Page 9 of Alien Attachment (You’ve Got Alien Mail #2)
My Light My Purpose
Jhorn
The silence between us feels fragile, like the diamond structures in the quantum core—one wrong vibration and it shatters.
Kaylee stands before me, arms crossed, her expression a fortress with hairline cracks I want desperately to explore.
She released me from the small medical chamber, drawn by my song, my calling to her.
The bond between us pulses with her conflicted emotions: relief, wariness, curiosity, fear—and underneath it all, a thread of something warmer that she’s trying very hard to suppress.
At least she didn’t leave me there, trapped in that sterile box that reminded me too much of—
Darkness. Containment. Failure.
“The drive should be ready soon,” she says, her voice deliberately steady, though I can feel her pulse quickening through our connection. “We need to plan our next move.”
I can feel her struggle to reassert control, to pretend this is just another courier run gone wrong rather than something that’s fundamentally altered both our existences.
But the bond tells me more—her heart rate elevated, her skin warming when she looks at me, her mind racing with questions about what I am, what we are now.
The conversation we just had lingers between us: my admission of being created for bonding, her stunned silence when I told her that something in her recognized something in me.
“I can help,” I offer, keeping my voice soft despite wanting to close the distance between us.
My tendrils curl slightly toward her, unconsciously seeking connection, drawn to her warmth like metal to a magnet.
I force them back, remembering her earlier panic, though the effort makes me ache. “I sense systems... energy patterns.”
And I sense you, I don’t add, though the way her scent fills the recycled air—something uniquely alive beneath the ship’s metallic tang—makes concentration difficult.
Lila’s voice interrupts before Kaylee can respond, cutting through the charged moment with maddening timing. “Captain, stabilizer repair is holding at sixty-three percent efficiency. Jump drive calibration requires manual adjustment before full power restoration.”
Kaylee’s shoulders tense, and frustration spikes through our bond.
“Sixty-three? That’s barely enough to keep us from spinning if we hit turbulence.
” She runs a hand through her short, dark hair, leaving it standing in frustrated spikes that somehow make her even more appealing.
Through our connection, I feel her exhaustion, her fear of ApexCorp finding us before repairs are complete, and the lingering warmth from our conversation that she’s trying to ignore.
“Fine,” she finally says, eyeing me warily but with less hostility than before. “But stay out of my way unless I ask. And keep your... extras... to yourself.” She gestures vaguely at my tendrils, though I notice her gaze lingers on them longer than strictly necessary.
“Except this one,” I say quietly, lifting the tentacle that connects us—the physical manifestation of our bond. It pulses with a soft glow that matches my heartbeat, and I see her pupils dilate slightly as she watches the light travel along its length.
Her gaze follows it, and I feel her revulsion soften into reluctant fascination. The way she looks at it now—like she’s seeing it for the first time—sends warmth through me that has nothing to do with ship’s heating. “Yeah. Except that one. Not like we have a choice there.”
No choice, I think, though I suspect the bond could only have formed if some part of her wanted it. The thought should disturb me, but instead it fills me with something dangerously close to hope.
We make our way to the engine room, a cramped space filled with the comforting hum of machinery.
The quantum stabilizer panel is open, revealing a complex array of crystalline matrices and pulsing energy conduits.
Kaylee kneels before it, her hands moving with practiced precision despite her fatigue, and I find myself mesmerized by the competent grace of her movements.
“Hand me the phase calibrator,” she mutters, not looking up.
I scan the scattered tools, identifying the device by its resonant energy signature rather than its appearance. My tentacle delivers it to her hand before I consciously decide to move, the motion fluid and precise.
She flinches but takes it, her fingers brushing against my tentacle in the process. The brief contact sends a jolt through both of us—I feel her surprised awareness, the way her skin warms at the touch. “Thanks,” she says, the word barely audible but carrying more weight than it should.
I watch her work, admiring the orderliness of her movements, the way she instinctively understands the ship’s needs.
Through our connection, I feel her concentration, her determination, and the fierce protectiveness she feels for this vessel.
The Nomad isn’t just a ship to her—it’s sanctuary, freedom, home.
And watching her care for it with such devotion makes something possessive stir in my chest.
