arrangements and creates a binding diplomatic union recognized across all signatory systems of the Stellar Togetherness Initiative. Shall I begin broadcasting the happy news to all diplomatic channels? I have templates for ‘Surprise Romantic Union’ and ‘Diplomatic Marriage of Convenience.’”
“NO!” we both shout simultaneously.
“Broadcasting postponed,” AXIS says, sounding genuinely disappointed.
“However, I should mention that traditional bonding protocols require me to compose a formal announcement within one standard hour. Should I begin drafting? I could also register you both for the annual Consular Bonding Convention on Altara Prime.”
The princess stares at me through the stasis field, her amber eyes wide with horror that mirrors my own. “This is not happening. This cannot be happening.”
My scent glands are releasing pure panic—sharp, acrid notes that make the air taste of copper and regret.
The Consular Bonding Clause is archaic, a relic from the early days of interspecies diplomacy designed to prevent political kidnappings of Human Concord royalty.
But it has never been formally repealed.
It is still legally binding across all STI systems. And it supersedes all prior arrangements.
All prior arrangements.
“AXIS,” I say, my voice unnaturally calm as the implications cascade through my mind like a systems failure, “what happened to the actual diplomatic cargo that should have been in Pod Seven?”
“Unknown. However, I am receiving increasingly urgent hails from Venturia Prime Spaceport. Twenty-three messages in the last six minutes, escalating in both frequency and apparent desperation. Shall I play them?”
“Not now.” I can already imagine Mother Morrison’s reaction when news of this reaches The Junction.
Our dispatcher has seen every variety of OOPS catastrophe in her decades of service—courier ships hijacked by pirates, cargo contaminated by sentient fungi, even that infamous incident with the telepathic wedding cake.
But an accidental royal bonding? Even Mother’s creative vocabulary might fall short.
“This will make her incident reports for the next decade.”
I deactivate the stasis field with a precise gesture. Princess Dominique stumbles forward, catching herself against the bulkhead. She straightens, dropping the metal shard with a clatter that makes me wince.
“Listen carefully,” she says, her voice lower now, intense and urgent. “I switched places with your diplomatic package when they were loading your ship. Knocked out a guard, stole his credentials, reprogrammed the manifest.”
The information recalibrates my assessment from diplomatic incident to complete catastrophe. “You replaced classified treaty documents with yourself?”
“Treaty documents?” She pales slightly beneath the grime. “I thought it was just boring diplomatic paperwork.”
“The Orion Wars Peace Treaty,” I say, my voice getting higher despite all attempts at control. “Three systems on the brink of renewed conflict. Those documents are the only thing standing between diplomacy and devastation.”
“Oh.” She has the grace to look genuinely chagrined. “That’s... significantly worse than I thought.”
“Where are they now?”
She shrugs with maddening casualness. “Loading bay, probably. Being discovered right about now, I’d guess.”
As if summoned by her words, AXIS chirps cheerfully: “Urgent message from Venturia Prime Control: ‘Security breach. Diplomatic materials compromised. Treaty documents recovered but severely delayed. Courier vessel must return immediately for cargo verification and personnel questioning.’ Shall I respond?”
“They’ll kill you,” Princess Dominique says flatly, studying my expression with those disturbingly perceptive amber eyes.
“Or worse. The moment House Folkov realizes I’ve invoked the Bonding Clause with you instead of marrying their precious prince, they’ll blame you for everything.
Political kidnapping. Theft of royal property. Diplomatic sabotage.”
“Prince?” My eye is definitely twitching now.
“Dante of House Folkov. My charming fiancé who had me drugged and shipped to our wedding like a package.” Her amber eyes flash with fury that makes my breath catch despite all logic.
“The union would secure a military alliance between our houses. I refused. Repeatedly. So they decided to handle me like cargo.”
The pieces align with horrible clarity. “And you escaped by becoming actual cargo.”
“Seemed poetic at the time.” A flash of pride crosses her features, quickly replaced by grim determination. “Though I didn’t expect to end up accidentally space-married to Captain Stick-Up-His-Exhaust-Port.”
My scent glands release something that might be offense mixed with inappropriate attraction. “I do not have anything lodged in my exhaust port. It receives regular maintenance according to manufacturer specifications.”
She stares at me for exactly 2.7 seconds. Then throws back her head and laughs—a rich, genuine sound that does catastrophic things to my nervous system and floods my senses with the warm, alive scent of her amusement.
“Oh, this is perfect,” she gasps between laughs. “I escape one political prison just to get legally bound to an alien who takes engine maintenance metaphors literally.”
“The situation is hardly amusing,” I inform her, though something about her laughter makes my chest feel strangely warm. “My career is terminated. The peace summit is compromised. And we are now legally bound by laws neither of us chose.”
Her laughter dies, but something softer remains in her expression. “Your career? Agent What’s-Your-Name—”
“Wi’kar.”
“—Agent Wi’kar, your career is the least of your problems.” Her voice turns serious, and she steps closer, her scent overwhelming my carefully maintained composure.
Warm skin, wild determination, and something that makes my pulse race despite all logic.
“The moment they realize where I am and who I’m with, they’ll come after both of us.
Dante doesn’t like losing what he considers his property.
And House Malren...” She shakes her head.
“My family will be furious that I’ve ‘contaminated’ the bloodline with an alien bond. ”
“I am not concerned with the petty politics of human royal houses,” I lie, because I am, in fact, deeply concerned about the implications for my career, my family’s honor, and my species’ reputation.
“You should be.” She steps even closer, close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her amber eyes, the way her pulse flutters at her throat.
“They’ll annul the bond and drag me back to marry Dante anyway.
Is that what your precious protocol demands?
Sending a woman back to be a political prisoner? ”