Page 21 of Alien Attachment (You’ve Got Alien Mail #2)
Safe Harbor
The emergency lighting bathes the cockpit in crimson as I struggle to stabilize our trajectory.
Alarms scream through the ship, warning of system failures cascading through every deck.
The jump drive is fried—we got one desperate leap and now it’s dead, circuits melted into useless slag. But we’re alive. We made it.
And Jhorn is unconscious.
He lies slumped in the co-pilot’s chair, his indigo skin dulled to a sickly gray-blue.
The tendrils that were so alive with light and purpose just minutes ago now hang limp, their bioluminescence reduced to the faintest pulse.
Only our bond-link remains attached, a single thread connecting us, though even it seems thinner, frailer than before.
“Jhorn,” I call again, reaching for him even as I wrestle with the manual controls. “Stay with me!”
Through our attenuated bond, I feel his consciousness flickering like a dying light. Whatever he did to make that impossible jump work has drained him to his core. I taste his exhaustion on my tongue, metallic and bitter, feel the hollow ache of it in my own cells.
The terror of losing him hits me like a physical blow. When did that happen? When did the thought of existing without him become unbearable? The realization that I’m more afraid of losing Jhorn than I am of dying crashes over me with stunning clarity.
“Don’t you dare die on me,” I mutter, dividing my attention between the failing controls and his still form. “Not now. Not after everything. Not when I’ve finally figured out that I—”
I can’t finish the thought. Not yet. Not while we’re still in mortal danger.
The ship shudders violently as we enter the outer atmosphere of the rogue planetoid—a massive, scarred chunk of rock drifting alone through the void.
No sun, no orbital companions, just a wandering world cast adrift from its system eons ago.
The perfect hiding place, if we can just land this broken vessel in one piece.
I force the ship into a steeper descent, aiming for a dark plain visible through breaks in the cloud cover.
The hull temperature rises alarmingly as friction builds, but the heat shields are holding—barely.
We’re coming in too fast, too steep, but there’s no time for finesse.
Not with Jhorn fading and ApexCorp potentially only minutes behind us.
“Impact in thirty seconds,” the ship’s AI announces with mechanical indifference.
I reach over and grasp Jhorn’s hand, his skin cool against my palm. Through our bond, I push every ounce of strength I can spare, willing him to hold on, to stay with me.
“Brace for landing,” I tell him, though I don’t know if he can hear me. “We’re almost safe.”
The ship hits the surface with a bone-jarring impact that rattles my teeth and makes the hull shriek in protest. We skid across the rocky plain in a shower of sparks and screeching metal, restraints digging into my shoulders as we’re thrown forward, then back.
Something cracks—in the ship or in me, I can’t tell.
The viewscreen goes dark as external sensors fail, leaving us blind as we continue our violent slide across alien terrain.
Then, with a final, shuddering groan that sounds like the ship’s death rattle, we stop.
Silence descends, broken only by the tick of cooling metal and the soft, persistent beep of emergency systems. We’re down. We’re alive.
I release my restraints with shaking hands and turn immediately to Jhorn. His chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, but his eyes remain closed, his consciousness still withdrawn into whatever protective state saved him during our desperate jump.
“Jhorn,” I say, touching his face gently. His skin is cool, almost cold, and far too pale. “Come back to me.”
Through our connection, I sense him struggling toward consciousness, drawn by my voice, by my need. His eyelids flutter but don’t open. The bond between us feels stretched thin, a fragile thread where once there was a pulsing lifeline.
The ship’s systems continue their shutdown sequence around us, power diverting to life support and essential functions. We can’t stay here—the vessel is too damaged, too exposed. If ApexCorp managed to track our jump, they’ll find us soon enough.
I force myself to focus on immediate survival, though every instinct screams at me to stay by Jhorn’s side.
The environmental scan shows breathable atmosphere outside—thin, cold, but sustainable.
Gravity slightly less than standard. No immediate signs of hostile life forms, though unusual energy readings continue to interfere with detailed scans.
Moving quickly, I gather emergency supplies from the storage lockers: medical kit, rations, portable shelter, weapons.
My hands move with practiced efficiency while my mind remains divided—part focused on the tasks before me, part tethered to Jhorn through our bond, monitoring his faint presence like a lifeline I’m afraid to let go.