“The quantum field is destabilizing in the lower matrix,” I say suddenly, sensing the fluctuation before the ship’s systems can detect it.
Kaylee’s head snaps up, her eyes widening. “What? How do you—”
But the warning light flashes a moment later, confirming my assessment. Her eyes narrow, suspicion and curiosity warring in her gaze along with something that feels suspiciously like impressed approval.
“I can help,” I repeat, moving closer, drawn by her scent and the warm pulse of her life force through our bond. “May I?”
After a moment’s hesitation—during which I feel her weighing trust against necessity—she shifts aside. The movement brings us closer together in the cramped space, her shoulder nearly brushing mine. “If you fry my ship, I’ll space you, bond or no bond.”
The threat should alarm me. Instead, it sends a thrill through me that I don’t entirely understand. “I won’t damage your ship,” I promise, my voice rougher than intended. “It shelters you. Protects you.” Like I want to.
Carefully, I kneel beside her, our bodies close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her skin. My tendrils hover near the open panel, and I’m hyperaware of her watching me, studying my movements with the same focused attention she gives her ship’s systems.
“What are you doing?” Kaylee’s voice seems distant, though she’s right beside me, close enough that her breath stirs the air near my ear.
“Harmonizing,” I murmur, extending three tendrils into the stabilizer array.
The sensation is immediate—cool energy flowing through me, the ship’s systems communicating in patterns of light and vibration.
But I’m equally aware of Kaylee’s proximity, the way she leans closer to watch, her fascination overriding her wariness. “The field needs... balance. Symmetry.”
My tendrils move with precise, fluid motions, adjusting connections, redirecting energy flows. The ship’s systems respond to my touch like they recognize me, and it feels natural, like breathing. Like I was made for this.
Because I was.
The thought triggers a cascade of fragmented memories:
— sterile laboratory, my tendrils connected to complex machinery—
—“Subject J-7 demonstrates exceptional system integration capability”—
—pain as I resist the command to override safety protocols—
—“Failure. Too much autonomy. Refuses to compromise primary systems when ordered.”—
I gasp, withdrawing my tendrils as the memories fade like nightmares in daylight. The stabilizer panel now glows a steady blue, the efficiency reading climbing to eighty-seven percent.
“How did you do that?” Kaylee asks, her voice hushed with reluctant awe. I feel her fear and fascination mingling through our bond, along with something warmer—admiration, perhaps even attraction to my abilities.
“I was... designed to interface with systems. To connect. To harmonize.” I flex my tendrils, watching the luminescent patterns ripple along their length, and notice how her gaze follows the movement with rapt attention. “It’s part of what I am.”
“And what exactly is that?” Her gaze is intent, searching, and when she looks at me like that—really sees me—it’s almost overwhelming.
“A tool,” I say softly, the words bitter even as I speak them.
“That’s what they wanted. A perfectly obedient instrument that could interface with their technology, enhance their ships, their weapons.
” I meet her eyes, letting her see the truth through our bond.
“But I began to... question. To choose which commands to follow.”
Understanding dawns on her face, and with it, a flash of anger that surprises me with its intensity. “That’s why they were shipping you off. You were defective.”
“Failed experiment,” I correct, though the words don’t sting as much when she’s looking at me with something approaching protectiveness. “I would not compromise safety systems when ordered. I would not harm... certain subjects I had bonded with.”
The memory comes clearer now:
A small, terrified technician, her hands shaking as she attaches monitoring devices to my tendrils. Her fear tastes sour through our minor connection. The commander enters, orders me to send a power surge through her to test my obedience.
I refuse.
Pain. Darkness. “Decommission the asset.”
Kaylee’s voice pulls me back, grounding me in the present. “So you can just... what, talk to machines?”
“Not talk. Feel. Connect.” I gesture toward the stabilizer, acutely aware of how her eyes track the movement of my tendrils. “Your ship has patterns, rhythms. I can sense them, adjust them. Make them flow more efficiently.”
She studies me, calculation replacing some of her wariness, and I feel her thoughts through the bond—weighing my usefulness against the danger I represent. But underneath the practical considerations, there’s something else: curiosity about what other things I might be able to... harmonize.