Page 30 of Alien Attachment (You’ve Got Alien Mail #2)

New Trajectories

Kaylee

Obsidian Haven grows larger in our viewport, its jagged metal superstructure jutting from the asteroid like the ribcage of some ancient beast. Even from this distance, I can see the increased security Jhorn mentioned—additional patrol vessels, new sensor arrays, the telltale glow of enhanced shield generators.

“Second thoughts?” Jhorn asks quietly, his tendrils still interfaced with our navigation systems as he guides us through the approach vectors that will keep us hidden among the legitimate traffic.

“About meeting Vex? No.” I settle back in my seat, watching the controlled chaos of ships coming and going from the station’s many docking arms. “About everything else? Maybe.”

Through our bond, I feel his immediate concern, the way his attention sharpens on my emotional state even while maintaining our delicate approach. “Explain.”

I gesture toward the station ahead of us. “Three weeks ago, we barely escaped this place with our lives. Now we’re voluntarily returning to buy fake identities and plan a life of crime. You don’t think that’s at least a little crazy?”

“I think,” he says carefully, “that ‘crazy’ may be relative when one’s alternatives involve remaining in hiding indefinitely or surrendering to corporate interests.”

He’s not wrong, but something about this whole situation feels surreal.

A month ago, I was a burned-out courier hauling cargo for OOPS, my biggest worry being whether I could afford protein instead of synth-paste for dinner.

Now I’m planning to become a freelance criminal with my alien partner who was literally designed for devotion and destruction.

“Partnership,” Jhorn corrects gently, and I realize I’ve been broadcasting my thoughts through our bond again.

“What?”

“You referred to our relationship in terms that suggest inequality,” he explains, his voice taking on that precise tone he uses when making important distinctions. “I prefer ‘partner’ to other terminology. It more accurately reflects our dynamic.”

Despite my nerves about returning to Obsidian Haven, I find myself smiling. “Partner it is. Though I reserve the right to call you ‘tentacles’ when you’re being particularly alien.”

“Acceptable,” he agrees with mock solemnity, though I feel his amusement through our connection.

The docking sequence requires my full attention as we navigate through the station’s traffic control, but once we’re secured in Bay 47—a maintenance dock in a section of the station that caters to the sort of clientele who don’t ask questions—I find myself hesitating.

“Vex will have new identities ready within six hours,” I say, checking the time on my wrist display. “Ship registration, employment histories, credit accounts—everything we need to disappear and start fresh.”

“But?” Jhorn prompts, clearly sensing my uncertainty through our bond.

“But then what?” I turn to face him fully, noting the way his bond-lines pulse gently in the dim lighting of our cockpit. “We get new names, buy a better ship, and then... what? Become courier services for criminals and revolutionaries? Hope we can stay ahead of ApexCorp forever?”

Jhorn considers this, his expression thoughtful as one tendril traces absent patterns on the armrest of his chair. “You are concerned about the sustainability of such a lifestyle.”

“I’m concerned about a lot of things,” I admit, standing to pace the small confines of our escape pod.

“What happens when we take the wrong job, or someone recognizes us despite the new identities? What happens when ApexCorp gets lucky, or we get careless, or the universe decides we’ve had enough good fortune? ”

His tendrils reach for me as I pass his chair, wrapping gently around my wrist with that careful strength that still amazes me. “What happens,” he says quietly, “is that we face those challenges together. As we have faced everything else.”

“Together,” I repeat, testing the weight of the word.

It should be comforting—and it is—but it’s also terrifying in its implications.

“You know, I spent six years flying solo. Making my own decisions, taking my own risks, dealing with my own consequences. This whole ‘partnership’ thing is still new to me.”

“As it is to me,” he admits, his bioluminescence pulsing with what I’ve learned to recognize as vulnerability. “My creators programmed me for devotion, not partnership. The distinction between serving and collaborating is... something I am still learning.”

I look down at him, this impossible alien who chose me over his programming, who risked everything to protect someone he’d known for days. “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we? The commitment-phobic courier and the escaped bio-weapon learning how to be equals instead of master and servant.”

“I prefer to think of us as complementary skill sets learning to function as an integrated unit,” he replies with that precise, scientific tone that somehow makes the most romantic statements sound like technical manuals.

“You really need to work on your romantic language, tentacles.”

“I am open to instruction,” he says, then adds with a hint of heat in his voice, “though I believe you found my previous... educational methods quite satisfactory.”

The memory of our passionate reunion after escaping ApexCorp sends warmth through me, and I feel his answering response through our bond. Even now, worried about our future and sitting in a cramped escape pod in a criminal haven, I want him with an intensity that should probably concern me.

“Focus, Kaylee,” I mutter to myself, though I don’t pull away from his touch. “We need to figure out our next move before we get distracted by your unfair biological advantages again.”

“My advantages are only unfair if you consider multiple simultaneous points of stimulation to be—”

“Jhorn.”

“Yes?”

“Not helping with the focus.”

His laughter rumbles through the small space, warm and genuine. “Forgive me. You are correct that we should discuss practical matters before...” He trails off, his gaze traveling over me in a way that makes my pulse quicken.

“Before we test the structural integrity of this docking bay,” I finish dryly.

“Precisely.”

I force myself to step back, though his tendril maintains its gentle hold on my wrist. “Right. Practical matters. Vex will have our new identities ready, but we need more than just paperwork. We need a plan, a ship, and enough credits to get started.”

“I have been researching potential opportunities,” Jhorn says, his expression shifting to that calculating look that means he’s been processing information while we talked.

“The outer rim territories have significant demand for discrete cargo transport. Medical supplies to quarantined colonies, research materials to independent stations, personal effects to refugee settlements.”

“All of which sounds suspiciously legitimate for someone planning a life of crime.”

