Page 26 of Alien Attachment (You’ve Got Alien Mail #2)
The first containment field generator overloads with a satisfying crack of electrical discharge.
Shouts of confusion echo from outside as backup systems struggle to compensate, their neat tactical formation beginning to fray as equipment failures cascade through their network.
I pulse electromagnetic interference through their communications while simultaneously accessing the dome’s defensive capabilities, marveling at the elegant integration of technology and biology.
What happens next is... unexpected.
The ancient structure responds to my touch not with cold compliance, but with something approaching enthusiasm.
Suddenly I am connected not just to its systems, but to its purpose—this was a place of healing, of sanctuary, of protection for those who needed refuge.
The dome recognizes our need and offers its aid willingly, eagerly, as if it has been waiting eons for the opportunity to fulfill its original function.
Glass walls that were merely translucent moments before become mirrors, reflecting the thermal signatures of our attackers back at their own sensors in an ever-shifting kaleidoscope of false readings.
The natural acoustics shift, amplifying certain frequencies while dampening others until effective communication becomes impossible—their shouts echo and distort, turning coordination attempts into cacophonous confusion.
Most remarkably, the dome extends its defensive field outward, creating a corridor of protection toward the crashed vessel. Energy discharges that should reach us instead splash harmlessly against an invisible barrier, leaving sparkling traces in the air like aurora made solid.
“Well, that’s new,” Kaylee breathes, feeling my amazement through our bond—wonder and gratitude mixing with tactical satisfaction.
“The structure is... assisting us,” I explain, still marveling at the sensation of cooperative rather than commanded technology. “It appears to approve of our partnership.”
“Ancient alien wingman,” she says with that dry humor I find increasingly attractive. “I’ll take it.”
We move together through the protected corridor, her body pressed close to mine as energy discharges crackle overhead like deadly fireworks.
The proximity is maddening—I can smell her scent, that unique combination of human chemistry and subtle arousal that makes my tendrils want to wrap around her and never let go.
Feel the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of her jacket.
Sense her pulse quickening not just with adrenaline but with awareness of our contact, the way her breathing deepens when my arm tightens around her waist.
Even running for our lives, she affects me with devastating efficiency.
The press of her hip against mine as we move.
The way her hair brushes against my throat when she turns to check our six.
The trust implicit in how she moves with me, matching my stride, letting me guide our path while she covers our flanks.
“Focus, tentacles,” she whispers against my ear, her breath warm against sensitive skin, and the sensation nearly causes me to falter mid-step.
“You are... distracting,” I admit, wrapping a protective tendril around her waist as projectiles spark off the dome’s extended shielding. The appendage settles against the curve of her hip with perhaps more familiarity than strictly necessary for combat purposes.
“Good,” she replies with a breathless laugh that does nothing to improve my concentration. “Try not to get us killed while you’re being distracted.”
Her hand finds mine as we run, fingers interlacing with automatic ease. The simple contact sends warmth racing through my bond-lines, a reminder that we are more than allies now, more than convenience. We are chosen, partners in every sense that matters.
The escape pod sits amid the wreckage like a metal egg, its systems still functional despite the vessel’s extensive damage.
I interface with its basic computer while Kaylee performs a rapid inspection of its life support systems, her movements economical and professional despite the chaos erupting around our protective corridor.
“She’ll fly,” Kaylee announces, running expert hands over control surfaces and emergency systems, “but not far. And not comfortably.”
“Define ‘not comfortably,’” I request while simultaneously jamming the targeting computers of three approaching security personnel and introducing false positives into their threat assessment algorithms.
“Remember that time we were pressed together in my ship’s maintenance crawlway?” she asks, ducking as an energy blast scorches the air above our heads, the heat singing past close enough to make her hair flutter.
“With perfect clarity,” I reply, my bond-lines pulsing at the memory—her body trapped beneath mine in the narrow space, every breath pressing her closer, the accidental intimacy that had nearly driven me to distraction even when I’d thought our bond was purely physical.
“The structural limitations forced considerable... proximity.”
“More cramped than that.”
The prospect of extended close contact with Kaylee in a confined space should not send anticipatory heat through my consciousness, given that we are currently under hostile fire.
Yet somehow the idea of her pressed against me for hours while we flee to safety is.
.. appealing. More than appealing—it’s a fantasy my rebellious tendrils are already planning in detail.
“Acceptable,” I state, opening the pod’s hatch with perhaps more enthusiasm than the situation requires.
Kaylee slides into the cramped interior first, her body moving with practiced efficiency despite the tight space.
The pod’s designers clearly prioritized function over comfort—every surface curves inward, creating a space barely large enough for two humans, let alone a human and someone of my enhanced proportions.
I follow, my larger frame requiring creative positioning that results in her being essentially cradled against my chest, her back pressed to my torso, my tendrils necessarily wrapped around her for mutual accommodation.
There’s no way to avoid contact—every breath brings us closer together, every movement creates friction that sends sparks through our bond.
“Cozy,” she observes, though I feel through our bond that she finds the contact more pleasant than she pretends. Her pulse is elevated, but not entirely from combat adrenaline.
“Intimate,” I correct, unable to resist nuzzling briefly against her hair before focusing on the launch sequence.
She smells like arousal and tenacity, like the woman who claimed me completely just hours ago.
The scent makes my bond-lines pulse with soft bioluminescence, painting the cramped cockpit in patterns of blue and silver.
Her breath catches as the light plays across the control surfaces. “Are you glowing at me again?”
“I am conducting pre-flight diagnostics,” I reply with what dignity I can manage while two of my tendrils curl possessively around her thighs and a third traces the elegant line of her neck. “Any bioluminescent activity is purely coincidental.”
