Page 25 of Alien Attachment (You’ve Got Alien Mail #2)

Exit Strategy

Jhorn

My tendrils, apparently possessed of their own appreciation for beauty, have arranged themselves around her sleeping form in a protective cocoon—one curled loosely around her ankle, another resting along the curve of her hip, a third tracing the elegant line of her collarbone so lightly she remains undisturbed.

The sight of her surrounded by my appendages, claimed and protected, sends proprietary satisfaction through circuits that were never designed for such feelings.

The crystal dome’s natural defenses have been masking our presence, its ancient technology resonating with mine in harmonious patterns that feel almost like music. But ApexCorp technology is... persistent. And getting closer.

“Six humans, two cybernetically enhanced scouts,” I whisper as Kaylee’s eyes snap open with admirable alertness, immediately locking onto mine with the sharp focus that never fails to impress me.

No confusion, no disorientation—just instant tactical awareness.

“Establishing containment perimeter. Heavy weapons detected.”

Her response is immediate and colorful. The profanity she employs is both anatomically improbable and creatively structured, combining biological impossibilities with mechanical failures in ways that demonstrate remarkable linguistic flexibility.

I find myself appreciating the artistry even as tactical assessments flood my consciousness—threat vectors, weapon signatures, optimal escape routes scrolling through my enhanced perception.

“How long?” she asks, rolling from the bed with fluidity that sends an entirely inappropriate spike of desire through our bond.

The way she moves—economical yet graceful, every motion purposeful—never fails to fascinate me.

Even facing imminent capture, I am distracted by the elegant curve of her spine as she stretches, the determined set of her shoulders as she assesses our situation, the flex of lean muscle beneath skin that still bears faint traces of my bioluminescent touch from our earlier intimacy.

My bond-lines pulse betrayingly, and she catches the soft glow from the corner of her eye.

“Really?” she asks with raised eyebrows, though I feel her amusement rather than irritation through our connection. “We’re about to be captured by homicidal corporate goons and you’re checking out my ass?”

“I am conducting comprehensive threat assessment,” I reply with as much dignity as I can manage while one tendril unconsciously curves toward the anatomical region in question. “Your physical wellbeing is paramount to mission success.”

“Uh-huh.” Her grin is wicked as she deliberately bends to retrieve her discarded clothing, presenting me with an even more distracting view. “How’s that threat assessment going now?”

“Eleven minutes, thirty-seven seconds until breach,” I report, forcing myself to focus on perimeter scans rather than the fascinating way her muscles shift beneath her skin as she dresses. “Possibly less if I become further... compromised.”

“Cutting it close,” she mutters, pulling on her jacket with sharp, efficient movements that somehow manage to be both practical and alluring.

Her fingers work the seals with ease, and I find myself remembering how those same fingers felt tracing my bond-lines, mapping the sensitive patterns across my skin with curious determination. “Options?”

I interface briefly with the dome’s ancient systems, downloading schematics that feel familiar yet foreign—like accessing memories from a dream.

The architecture responds to my touch with something approaching enthusiasm, sharing knowledge of hidden passages, defensive capabilities, escape routes carved by beings who understood the need for sanctuary.

“Thermal vent network extends 2.3 kilometers northeast,” I report, simultaneously tracking our hunters’ positions through electromagnetic signatures. “Multiple exit points. However, the crashed vessel’s escape pod represents our most viable transportation option.”

“That’s a lot of open ground with people shooting at us,” Kaylee observes with what I am learning to recognize as her tactical voice—dry, practical, tinged with dark humor that somehow makes dangerous situations sound like minor inconveniences.

Through our bond, I feel her calculating odds, assessing risks, planning contingencies with the same methodical precision I’ve observed in her piloting.

Her mind works like a well-tuned navigation computer, processing variables and extrapolating outcomes with remarkable speed.

Watching her shift into combat mode is..

. stimulating in ways that are highly inappropriate given our circumstances.