“Perhaps ‘crime’ is too narrow a definition,” he suggests. “There are many legal activities that corporations and governments prefer to discourage through bureaucratic obstacles. We would simply be... facilitating the circumvention of unnecessary administrative delays.”

I stare at him. “Did you just describe smuggling as customer service?”

“I described providing essential services to underserved market segments,” he corrects with complete seriousness.

“You’re going to fit right into this life, aren’t you?”

His bond-lines pulse with what might be pride. “I am highly adaptable.”

A soft chime from the comm system interrupts our conversation—a message from Vex confirming our meeting time and location. I read it quickly, noting the typical paranoid precautions that mark all communications in places like Obsidian Haven.

“They want to meet in three hours, Sector 12, Level 4,” I report. “The Blue Nova cantina.”

“Public location, multiple exits, civilian traffic for cover,” Jhorn observes approvingly. “Your contact is prudent.”

“Vex is a lot of things, but careless isn’t one of them.

” I check my appearance in the small mirror beside the airlock, noting how much I’ve changed in just a few weeks.

The stress has sharpened my features, and my eyes carry a wariness that wasn’t there before.

“Do I look like someone planning to disappear into the criminal underworld?”

Jhorn studies me with that intense focus he brings to everything, his alien gaze cataloging details I can’t even imagine. “You look like someone who has survived impossible odds and emerged stronger for it,” he says finally. “You look dangerous.”

“Dangerous,” I repeat, testing how the word feels. A month ago, I would have laughed at the description. Now... now it might actually be accurate.

“Dangerous and beautiful,” he adds, his voice dropping to that rougher register that makes my knees weak. “A combination that will serve us well in our new profession.”

The compliment sends heat through me, but it’s the certainty in his voice that really affects me. He sees me as dangerous, as capable, as someone who can handle whatever comes next. After years of feeling like I was barely keeping my head above water, that confidence is intoxicating.

“Alright then,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “Let’s go buy ourselves a future.”

We make our way through the station’s corridors, Jhorn’s hooded cloak concealing most of his distinctive features while I navigate the familiar chaos of Obsidian Haven.

The place hasn’t changed much—still a maze of shops, cantinas, and questionable businesses catering to the sort of people who prefer to conduct their affairs away from official oversight.

The Blue Nova cantina occupies a corner space in one of the station’s more respectable sectors, though “respectable” is a relative term on Obsidian Haven.

The interior is dimly lit and filled with the low murmur of conversations that stop abruptly if anyone gets too close.

Perfect for the sort of meeting we’re about to have.

Vex is waiting for us in a corner booth, exactly as I expected. They’re human—or close enough—with the sort of ageless appearance that suggests either good genetics or expensive modifications. Their pale eyes miss nothing as we approach, cataloging Jhorn’s concealed form with professional interest.

“Kaylee,” they greet me with a slight nod. “You look remarkably healthy for someone who’s supposed to be dead.”

“Rumors of my demise were greatly exaggerated,” I reply, sliding into the booth across from them. Jhorn settles beside me, his presence a solid comfort even through the cloak.

“And this is your... companion?” Vex’s gaze lingers on Jhorn with curiosity rather than concern.

“Partner,” I correct. “And yes, he’s the reason we need to disappear.”

Vex nods as if this explains everything, which it probably does in their line of work. “I have what you requested. Clean identities, employment histories that will stand up to casual scrutiny, credit accounts with enough funding to get you started.”

They slide a data pad across the table, the screen showing two identity profiles. I study them quickly—Karly Dorian and Bastian Vale, freelance logistics specialists with five years of verified employment history and clean legal records.

“Nice work,” I admit, impressed by the thoroughness of the documentation. “What’s the damage?”

“Fifty thousand credits,” Vex replies calmly.

I nearly choke on my drink. “Fifty thousand? That’s highway robbery!”

“It’s the price of disappearing completely from corporate databases,” they correct. “Besides, I understand you recently came into some... unexpected assets.”

My blood runs cold. If Vex knows about our encounter with the bounty hunter, how many other people have figured out we’re not actually dead?

“Don’t look so worried,” Vex continues with what might be amusement. “Your secret is safe. I make it my business to know these things, but I also make it my business to keep quiet about them. Bad for repeat customers if word gets around that I’m indiscreet.”

Relief floods through me, followed quickly by calculation. Fifty thousand credits is a significant portion of what we recovered from the bounty hunter’s accounts, but if it buys us genuine safety...

“Deal,” I say, authorizing the transfer from our secured account.

Vex nods approvingly as the transaction completes. “Pleasure doing business with you, Ms. Dorian. Try not to get these identities killed too quickly.”

“We’ll do our best,” I assure them, pocketing the data pad with our new lives encoded on it.

As we leave the cantina, I can’t help but feel a mixture of excitement and terror. In the span of an hour, I’ve gone from Kaylee the OOPS courier to Karly Dorian, freelance logistics specialist. It should feel liberating.

Instead, it feels like I’ve just taken the first step off a very high cliff.

“Regrets?” Jhorn asks softly as we make our way back through the station’s corridors.

“Ask me again in a year,” I reply, then add more seriously, “though I have to admit, there’s something appealing about the idea of choosing our own jobs instead of hauling whatever OOPS assigned us.”

“Freedom,” he observes.

“Freedom,” I agree. “Assuming we live long enough to enjoy it.”

His tendril finds my hand, squeezing gently. “We will,” he says with quiet certainty. “Together.”

As we board our small ship and prepare to leave Obsidian Haven behind, I find myself actually believing him. Whatever comes next, we’ll face it as partners—equals choosing our own path rather than victims of circumstance.

It’s terrifying and exhilarating and completely insane.

In other words, it’s perfect.