Page 2 of Alien Attachment
I sit back on my heels, wiping more sweat from my face. The container’s humming seems to be getting louder, or maybe I’m just imagining it. “Define ‘psychic resonance’ in terms that won’t give me nightmares.”
“Insufficient data for reassuring explanation.”
“You’re a real comfort, Lila. Remind me to upgrade your bedside manner protocols when we get out of this.”
Psychic resonance. That’s... not good. ApexCorp dabbles in all sorts of questionable research—genetic modification, neural implants, consciousness transfers. The rumors about their “bio-assets” range from engineered super-soldiers to sentient weapons to things that make strong-willed pirates weep for their mothers.
And now one of their containers is cracked open on my ship, humming like it’s happy to see me.
“Lila, what happens if this thing fully breaches containment?”
“Insufficient data for accurate prediction. However, based on ApexCorp asset profiles, possibilities include: psychiccontamination, aggressive bonding behavior, reality distortion, spontaneous combustion, or—”
“Okay, okay, I get it. Basically, anything from mildly inconvenient to immediately fatal.”
“Correct.”
I chew my lower lip, weighing my options. I could try to patch the crack with hull sealant, but if the contents are already destabilizing, that might just make things worse. I could jettison the whole container, but then I’d lose my payment and probably earn a spot on ApexCorp’s blacklist—or their dissection table.
Or I could open it. Controlled release, assess the contents, take appropriate measures. Like a responsible adult.
The crack widens slightly as I watch, the blue light intensifying and casting strange shadows across my face and chest.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, reaching for the container’s locking mechanism. My hands are steadier than they have any right to be. “Lila, seal the cargo bay. If I’m not out in five minutes, initiate decontamination protocols and launch my personal effects into the nearest star. I don’t want anyone going through my private files.”
“Warning: Opening container violates contract terms with ApexCorp.”
“Yeah, well, dying violates my terms with existing.” I twist the lock, and it gives with surprising ease, like it wants to be opened. “Stand by for emergency protocols. And maybe compose a strongly worded letter to Mother about hazard pay.”
The top of the container slides open with a soft, almost sensual hiss, releasing a cloud of cold, bluish vapor that swirls around me like silk scarves. I step back, holding my breath until it dissipates, and then...
“Oh. Oh shit.”
It’s not samples. It’s not specimens. It’s definitely not medical equipment.
It’s a man. Sort of.
The being inside the container is humanoid in all the right ways—broad shoulders, narrow waist, long legs—but that’s where any similarity to human men ends. His skin is a deep indigo that seems to shimmer with its own inner light, covered in swirling patterns that move like living tattoos across muscles that would make a professional athlete weep with envy. Where a human would have hair, he has what look like tentacle-like appendages that lie flat against his skull in neat rows, dark blue-black and gleaming.
His face is almost human—high cheekbones, a straight nose, full lips that look disturbingly kissable—but his closed eyes are larger than normal, framed by thick lashes that any woman would kill for.
And he’s magnificently, unapologetically naked.
I try to be professional about it, really I do. But my eyes have a mind of their own, traveling down the sculpted planes of his chest, over abs that could probably stop projectiles, to...
“Sweet stars,” I breathe, my mouth going dry. Even unconscious and in stasis, he’s impressively male. Very impressively male. The kind of impressive that makes a woman wonder about things she probably shouldn’t wonder about regarding potentially dangerous alien cargo.
I force my gaze away, heat flooding my cheeks. “Focus, Kaylee. Professional courier. Not a hormone-addled teenager.”
But it’s hard to stay professional when faced with that much alien perfection. Especially when my traitorous body is responding to the sight like I haven’t seen a naked man in... well, longer than I care to admit.
He’s restrained by a series of metallic bands around his wrists, ankles, and neck, each glowing with the same blue light that had been leaking from the crack. The bands seem to be containing not just his limbs, but also a series of larger tentacles thatemerge from his back and sides, currently wrapped tight around his torso like a living embrace.
“Lila,” I whisper, unable to take my eyes off the alien for more than a few seconds at a time, “what the hell am I looking at?”
“Subject appears to be a genetically modified humanoid. Extensive non-human DNA integration detected. Musculature suggests enhanced physical capabilities. Restraints indicate containment of psychic or telekinetic abilities.”
“Is he alive?”
