Page 16 of Alien Attachment (You’ve Got Alien Mail #2)
Biological Complications
Jhorn
The stolen ship trembles beneath my palms as I guide it away from Obsidian Haven, our escape marked by the station’s receding lights—pinpricks of civilization swallowed by the void.
Through our bond, I feel Kaylee’s terror, sharp and metallic, like blood on my tongue.
Not fear of me this time, but of how close we came to capture.
Of ApexCorp’s reach. Of the future closing in around us like the walls of a containment cell.
The bounty hunter lies unconscious back at Obsidian Haven, bound with his own restraints after showing us to this Kestrel-class vessel.
Kaylee had struck him with surprising efficiency—a nerve cluster at the base of his skull that dropped him instantly.
“No loose ends,” she’d muttered, though I noted she hadn’t killed him.
A mercy I hadn’t expected after his threats, but one that sent warmth through me that had nothing to do with ship’s heating.
My practical, deadly, surprisingly compassionate Kaylee.
Kaylee’s hands shake on the unfamiliar controls, though she would never admit it.
I taste the bitter edge of her adrenaline crash through our connection, feel the hollow ache of her exhaustion.
She hasn’t looked at me directly since we forced the bounty hunter to relinquish this vessel—a sleek courier with stripped registry markers and aftermarket stealth plating.
Fast enough to outrun most pursuers, if we’re lucky.
We are not often lucky. But we are, apparently, very good at improvised theft.
“Scan for tracking signatures,” Kaylee barks at the ship’s rudimentary AI, her voice rough with strain. “Full spectrum.”
“Scanning,” the AI responds in a flat, emotionless drone that makes me miss Lila’s more nuanced personality. This AI has all the charm of the Nomand’s broken food processor.
I stand behind her pilot’s chair, tendrils retracted except for our bond-link, giving her the space she needs while remaining close enough to intervene if necessary. Close enough to catch her scent—that mixture of resolve and barely controlled panic that I’m beginning to find oddly comforting.
Though I should clarify: “retracted” is perhaps an optimistic term. My secondary appendages appear to have developed strong opinions about optimal positioning protocols, specifically that Kaylee’s current distance of three feet constitutes a clear violation of sensible proximity management.
I flex my shoulders, attempting to discourage a particularly insistent tendril from extending toward her hair. The motion is apparently more noticeable than I intended.
“You okay back there?” Kaylee asks without turning around, her voice carrying that note of wariness I’ve come to associate with my more... enthusiastic moments.
“Perfectly functional,” I reply, then add with what I hope passes for casual honesty, “Though I should mention that maintaining physical distance while bonded requires considerable effort.”
“Define considerable.”
I consider this carefully. “Imagine trying to hold your breath indefinitely while someone waves fresh air inches from your face. Then imagine that the air is also warm, pleasant-smelling, and occasionally makes sounds that cause involuntary muscle contractions.”
She glances back at me, and I catch her gaze lingering on the subtle movement beneath my skin where my tendrils shift restlessly against my control. “Are they... active right now?”
“Active is one term for it,” I admit, as another tendril makes a determined effort to breach my mental containment. “Mutinous might be more accurate. I appear to be experiencing what humans might call ‘biological complications.’”
Despite her exhaustion, she snorts. “Great. I’m bonded to someone whose body parts have their own agenda.”
“In my defense, they are responding to biological imperatives I was not designed to override.” A particularly rebellious tendril brushes against the back of her chair, and I quickly retract it with what I can only describe as embarrassment.
“Apologies. That one appears to have developed a fascination with pilot seats.”
“Or with pilots,” she mutters, but I catch the flush creeping up her neck, visible even in the dim light of the cockpit.
“No active tracking devices detected,” the AI announces with mechanical satisfaction, interrupting what was becoming a dangerously interesting conversation.
Kaylee’s shoulders remain rigid, disbelief pulsing through our connection. “Scan again. Passive systems, quantum entanglement, resonance markers.”
“If you keep ordering scans, the AI might develop performance anxiety,” I observe, attempting to lighten her mood while simultaneously wrestling with a tendril that seems determined to investigate the texture of her hair. “I don’t think it’s equipped for that level of emotional complexity.”
