Page 33 of Alien Attachment (You’ve Got Alien Mail #2)

I nod, securing the data extractor in a padded pouch at my hip. The device feels heavier than it should, weighted with hope and three months of guilt. “Then we’d better move fast.”

We exit through the emergency airlock, bypassing the main docking protocols that would alert station security. The maintenance corridor beyond is dimly lit and reeks of industrial lubricants and decay—the familiar perfume of places where people work hard for little pay and fewer questions.

I consult the station schematic on my wrist display, orienting myself in the maze of corridors that honeycomb the asteroid.

“Duran’s hangar is three levels down and two sectors over,” I whisper, though our bond makes verbal communication almost unnecessary.

“We’ll need to avoid the main thoroughfares. ”

Jhorn nods, his enhanced senses clearly extending far beyond my human capabilities. “Two life forms approaching from the eastern junction. Maintenance workers, judging by their movement patterns and bio-signatures.”

We press ourselves into a recessed doorway, waiting as two overall-clad figures trudge past, their conversation a litany of complaints about shift rotations, pay cuts, and the general unfairness of life on a criminal space station.

Once they’re gone, we continue through the labyrinthine corridors of Obsidian Haven’s underbelly, Jhorn’s enhanced senses warning us of approaching personnel with enough time to avoid detection.

The journey to Duran’s hangar takes longer than I’d like, each detour and hiding spot eating into our limited window of opportunity.

By the time we reach the outer perimeter of Brotherhood territory—marked by crude gang symbols spray-painted on the walls in a dozen different languages—nearly forty minutes have passed.

“Security increases exponentially from this point,” Jhorn warns, his concealed tendrils shifting restlessly beneath his cloak. “I detect at least seven armed individuals within the next corridor.”

I gnaw my lower lip, studying the schematic with growing frustration. “There’s a maintenance shaft that runs parallel to the main corridor. It’ll be tight, but it should bypass most of the guards.”

The maintenance shaft proves to be even tighter than anticipated—a cramped tube barely wide enough for my shoulders, let alone Jhorn’s larger frame.

I’m about to suggest we find another route when he surprises me by partially liquefying his physical form, his solid mass becoming more fluid to squeeze through the narrow space.

It’s a sight that still unnerves me slightly despite our intimacy.

“That’s a handy trick,” I whisper as we crawl through the dusty confines of the shaft. “Any other shape-shifting abilities I should know about?”

“My cellular structure allows for limited reconfiguration,” he replies softly, his voice slightly distorted by his altered state. “It was designed for infiltration purposes, among other applications.”

“Of course it was,” I mutter. “Remind me to explore that particular talent when we’re not crawling through a filthy tunnel on a suicide mission.”

His amusement ripples through our bond, warm and unexpected in our tense circumstances. Even in situations like this, he finds ways to make me feel less alone.

The shaft eventually opens into a small junction box overlooking Duran’s main hangar. Through the grated cover, I get my first glimpse of the Nomad—or what remains of her. My heart clenches painfully at the sight, grief hitting me like a physical blow.

My ship sits in a corner of the vast space, surrounded by Brotherhood salvage crews like scavengers around a corpse.

Her hull has been partially stripped, exposing the inner workings like an autopsy in progress.

Cables and components hang from her opened panels like entrails, and several of her key systems have already been removed and sorted into bins for resale.

“Oh, Lila,” I whisper, grief and anger twisting together in my chest like a living thing.

Jhorn’s tendril wraps around my wrist through the confines of his cloak, offering silent comfort. Through our bond, I feel his understanding of my pain, his shared determination to complete our mission and restore what was taken.

I force myself to focus, scanning the hangar for security with professional detachment. “Four guards,” I count softly. “Two by the main entrance, one patrolling the perimeter, one half-asleep by the tool station.”

“And approximately twelve salvage workers,” Jhorn adds, his enhanced vision cataloging details I can barely make out. “Most appear to be focused on the far side of the hangar where they’re dismantling a larger vessel.”

I study the Nomad’s position, noting with relief that the bridge—where Lila’s core would be housed—appears relatively intact. “We need a distraction,” I murmur. “Something to clear that area long enough for me to extract Lila’s matrix.”

