Page 1 of Alien Attachment (You’ve Got Alien Mail #2)

Unmarked Cargo

Kaylee

I’ve been flying this particular route for six months, and I still can’t get used to the way the Averian Fringe makes my skin crawl. Something about the nebula—all those swirling purples and blues that look like bruises against the black. Pretty from a distance. Deadly up close.

Kind of like this job.

“Proximity alert,” my ship’s AI chirps in that too-cheerful voice that makes me want to rip out its vocal processors with a plasma torch. “Asteroid field detected. Recommended course correction: negative fifteen degrees on approach vector.”

“Yeah, I can see that, Lila,” I mutter, already adjusting the controls.

The Nomad’s thrusters whine in protest—again—as I pull us into a steeper angle, skimming the edge of the asteroid belt that rings this section of the Fringe.

“How about you tell me something useful, like why the hell the ship’s running hotter than a Rigellian pleasure house? ”

“Core temperature within acceptable parameters, Pilot Kaylee.”

“Acceptable by whose standards? A dying star?” I swipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand.

My jumpsuit is already clinging to every curve like a second skin, and not in the good way.

“Seriously, Lila, if I wanted to be slowly roasted alive, I’d have stayed planetside and taken up sunbathing. ”

Lila doesn’t answer. She never does when I’m being difficult, which is most of the time these days. Can’t blame her, really. Sixty months of hauling questionable cargo for OOPS would make anyone difficult.

Orion Outpost Postal Service. The galaxy’s first..

. and last resort for getting things where they need to go, no questions asked.

Their unofficial motto might as well be: “If it’s illegal, immoral, or impossible, we’ll still deliver it—eventually.

And probably with significant psychological trauma. ”

I adjust the environmental controls for the third time in ten minutes, trying to cool the cabin.

The Nomad is a good ship—or was, before I got my hands on it and started pushing it beyond manufacturer specifications on a daily basis—but it’s more temperamental than a Venusian opera singer these days.

Today, I’m hauling “biological samples” for ApexCorp, which is corporate speak for “something alive that we really, really don’t want anyone to know about.” The manifest just says: “Handle with Extreme Caution. Contents: Proprietary Bio-Asset. Do Not Open.”

Yeah, right. Like I haven’t heard that before.

But the payment... stars, the payment. Triple my usual rate, plus a completion bonus that would cover the Nomad’s repairs and my debt to Gizmo.

Maybe even enough left over for real food for a month instead of the synth-paste that tastes like recycled despair.

I’d been dodging Gizmo’s increasingly creative payment reminders for weeks—the last one had temporarily rewired my shower to alternate between freezing and scalding every thirty seconds.

The eccentric mechanic might look like a half-sized Barovian with too many arms and not enough patience, but his genius was matched only by his talent for revenge when credits were overdue.

“Pilot Kaylee.” Lila’s voice cuts through my thoughts, managing to sound smugly helpful. “Container stability compromised in cargo bay.”

I curse—colorfully and in three different languages—jerking my gaze to the monitor. The single black container is sliding across the cargo bay floor like a drunken space whale as the ship banks hard around a particularly nasty cluster of asteroids.

“Stabilize,” I order, flipping the ship to autopilot and pushing out of my chair. My jumpsuit peels away from the pilot seat with an audible sound that would be embarrassing if anyone else were here to witness it. “And get me visual on the container. Full spectrum.”

“Container showing signs of internal pressure fluctuation,” Lila reports as I hurry down the narrow corridor toward the cargo bay, my boots squeaking against the deck plates. “Warning: contents may be hazardous.”

“No shit,” I mutter. Mother’s voice echoes in my head: This job stinks worse than a Morcrestian fish market, Kaylee. But it’s your call.

Should’ve listened to her. Should’ve taken the safe run to Kepler Station instead. Should’ve done a lot of things differently.

The cargo bay door slides open with a hydraulic hiss that sounds suspiciously like the ship laughing at me.

Inside, the temperature drops at least ten degrees, and I shiver as my sweat-slick skin meets the cooler air.

My nipples immediately respond to the temperature change, pressing against the thin fabric of my jumpsuit in a way that makes me grateful for the cargo bay’s dim lighting.

The container has come to rest against the far wall, its sleek black surface reflecting the harsh overhead lights like a dark mirror.