When I return to the cockpit, he hasn’t moved. The sight of him so still, so diminished, makes something twist painfully in my chest.
“I need to find us better shelter,” I tell him, knowing he can hear me on some level through our connection. “Somewhere to hide until you recover. Until we figure out our next move.”
I secure the portable med-scanner to his chest, syncing it to my wrist unit so I can monitor his vitals remotely.
Then, with careful movements, I extend his bond-link tendril to my wrist. Since I finally stopped fighting our connection, the bond has strengthened in unexpected ways—what started as mere meters now stretches almost throughout the ship.
It’s as though my acceptance has transformed the tether between us from a chain to something more like a lifeline, elastic and responsive to our needs.
“I’ll be right back,” I promise, squeezing his hand. The skin is still too cool, but I swear I feel the faintest pressure in return. “Hold on.”
The ship’s airlock cycles open with a hiss, revealing a landscape that looks like something from a fever dream.
The planetoid’s surface stretches before me in shades of deep purple and charcoal, illuminated not by sunlight but by veins of luminescent mineral that thread through the rocky ground like frozen lightning.
The sky above is a starless void, clouds of some unknown composition obscuring any celestial bodies that might exist beyond this wandering world.
In the distance, jagged mountains rise like the teeth of some cosmic predator, their peaks lost in the roiling clouds. It’s beautiful in a desolate, haunting way—the kind of beauty that makes you feel very small and very alone.
The scanner on my wrist beeps, directing me toward an energy signature a few hundred meters from our crash site. Something artificial, perhaps—a structure, a cave, anything that might offer better protection than our damaged ship.
I move carefully across the alien terrain, constantly aware of the tendril connecting me to Jhorn.
Each step away from him creates a subtle pull, a reminder of our bond that I find oddly comforting.
I’ve spent so long fighting this connection, but now.
.. now it feels like the only thing keeping me anchored in this strange, hostile universe.
The ground beneath my feet is peculiar—crunchy on top like frozen snow, but it gives way to something softer underneath, almost spongy. The air carries a sweet, ozone-like scent that reminds me, with a pang of longing, of Jhorn’s skin when his bioluminescence flares with emotion.
Through our bond, I feel a flicker of response—not words, but awareness. He’s listening, in his way.
Stay with me, I project through our connection. I’m going to find us somewhere safe.
The energy signature leads me to what appears to be a fissure in the rocky ground, a dark gash perhaps two meters wide. Warm air rises from it, carrying that same sweet-ozone scent, stronger now. My scanner indicates a cavern system below, extensive and... inhabited?
No, not inhabited. The readings are confusing, showing signs of technology, energy outputs, but no life forms. An abandoned outpost, perhaps. A smuggler’s cache. Or something older, stranger.
I’ve reached the limit of the bond-link’s extension. I can go no further without bringing Jhorn to me or returning to him. The decision is easy—I won’t leave him vulnerable in that broken ship any longer than necessary.
I’m coming back for you, I project through our connection. I think I’ve found us shelter.
The return journey seems to take forever, urgency lending speed to my steps but also making every second stretch endlessly.
When I reach the ship, Jhorn’s condition appears unchanged, but the med-scanner shows slight improvements in his vital signs.
Whatever rest his alien physiology is taking, it’s working—slowly.
Getting him to the cavern is going to be the challenge. He’s larger than me, heavier, and completely unresponsive. But I’ve moved cargo before, including some that didn’t want to be moved. I can handle this.
I rig a makeshift travois from emergency shelter components, my hands working automatically while my mind catalogues everything I know about Jhorn’s physiology.
Sensitive to temperature changes—check, I’ll need to keep him warm.
Those tendrils can support significant weight when conscious—unfortunately not helpful right now.
Enhanced healing capabilities—something to be grateful for.
With considerable effort and a few creative curse words that would make a dockworker blush, I manage to secure Jhorn to the travois. His tendrils hang limp except for our bond-link, which maintains its connection to my wrist with a stubbornness that mirrors my own determination.
“This might get bumpy,” I warn him as I begin the slow, arduous process of dragging the travois across the alien landscape. “But we’ll get there. I promise.”