Chapter 4 #2
She hesitates only briefly before following me. “Fine. But if you paralyze me, I’m going to haunt you for eternity.”
“Gluxians do not believe in spectral manifestations,” I inform her as we hurry through the corridor toward the medical bay.
“Of course you don’t,” she mutters. “Too chaotic for your ordered universe.”
The medical bay, like every other section of my vessel, is immaculately organized. I direct Dominique to the examination chair while retrieving the necessary equipment.
“This will be uncomfortable but not painful,” I explain, activating the extraction device—a slender, precision instrument designed to phase through organic material and isolate foreign objects without damaging surrounding tissue.
“Just do it,” she says, tilting her head to expose the area where the transponder is located. The gesture reveals the elegant line of her neck, and I find myself momentarily distracted by the rapid pulse visible beneath her soft skin.
Focus.
“Remain still,” I instruct, positioning the device carefully, acutely aware of the trust this action requires. Despite her bravado, allowing me—an alien she met less than two days ago—to use advanced technology on her brain stem demonstrates either remarkable courage or profound desperation.
Perhaps both.
The extractor emits a soft hum as it creates a localized phase field, allowing it to pass through the outer layers of skin and muscle without disruption. Dominique flinches slightly but maintains her position with admirable composure.
“AXIS, time remaining until communication shield failure?” I query.
“3.8 minutes,” the AI responds.
“Wi’kar,” Dominique says, her voice suddenly serious, “if they break through before we finish... don’t let them take me back.”
The intensity of her request creates an unexpected resonance within me. “They will not,” I assure her, with a certainty that surprises even me.
The extractor completes its cycle with a soft chime, withdrawing from Dominique’s skin with the transponder safely contained in its collection chamber—a small, crystalline device no larger than a grain of rice, yet capable of broadcasting her location across interstellar distances.
“Extraction complete,” I announce, stepping back. “How do you feel?”
She raises a hand to the spot, finding no mark or sensation. “Fine. Weird, but fine.” Her eyes meet mine. “Thank you.”
The simple expression of gratitude creates an unfamiliar warmth in my chest cavity. Before I can analyze this response, AXIS interrupts again.
“Warning: Communication shield failing. Estimated breach in forty-seven seconds.”
“We need to destroy the transponder,” Dominique says urgently.
I shake my head. “Negative. If it goes offline suddenly, they will know it has been removed. We need to maintain the signal while creating distance.”
“How?”
I extract the transponder from the collection chamber and move quickly to a storage compartment, retrieving a small, autonomous drone used for external ship inspections.
“We will attach the transponder to this drone and program it to follow a divergent course,” I explain, already making the necessary modifications. “It will appear that you are fleeing in a different direction.”
Dominique watches with evident admiration as I secure the transponder to the drone and program its trajectory. “That’s... actually brilliant.”
“It is standard protocol for—”
“For evading royal pursuit while harboring a fugitive princess?” she interrupts, raising an eyebrow. “Somehow I doubt that’s in your official handbook.”
I do not correct her, instead focusing on finalizing the drone’s programming. “AXIS, prepare for emergency jump to coordinates Alpha-Seven-Tango. Simultaneously deploy maintenance hatch three for drone launch.”
“Preparing jump sequence. Maintenance hatch three standing by. Communication shield breach imminent.”
We rush back to the bridge, arriving just as the tactical display shows the Royal Guard vessel closing to intercept range.
“Communication shield breached,” AXIS announces. “Incoming transmission.”
“Launch drone,” I command. “Then initiate jump.”
Through the viewscreen, we watch as the small drone ejects from the ship’s exterior, immediately accelerating away on its programmed course.
“Protocol Prime, this is Commander Vaker of the Human Concord Royal Guard,” a stern voice fills the bridge. “You are harboring Princess Dominique of House Malren. Power down your engines and prepare to be boarded by order of the Concord High Council.”
Dominique tenses beside me, her hand unconsciously gripping the edge of the console. I notice her knuckles are white with pressure.
“Jump in three... two... one...” AXIS counts down.
The familiar sensation of reality folding around us momentarily distorts my perception. When it resolves, the Royal Guard vessel is no longer visible, replaced by an unfamiliar field of stars.
“Jump complete,” AXIS confirms. “Current location: Sector Alpha-Seven-Tango. No pursuit detected.”
Dominique slumps against the console, tension visibly draining from her shoulders. “They actually fell for it,” she murmurs, a note of disbelief in her voice. “Royal security—outwitted by a maintenance drone and a courier with a secret poetry collection.”
The reference to my books makes me stiffen involuntarily, though whether from embarrassment or something else, I cannot determine.
“The drone is transmitting on the expected frequency and following its programmed course,” I confirm, checking the tactical display. “The Royal Guard vessel is pursuing what they believe to be our trajectory.”
For a moment, we simply stand in silence, the reality of our situation settling around us. We have now actively evaded official Human Concord forces—an action that elevates our status from merely missing to actively fugitive.
“You know,” Dominique says finally, turning to face me, “for someone who claims to live by the rules, you’re surprisingly good at breaking them.”
I should correct her assessment. I should explain that my actions remain within the parameters of diplomatic protocol, given the exceptional circumstances. I should maintain the professional distance that has defined my career.
Instead, I find myself responding with unexpected honesty. “Perhaps some rules merit reconsideration when their application conflicts with more fundamental principles.”
Her expression softens, revealing a glimpse of the person beneath the defiant facade—intelligent, vulnerable, and unexpectedly perceptive.
“Well, Agent Wi’kar,” she says, a smile slowly forming, “I think there might be hope for you yet. Especially for someone who secretly collects banned poetry about unlikely minds finding connection across the void.”
The reference to the poem I read aloud makes something warm unfurl in my chest—a sensation that has nothing to do with atmospheric conditions and everything to do with the way she looked at me while I read, as if she truly saw me for the first time.
The atmospheric filters cannot possibly be malfunctioning, yet I find myself acutely aware of her scent again—now tinged with something new. Something warm and appreciative and dangerously appealing that makes my carefully maintained control feel suddenly, precariously, insufficient.