Unlike standard shipping crates with their utilitarian gray exteriors and clear identification markers, this one gleams like polished obsidian—all smooth planes and rounded edges with only a small, pulsing blue light near what I assume is the access panel.

No visible seams, no standard warning labels.

Just that single corporate logo etched in silver: ApexCorp.

“Sexy and mysterious,” I mutter. “Just how I like my cargo. And my men, but who has time for them.”

It’s bigger than I expected—nearly two meters long and a meter wide. Big enough to hold... what, exactly? The manifest said “biological samples,” but this looks more like a coffin. A very expensive, very high-tech coffin.

As I approach, I notice a hairline crack along one seam, pulsing with faint blue light in a rhythm that’s almost... hypnotic.

“Lila, what am I looking at here?”

“Unknown, Pilot Kaylee. Container integrity compromised. Internal sensors detect energy fluctuations consistent with biological stasis failure.”

“Great. Just stellar.” I kneel beside the container, examining the crack more closely.

The blue light pulses in a rhythm that reminds me of a heartbeat—or something more intimate.

There’s a low hum emanating from within, vibrating through the deck plates and up into my bones.

“Any chance this is just some fancy medical equipment having a bad day?”

“Negative. Pattern analysis suggests complex neural activity. Possible psychic resonance.”

I sit back on my heels, wiping more sweat from my face. The container’s humming seems to be getting louder, or maybe I’m just imagining it. “Define ‘psychic resonance’ in terms that won’t give me nightmares.”

“Insufficient data for reassuring explanation.”

“You’re a real comfort, Lila. Remind me to upgrade your bedside manner protocols when we get out of this.”

Psychic resonance. That’s... not good. ApexCorp dabbles in all sorts of questionable research—genetic modification, neural implants, consciousness transfers.

The rumors about their “bio-assets” range from engineered super-soldiers to sentient weapons to things that make strong-willed pirates weep for their mothers.

And now one of their containers is cracked open on my ship, humming like it’s happy to see me.

“Lila, what happens if this thing fully breaches containment?”

“Insufficient data for accurate prediction. However, based on ApexCorp asset profiles, possibilities include: psychic contamination, aggressive bonding behavior, reality distortion, spontaneous combustion, or—”

“Okay, okay, I get it. Basically, anything from mildly inconvenient to immediately fatal.”

“Correct.”

I chew my lower lip, weighing my options.

I could try to patch the crack with hull sealant, but if the contents are already destabilizing, that might just make things worse.

I could jettison the whole container, but then I’d lose my payment and probably earn a spot on ApexCorp’s blacklist—or their dissection table.

Or I could open it. Controlled release, assess the contents, take appropriate measures. Like a responsible adult.

The crack widens slightly as I watch, the blue light intensifying and casting strange shadows across my face and chest.

“Fuck it,” I mutter, reaching for the container’s locking mechanism.

My hands are steadier than they have any right to be.

“Lila, seal the cargo bay. If I’m not out in five minutes, initiate decontamination protocols and launch my personal effects into the nearest star.

I don’t want anyone going through my private files. ”

“Warning: Opening container violates contract terms with ApexCorp.”

“Yeah, well, dying violates my terms with existing.” I twist the lock, and it gives with surprising ease, like it wants to be opened. “Stand by for emergency protocols. And maybe compose a strongly worded letter to Mother about hazard pay.”

The top of the container slides open with a soft, almost sensual hiss, releasing a cloud of cold, bluish vapor that swirls around me like silk scarves. I step back, holding my breath until it dissipates, and then...

“Oh. Oh shit.”

It’s not samples. It’s not specimens. It’s definitely not medical equipment.

It’s a man. Sort of.

The being inside the container is humanoid in all the right ways—broad shoulders, narrow waist, long legs—but that’s where any similarity to human men ends.

His skin is a deep indigo that seems to shimmer with its own inner light, covered in swirling patterns that move like living tattoos across muscles that would make a professional athlete weep with envy.

Where a human would have hair, he has what look like tentacle-like appendages that lie flat against his skull in neat rows, dark blue-black and gleaming.

His face is almost human—high cheekbones, a straight nose, full lips that look disturbingly kissable—but his closed eyes are larger than normal, framed by thick lashes that any woman would kill for.

And he’s magnificently, unapologetically naked.