Chapter 4
Secret Collections
Wi’kar
The diagnostic will take forty-seven minutes. Forty-seven minutes of enforced proximity with a woman whose very presence is systematically dismantling my carefully constructed control systems.
I observe Dominique as she explores the bridge with restless energy, her fingers trailing along consoles with casual disregard for the “do not touch” protocols that govern every aspect of my existence.
She pauses at my personal workstation, noting the precisely arranged data tablets and regulation manuals.
“Very you,” she comments, then frowns slightly. “Though I notice you don’t have any personal items. No photos, no mementos, no... anything that shows who you are when you’re not being Agent Perfect.”
“Personal effects serve no functional purpose aboard a diplomatic vessel,” I inform her, though something about her observation creates an uncomfortable sensation in my chest cavity.
“Everyone has something,” she insists, studying me with those perceptive amber eyes. “Some little piece of who they really are beneath all the rules and regulations.”
“I am a diplomatic courier. That is my identity.”
She makes a sound that might be laughter or disbelief. “Right. And I suppose you materialized fully formed in a OOPS uniform, clutching a regulation manual.”
Before I can formulate a response, she’s already moving, conducting what appears to be a systematic exploration of the bridge. “AXIS,” she calls out cheerfully, “are there any sections of this ship Wi’kar has declared off-limits to his accidentally bonded princess?”
“No restricted areas for diplomatic assets,” AXIS responds with what I swear is amusement. “However, Agent Wi’kar’s personal storage compartment seven-alpha contains materials he has classified as ‘non-essential for mission parameters.’”
I feel my scent glands release an involuntary burst of alarm. “AXIS—”
“Interesting,” Dominique says, her eyes lighting up with predatory curiosity. “Non-essential materials. That sounds like exactly what I’m looking for.”
“Those storage compartments contain sensitive diplomatic—”
“AXIS just said they’re non-essential,” she interrupts, already moving toward the indicated panel. “Which means they’re personal. Your secret stash, Agent Perfect.”
“I do not maintain a ‘stash’ of any kind,” I protest, but she’s already activating the storage compartment. The panel slides open to reveal...
“Oh my stars,” Dominique breathes, her expression shifting from mischief to genuine surprise. “Wi’kar, are these... poetry books?”
I feel heat rise in my facial regions—an entirely involuntary physiological response. “They are... literature. For educational purposes.”
She extracts one of the slim volumes, her movements suddenly gentle, almost reverent.
“These aren’t just poetry books. These are rare, first-edition collections.
” She examines the cover carefully. “This is Stellar Harmonies by Lyria of Andramach. This collection was banned by the Corsairian Cultural Council for being too emotionally provocative.”
“It is valuable from a historical perspective,” I state stiffly.
“And this one...” She selects another volume, and I notice how her fingers handle the ancient binding with practiced care. “Wi’kar, this is Songs of the Void by Teela Silver. She only published three hundred copies before the war scattered her people across the galaxy.”
I remain silent, watching her examine my collection with obvious knowledge and appreciation.
“You have first-edition works here from a dozen different systems,” she continues, her voice filled with something approaching awe. “Some of these must be worth more than your entire ship.”
“Monetary value is not the relevant consideration,” I manage.
She looks up at me, and there’s something different in her expression now—not mockery or amusement, but genuine curiosity tinged with... respect?
“You read poetry,” she says, as if testing the words. “Emotional, banned, romantically provocative poetry.”
“I appreciate literary craftsmanship,” I correct, though my voice lacks its usual conviction.
“This collection represents years of acquisition. Probably decades.” She selects another volume, opening it carefully. “Some of these pages are hand-illuminated. The dedication in this one is written in actual ink, not digital print.”
I watch her handle my books—my books, not regulation manuals or technical references, but the works I’ve collected across countless systems during my courier runs. Pieces of beauty and emotion that I’ve never shown to another living being.
“Why poetry?” she asks softly.
The question should be simple to deflect, but something about the way she’s holding the ancient volume, the genuine interest in her voice, dismantles my usual defenses.
“It is...” I pause, searching for words that feel inadequate. “In diplomatic work, every communication is calculated, measured, designed to convey specific information without emotional content. Poetry is... the opposite of that. Pure emotion given form.”
