Page 10 of Alien Attachment
The fact that he can sense my physical state so intimately makes my skin crawl—and other things that I’m definitely not thinking about right now. “It’s fine. Standard courier fare.” I push past him, hyperaware of the brief contact when my shoulder brushes his arm, heading back toward the cockpit. “Do you... eat?”
“Yes. Designed to process various nutritional sources. Protein. Carbohydrates. Can survive on minimal intake if necessary.”
“Well, aren’t you convenient,” I mutter, sliding back into my chair. The casual way he mentions being “designed” still makes me uncomfortable. I take a bite of the reconstituted goop, grimacing at the artificial flavor that tastes like someone’s vague memory of actual food. After a moment’s hesitation, I hold out the second bowl. “Here. If you’re hungry.”
Jhorn takes the bowl with surprising delicacy, his fingers—not tentacles—carefully avoiding contact with mine in a way that’s probably considerate but feels oddly disappointing. He studies the steaming contents with intense curiosity, bringinghis face close to inhale the scent, and I find myself watching the movement of his throat as he breathes, the way his alien features shift with concentration.
“This is... food?” He sounds genuinely puzzled, like I’ve handed him a bowl of decorative pebbles.
“Allegedly.” I can’t help the small quirk of my lips at his expression. “OOPS doesn’t exactly stock gourmet provisions. We’re more about quantity over quality. And by quality, I mean ‘won’t immediately kill you.’”
He dips one finger into the noodles with scientific precision, then brings it to his mouth. His eyes widen comically, and a shudder runs through his entire body, rippling down his tentacles like a wave of pure horror. The bond between us pulses with shock and something like horrified fascination.
“This is...” he struggles for words, his voice slightly strangled, “not optimal.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it—the first genuine one since this mess began, bubbling up from somewhere I thought had died years ago. “Yeah, welcome to courier life. It’s all synthetic protein and artificial flavoring with a side of existential dread.” I take another bite of my own, shrugging. “You get used to it. Sort of. Or you develop a drinking problem. I’m still deciding which route to take.”
Jhorn looks at me with newfound respect, as if surviving on this food is some kind of heroic feat worthy of ballads. “You are... stronger than anticipated.”
I nearly choke on my protein mush. “What, because I can stomach OOPS-grade rations? Trust me, it’s not strength—it’s desperation mixed with a complete inability to cook anything that doesn’t come pre-packaged.” I scrape the bowl clean and toss it into the recycler. “Though I guess after being stuck in that container eating whatever ApexCorp was feeding you, anything might taste good.”
His expression shifts, tentacles curling slightly inward—something I’m starting to recognize as discomfort. Right. Probably shouldn’t remind the alien about his imprisonment while he’s trying to eat.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “That was... insensitive.”
“Truth is not insensitive,” he says quietly, setting aside the bowl with most of its contents untouched. “They did not... feed. Stasis required no sustenance.”
The simple statement hits harder than any complaint could have. How long was he in that container? Weeks? Months? Years? The thought makes something twist in my chest.
“Right. Well.” I clear my throat, uncomfortable with the sympathy rising in me. “I should probably check on our status. See how much longer before we can get out of here.”
I pull up the ship’s diagnostics, scanning for any changes, grateful for the distraction. The drive is still repairing, but there’s a warning flag on the stabilizer array that makes my stomach drop. I frown, digging deeper into the report. The gyroscopic calibration is off by six degrees—not critical yet, but it could become a serious problem if we need to make another quick exit.
“Shit,” I mutter, fingers dancing across the console as I pull up subsystem after subsystem. Fuel reserves at 42 percent. Life support functioning at nominal levels, though the recycled air has that slightly metallic taste it gets when the filters need changing. The comms array is powered down to avoid detection, and the shield generators are in standby mode to conserve energy.
Everything’s holding together, but just barely. The Nomad wasn’t exactly in prime condition before I took this cursed job, and the emergency jump did her no favors. She’s like me—patched together, running on fumes, and one bad decision away from falling apart completely.
“Lila, what’s wrong with the port stabilizer?”
“Microfractures detected in housing assembly,” the AI responds with her usual maddening calm. “Recommend manual inspection before next jump attempt.”
I curse under my breath. Another repair, another delay. Another chance for ApexCorp to track us down. “Location?”
“Access panel 17-B, lower engineering deck.”
Of course it’s on the lower deck. The most cramped, uncomfortable part of the ship, where I’ll be crawling around hot machinery in a jumpsuit that’s already clinging to me like a second skin. I shovel the last of the protein mush into my mouth and set the bowl aside. “How critical?”
“Jump capability reduced to seventy-three percent without repair. Risk of catastrophic failure during transit: twenty-two percent.”
Not odds I want to play with, especially with ApexCorp breathing down our necks. I stand, already mentally cataloging the tools I’ll need and trying not to think about how the lower deck’s confined spaces will affect our bond’s range. “I’ll check it out. Jhorn, you stay here.”
He rises immediately, unfolding from his chair with that fluid grace that really shouldn’t be as attractive as it is. “Will accompany you.”
“No, you won’t,” I counter, my patience wearing thin. Having him nearby is distracting enough without adding the stress of trying to work while acutely aware of every movement he makes. “I need to concentrate, and having you hovering over me is distracting.”
His expression doesn’t change, but I feel a ripple of something through our connection—hurt? confusion?—before it’s quickly suppressed. “Bond stretches only limited distance. Will stay as far as possible. Will not disturb.”
I want to argue, but the tentacle around my wrist makes his point for him. I’ve already discovered I can’t get more than about ten meters from him before the connection becomes painfully taut. The lower engineering deck is definitely beyond that range.