Jhorn is quiet for a moment, his gaze moving methodically across the hangar as he processes possibilities.

“The fuel cells for that freighter they’re dismantling,” he finally says, pointing to a stack of cylindrical containers.

“If I could create a small power surge in the nearest one, it would trigger their containment alarms without causing actual damage.”

“Without actually causing an explosion?” I clarify, raising an eyebrow.

He gives me a look that somehow manages to be both offended and amused. “I am capable of precision, my Kaylee. I have no desire to incinerate either of us in the name of dramatic effect.”

“Just checking. I like my molecules arranged exactly as they are, thank you very much.”

We wait for the patrol guard to complete his circuit before removing the grate and dropping silently into a shadowed alcove below. The hangar is filled with the sounds of machinery and the occasional shout of a worker, providing cover for our movements as we skirt the edge of the vast space.

Jhorn positions himself behind a stack of salvaged components with a clear line of sight to the fuel cells, while I prepare to make my dash to the Nomad once the distraction begins.

Through our bond, I feel his concentration intensify as he extends his consciousness toward the nearest cell, interfacing with its electronic systems in a way I still don’t fully understand but have learned to trust completely.

The effect is immediate and dramatic. Warning lights flash across the fuel cell’s display in urgent patterns, and a high-pitched alarm begins to wail with the specific tone that means ‘potential catastrophic failure.’ The reaction is exactly what we hoped for—workers abandoning their stations and running toward the potential danger, guards shouting orders and establishing a perimeter around the “leaking” cell.

“Now,” Jhorn’s voice whispers directly into my mind through our bond, warm and reassuring despite the chaos around us.

I sprint across the open space to the Nomad, diving through the partially dismantled airlock with practiced ease. Inside, the ship is a shadow of her former self—panels removed, wiring exposed, the familiar hum of her systems replaced by eerie silence that makes my heart ache.

I navigate the darkened corridors from memory, my feet finding the familiar paths even in the gloom. Each step brings back memories—six years of life in these halls, of conversations with Lila, of small moments that made this ship more than just metal and circuits.

The command center is in better condition than the rest of the ship, likely because Duran’s crew started their salvage operation from the engine room and worked their way forward.

Lila’s main console still stands intact, though the power is off and several peripheral systems have been removed.

The sight of her darkened screens hits me harder than I expected.

I drop to my knees beside the central column that houses her core processing unit, fingers flying over the manual release panel. “Come on, come on,” I mutter, my heart pounding in my ears. “Please still be here, girl.”

The panel slides open with a reluctant hiss, revealing the glowing blue crystal matrix that houses Lila’s consciousness. Relief floods through me so intensely that I feel Jhorn’s answering surge of emotion through our bond, his joy at my success warming me from within.

“I found her,” I whisper, knowing he can hear me through our connection. “She’s still intact.”

I carefully disconnect the primary power couplings and attach my data extractor, my hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my system. The transfer sequence initiates with a soft chime, and a progress bar appears on the small display, moving with agonizing slowness.

“How much longer on that distraction?” I ask through our bond, watching the percentage climb with frustrating deliberation.

The alarm protocols will reset automatically in approximately two minutes, Jhorn responds, his mental voice calm despite the urgency of our situation. I cannot extend them without risking detection.

“Copy that,” I mutter, willing the transfer to move faster. “Just need another minute...”

The progress bar hits 85%, then 90%. Outside, I can hear the alarm winding down, voices approaching as the workers return to their stations. My pulse quickens, but I force myself to remain calm. Almost there.

“Almost there,” I whisper, as if Lila can hear me. “Just hold on, girl.”

At 98%, footsteps echo in the corridor leading to the bridge. My hand drops to my blaster, ready to defend my position if necessary, though I really hope it doesn’t come to that.

Wait, Jhorn’s voice cautions in my mind. I will create a secondary distraction.

Before I can ask what he means, a series of power surges ripple through the hangar, plunging sections into darkness and causing equipment to malfunction in spectacular fashion.

Sparks fly, alarms blare, and the footsteps redirect, moving away from the bridge as the worker rushes to deal with the new crisis.