She nods slowly, understanding flickering in her amber eyes. “You collect feelings.”
The assessment is so accurate it creates a resonance in my chest cavity that borders on painful. “That is not how I would characterize—”
“Read me something,” she interrupts, settling into the co-pilot’s chair with one of the volumes in her lap.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Read me something. From your secret collection of feelings.” Her smile is soft, encouraging, entirely different from her usual sharp-edged humor. “Please?”
The request is so unexpected, so intimate, that my scent glands release something warm and cedar-like that makes her eyes widen slightly.
“I do not read aloud,” I state, though even as I say it, I’m aware of how hollow the protest sounds.
“You do now,” she says, extending the book toward me. “Consider it part of your diplomatic duties. Cultural exchange between bonded consorts.”
I take the volume from her hands, our fingers brushing in the exchange. The contact sends the now-familiar cascade of sensation through my nervous system, but this time it’s accompanied by something else—a strange sense of sharing, of trust offered and tentatively accepted.
The book falls open to a page I know well, marked by years of re-reading. The poem is written in the flowing script of Lyria’s native tongue, with a translation beneath in Standard Galactic.
“When starlight caught in temporal streams
Reflects what hearts dare not confess,
I find in you what silence means—
The weight of unexpressed caress.”
My voice sounds strange in the quiet of the bridge, rougher than usual, charged with an emotion I rarely allow myself to acknowledge.
“Between the void of space and time,
Where duty calls and honor binds,
There grows a truth beyond all rhyme—
The joining of unlikely minds.”
I pause, acutely aware of Dominique’s gaze fixed on my face, of the way her breathing has changed, become deeper, more intentional.
“And though the stars may burn to ash,
And galaxies may drift apart,
Some bonds survive the cosmic crash—
The recognition, heart to heart.”
The final verse hangs in the air between us, and I realize with uncomfortable clarity why this particular poem has always spoken to me, why I’ve returned to it countless times during the long, solitary hours of deep space travel.
“That’s beautiful,” Dominique says softly, and there’s nothing mocking in her tone now, nothing but genuine appreciation. “And surprisingly... applicable to our situation.”
I close the book carefully, my hands not entirely steady. “It is merely an ancient work about... compatible entities finding common ground despite their differences.”
“Compatible entities,” she repeats, and there’s something in her voice that makes my scent glands respond with a complex mixture I can’t quite suppress. “Is that how you see us, Wi’kar? Compatible?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications I’m not prepared to examine. Before I can formulate a response, AXIS interrupts.
“Warning: Unidentified vessel approaching. Energy signature matches Human Concord Royal Guard patrol ship. They are initiating long-range scanning protocols.”
The moment shatters. Dominique tenses, her easy manner vanishing as she places the poetry volume carefully back in the storage compartment.
“How did they find us?” she asks, though we both know the answer.
“Your royal transponder,” I say, already moving to the tactical display. “Every member of House Malren has one embedded at birth. It’s supposed to be untraceable except by family security systems, but...”
“But Prince Dante now has access to those systems,” she finishes, her hand instinctively rising to the base of her skull. “It’s supposed to be for our protection, only activated in emergencies.”
“AXIS, full spectrum scan of Princess Dominique. Locate any active transmitting devices.”
“Scanning,” the AI responds. After a moment: “Subdermal transmitter detected. Location: base of skull, left side. Signal encrypted but active.”
“Those bastards,” she breathes. “The emergency transponder. I should have realized...”
“The approaching vessel is hailing us,” AXIS announces. “They are broadcasting Princess Dominique’s familial crest as a transponder override.”
“They’re trying to force a communication channel,” I explain, already activating countermeasures. “AXIS, implement communication shield, protocol epsilon.”
“Implementing. Warning: shield effectiveness estimated at 87.3%. Royal override codes may penetrate in approximately 4.7 minutes.”
“We need to remove that transponder,” I state, rising from my seat.
Dominique’s eyes widen. “You want to perform surgery? Now?”
“Not surgery. The medical bay has non-invasive extraction tools designed for diplomatic emergencies precisely like this one.” I move toward the exit. “We have 4.7 minutes before they establish communication. The extraction will take approximately 3.2 minutes if we proceed immediately.”