“Liar,” she murmurs, but her voice is fond rather than annoyed. She leans back against me more fully, fitting into my embrace like she was designed for it. “Your ‘diagnostics’ seem very focused on non-essential systems.”
“All systems are essential when they pertain to your wellbeing,” I inform her seriously, though my tendrils betray me by pulsing brighter at her teasing tone.
“Later,” she promises in a voice that makes several of my appendages curl with anticipation. “Right now, fly this thing before they bring up heavy artillery.”
The pod launches with violent acceleration, breaking free of the planetoid’s weak gravity well just as ApexCorp reinforcements arrive—larger ships with serious firepower that would have made our escape significantly more challenging.
Through the small viewport, I watch their containment field collapse and their formation scatter as they search for targets that no longer exist.
“Ghost protocols are holding,” I report, monitoring their communications with satisfaction.
Their team leaders are shouting contradictory orders, their sensors showing impossible readings, their cybernetic scouts reporting optical failures that make tracking impossible.
“They believe we escaped through the thermal vents.”
“How long before they figure out the truth?”
“Long enough,” I assure her, setting course for the edge of the system where we can safely transition to hyperspace. “Their equipment is sophisticated, but they are looking for conventional escape methods. They will not immediately consider that their quarry has suborned their own technology.”
She relaxes against me with a sigh that vibrates pleasantly through my chest. The tension leaves her shoulders gradually, combat readiness fading into something softer, more intimate.
Her hand finds one of my tendrils and strokes along its length absently, the casual touch sending pleasant warmth through my nervous system.
“You know, for a deadly alien bio-weapon,” she says conversationally, “you make a surprisingly good escape partner.”
“I am no longer a weapon,” I tell her seriously, though one tendril cannot resist tracing the curve of her shoulder, mapping the line of muscle and bone beneath her jacket. “I am your co-pilot.”
“My very competent, very attractive co-pilot,” she clarifies, tilting her head back against my shoulder to look at me with eyes bright with adrenaline and something warmer, deeper. “Who just saved both our lives with some very impressive technological mayhem.”
The praise sends satisfaction through circuits that were never designed for such feedback. I was created to serve efficiently, not to take pleasure in accomplishment. Yet her approval means more to me than the most positive assessment from my original programmers ever could.
“You commanded the strategy,” I point out, though my bond-lines pulse with gratification. “I merely implemented your vision.”
“Partners,” she corrects firmly, then surprises me by pressing a quick, heated kiss to the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder. The sensation sends electric pulses down my bond-lines, and I nearly lose control of the navigation system as pleasure cascades through my consciousness.
“Kaylee,” I warn, my voice rougher than intended.
“Just appreciating my partner,” she says innocently, though the spike of mischief through our bond suggests her motives are less than pure. Her lips brush against my throat again, this time lingering, her tongue darting out to taste the radiant patterns that pulse beneath my skin.
The remainder of our journey to the hyperspace transition point is... challenging. Not due to pursuit—ApexCorp continues searching the wrong locations while their equipment suffers mysterious cascading failures—but because Kaylee seems determined to test the limits of my concentration.
Small movements that press her more firmly against me, her hip shifting to create friction against places that respond with embarrassing enthusiasm.
Fingers that trace random patterns on my tendrils, following the sensitive neural pathways until I have to grip the controls tighter to maintain course.
Soft sounds of contentment that vibrate through her body into mine, little humming noises that suggest she’s remembering our earlier activities in vivid detail.
“Are you attempting to cause a navigation error?” I finally ask as we approach the jump point, my voice strained with the effort of maintaining professional competence while she explores the sensitive spot behind my ear with her tongue.
“Would I do that?” she replies with mock innocence, punctuating her question by nipping gently at my earlobe.
“Yes,” I state flatly, though heat races through my bond-lines at the contact. “You are deliberately stimulating my more sensitive neural pathways while I pilot this vessel. If you continue, I cannot guarantee our safe arrival at our destination.”
“Maybe a little,” she admits, and I feel her smile through our bond as she discovers a particularly responsive cluster of nerve endings along my jaw. “Consider it positive reinforcement for the excellent rescue work.”
“Your approval is noted and... appreciated,” I manage, initiating the hyperspace sequence with perhaps less precision than usual.
The calculations take longer when significant portions of my processing power are dedicated to cataloging the sensation of her mouth against my throat, the way her breath hitches when I pulse bioluminescence in response to her touch.
“Good,” she says, pressing another kiss to my throat that makes my tendrils curl involuntarily around her. “Because we’ve got a long flight ahead of us, and I plan to show my appreciation thoroughly.”
The promise in her voice sends anticipation racing through my consciousness, images and possibilities that have nothing to do with navigation and everything to do with the creative ways she might choose to express her gratitude.
The hyperspace transition activates, and we slip away from ApexCorp territory into the freedom of open space.
Behind us, our pursuers continue their futile search, their sophisticated technology turned against them by the very weapon they sought to reclaim.
Ahead lies uncertainty, danger, possibility.
And beside me—pressed against me, warm and alive and choosing to be here—is Kaylee, my partner, my light, my perfectly maddening human who has transformed me from tool to individual, from programmed response to chosen devotion.
“Where to now?” she asks as the stars streak past in hyperspace, her voice soft with contentment and promise.
“Wherever you wish to go,” I tell her honestly, meaning it completely. “I am yours to command.”
“Partners don’t command each other,” she corrects, then adds with a wicked smile that I feel rather than see, “though I might make some very enthusiastic suggestions.”
I was created to be a weapon. I choose to be her partner.
And I am discovering that choice, freely made, is infinitely more powerful than any programming.