She glances back at me—the first direct look since our escape—and I catch the ghost of a smile before she suppresses it. “Are you making jokes? Now?”
“You find my humor... inadequate?” I ask, genuinely curious. Through our bond, I feel her amusement warring with stress, a brief flicker of warmth in the cold current of her fear.
“I find your timing questionable,” she says, but the tension in her shoulders eases fractionally. “Save the comedy routine for when we’re not running for our lives.”
“Noted. I shall reserve my wit for more appropriate moments.” I pause as another tendril makes a break for freedom, forcing me to catch it before it can investigate the interesting electromagnetic field her console is generating.
“Though you should know that my sense of appropriate timing may be... compromised by current circumstances.”
“Current circumstances?”
“Proximity to you combined with elevated stress responses appears to be causing what I can only describe as systemic disobedience among my appendages.”
“Second scan complete,” the AI announces before she can respond. “No tracking signatures detected.”
Kaylee’s disbelief hardens into suspicion. “That’s impossible. They found us too easily before.”
“The Nomad’s transponder,” I remind her gently, moving closer to her chair despite my better judgment. Several tendrils immediately extend hopefully before I can stop them. “This vessel has no such identifier.”
She’s quiet for a moment, processing this, but through our bond I feel the pain hitting her anew—we abandoned her ship, her home, the only constant in her nomadic existence. The Nomad wasn’t just a vessel to her; it was sanctuary, freedom, the closest thing to family she’d had in years.
I want to comfort her, to wrap my tendrils around her and absorb her pain into myself. Instead, I maintain my precarious control, allowing her the dignity of her grief while fighting what appears to be a full-scale rebellion among my more tactilely-inclined appendages.
“We need to hide,” she says finally, turning back to the controls. “Somewhere they won’t think to look.”
I step closer, carefully monitoring her reaction through our connection while three different tendrils make determined bids for freedom. “The Cassian Nebula provided effective concealment before.”
“And that’s exactly why we can’t go back there.
They’ll expect it.” Her fingers dance across the navigation panel with the efficiency of long practice.
“There’s a debris field on the edge of the Veridian System.
Mining accident a decade ago. The radiation plays hell with sensors.
We can lose ourselves there for a while. ”
Lose ourselves. The phrase echoes in my mind, carrying unintended meaning. We are already lost—cut adrift from her former life, hunted across the stars, bound together by forces neither of us fully understands.
Through our bond, I feel her despair seeping beneath her determination like poison through water. She sees no way out of this, no future beyond running. And I am the reason for it all. My existence has become her prison.
The thought twists inside me like a blade, sharp and unforgiving, even as my rebellious tendrils continue their persistent campaign for greater proximity.
The debris field looms before us like a graveyard of broken dreams—shattered vessels and mining equipment scattered across thousands of kilometers of space. Twisted metal gleams dully in the distant light of Veridian’s sun, casting long shadows that dance across our viewscreen like ghosts.
“Cheerful,” I observe, studying the wreckage while simultaneously preventing two tendrils from investigating the fascinating electromagnetic patterns the debris creates. “Very festive. Perfect for a romantic getaway.”
Kaylee snorts, the sound escaping before she can stop it. “Romance wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
“No? Pity. I hear radiation poisoning is very romantic. Nothing says ‘intimate evening’ like slowly dissolving cellular structures.”
This time she actually laughs—a short, sharp sound, but genuine.
The vibration of her mirth travels through the ship’s structure and into my tendrils where they’re pressed against various surfaces, creating a resonance that my entire nervous system interprets as profoundly pleasant.
Three appendages extend immediately toward the source before I can stop them.
“Sorry,” I mutter, retracting them quickly while trying to ignore the way her laughter continues to echo through my sensory receptors. “Involuntary response to... positive auditory stimuli.”
“Positive auditory stimuli?” She guides us deeper into the field with expert precision, her competence sending another wave of warmth through our bond that does nothing to help my self-control situation. “Is that what we’re calling my laugh?”
“Your laugh is...” I pause, searching for appropriate words while battling increasingly enthusiastic tentacles. “Pleasing. To multiple sensory systems simultaneously.”
“Multiple sensory systems,” she repeats slowly, bringing the ship to rest in the shadow of a massive hull fragment. “How many sensory systems do you have?”