“They intend to terminate you,” I state, analyzing the weapons signatures and personnel deployment patterns.

The cold certainty of it triggers protective protocols that run deeper than programming—ancient, primal urges that demand I shield my mate from all threats.

“Their formation suggests no intention of preserving civilian assets.”

“Yeah, well, the feeling’s mutual,” she replies, checking her sidearm with practiced ease.

The weapon looks almost delicate in her hands, but I’ve seen her accuracy under pressure.

I’ve felt her steady pulse, her controlled breathing, the calm calculation that transforms her from gentle lover to lethal marksman in heartbeats.

“Think you can cause some electronic mayhem without turning into a walking weapon of mass destruction?”

“I contain multitudes,” I inform her, which makes her lips twitch in what might be amusement under less dire circumstances.

“Save the poetry for when we’re not about to die,” she says, though I feel her approval through our bond—warm satisfaction that I’m learning human literary references, pride in my growing cultural awareness. “What kind of chaos are we talking about?”

I extend sensory tendrils toward the dome’s perimeter, interfacing with both the ancient alien technology and the modern ApexCorp equipment beyond.

The contrast is fascinating—one organic and intuitive, flowing with natural rhythms that match my own bioelectric patterns, the other rigid and mechanical, demanding precise inputs and offering limited responses.

Both respond to my touch, though in vastly different ways.

The dome’s systems welcome me like an old friend, sharing their capabilities with generous enthusiasm.

Ancient defensive protocols unfold in my consciousness—methods of protection developed by beings who valued life, who understood that sometimes the innocent need shelter from those who would harm them.

ApexCorp’s equipment, by contrast, resists my intrusion with automated security measures, firewalls, and encryption barriers.

But I was created by their predecessors, designed to interface with their technology.

Their defenses recognize my access codes even as they struggle to contain my increasingly independent consciousness.

“I can overload their containment field generators,” I explain, simultaneously accessing their communication network and mapping their tactical formation with growing satisfaction.

“Create electromagnetic pulse bursts, disable targeting systems, introduce false readings into their sensors. Their cybernetic scouts’ optical implants are vulnerable to carefully modulated feedback loops. ”

“Can you make their equipment think we’re somewhere we’re not?”

“Trivial,” I confirm, already implementing ghost protocols that will scatter false heat signatures throughout the cavern network.

Phantom targets bloom across their sensors—dozens of them, moving in impossible patterns, leading their automated systems in electronic circles.

“I can also induce temporary blindness in their cybernetic scouts, though the discomfort may be... significant.”

Kaylee’s grin is fierce and beautiful, the expression transforming her face from merely attractive to absolutely radiant.

The way her eyes light up with anticipation, the slight curve of her lips that promises violence for our enemies and safety for us—it’s a look that sends heat racing through my bond-lines and makes me want to claim her mouth with mine until she makes those soft sounds of surrender I’m growing addicted to.

“Do it,” she commands, and the pleasure I take in following her orders is both programmed and chosen, a distinction that matters more to me now than ever before.

I was created to serve, but I choose to serve her—my partner, my equal, my radiant, dangerous human who sees me as more than the sum of my design specifications.

I begin with their communication array, introducing subtle static that will degrade coordination without triggering immediate alarm protocols.

Next, their targeting systems receive false calibration data that will ensure their first shots miss by significant margins—not enough to indicate sabotage immediately, but sufficient to create confusion and doubt.

The cybernetic scouts’ optical implants receive carefully modulated feedback that temporarily overwhelms their enhanced vision without causing permanent damage.

I am becoming more selective about inflicting harm, a change Kaylee has influenced.

Where once I might have simply destroyed their equipment or rendered them unconscious, now I calculate precise levels of interference—enough to protect us, not enough to cause lasting injury to beings who are, ultimately, merely following orders they believe to be legitimate.

“Showtime,” she whispers as the dome’s walls begin to shimmer under external pressure.