Page 26 of Alien Attachment
Biological Complications
Jhorn
Thestolenshiptremblesbeneath my palms as I guide it away from Obsidian Haven, our escape marked by the station’s receding lights—pinpricks of civilization swallowed by the void. Through our bond, I feel Kaylee’s terror, sharp and metallic, like blood on my tongue. Not fear of me this time, but of how close we came to capture. Of ApexCorp’s reach. Of the future closing in around us like the walls of a containment cell.
The bounty hunter lies unconscious back at Obsidian Haven, bound with his own restraints after showing us to this Kestrel-class vessel. Kaylee had struck him with surprising efficiency—a nerve cluster at the base of his skull that dropped him instantly. “No loose ends,” she’d muttered, though I noted she hadn’t killed him. A mercy I hadn’t expected after his threats, but one that sent warmth through me that had nothing to do with ship’s heating.
My practical, deadly, surprisingly compassionate Kaylee.
Kaylee’s hands shake on the unfamiliar controls, though she would never admit it. I taste the bitter edge of her adrenaline crash through our connection, feel the hollow ache of her exhaustion. She hasn’t looked at me directly since we forced the bounty hunter to relinquish this vessel—a sleek courier with stripped registry markers and aftermarket stealth plating. Fast enough to outrun most pursuers, if we’re lucky.
We are not often lucky. But we are, apparently, very good at improvised theft.
“Scan for tracking signatures,” Kaylee barks at the ship’s rudimentary AI, her voice rough with strain. “Full spectrum.”
“Scanning,” the AI responds in a flat, emotionless drone that makes me miss Lila’s more nuanced personality. This AI has all the charm of the Nomand’s broken food processor.
I stand behind her pilot’s chair, tendrils retracted except for our bond-link, giving her the space she needs while remaining close enough to intervene if necessary. Close enough to catch herscent—that mixture of resolve and barely controlled panic that I’m beginning to find oddly comforting.
Though I should clarify: “retracted” is perhaps an optimistic term. My secondary appendages appear to have developed strong opinions about optimal positioning protocols, specifically that Kaylee’s current distance of three feet constitutes a clear violation of sensible proximity management.
I flex my shoulders, attempting to discourage a particularly insistent tendril from extending toward her hair. The motion is apparently more noticeable than I intended.
“You okay back there?” Kaylee asks without turning around, her voice carrying that note of wariness I’ve come to associate with my more... enthusiastic moments.
“Perfectly functional,” I reply, then add with what I hope passes for casual honesty, “Though I should mention that maintaining physical distance while bonded requires considerable effort.”
“Define considerable.”
I consider this carefully. “Imagine trying to hold your breath indefinitely while someone waves fresh air inches from your face. Then imagine that the air is also warm, pleasant-smelling, and occasionally makes sounds that cause involuntary muscle contractions.”
She glances back at me, and I catch her gaze lingering on the subtle movement beneath my skin where my tendrils shift restlessly against my control. “Are they... active right now?”
“Active is one term for it,” I admit, as another tendril makes a determined effort to breach my mental containment. “Mutinous might be more accurate. I appear to be experiencing what humans might call ‘biological complications.’”
Despite her exhaustion, she snorts. “Great. I’m bonded to someone whose body parts have their own agenda.”
“In my defense, they are responding to biological imperatives I was not designed to override.” A particularly rebellious tendril brushes against the back of her chair, and I quickly retract it with what I can only describe as embarrassment. “Apologies. That one appears to have developed a fascination with pilot seats.”
“Or with pilots,” she mutters, but I catch the flush creeping up her neck, visible even in the dim light of the cockpit.
“No active tracking devices detected,” the AI announces with mechanical satisfaction, interrupting what was becoming a dangerously interesting conversation.
Kaylee’s shoulders remain rigid, disbelief pulsing through our connection. “Scan again. Passive systems, quantum entanglement, resonance markers.”
“If you keep ordering scans, the AI might develop performance anxiety,” I observe, attempting to lighten her mood while simultaneously wrestling with a tendril that seems determined to investigate the texture of her hair. “I don’t think it’s equipped for that level of emotional complexity.”
She glances back at me—the first direct look since our escape—and I catch the ghost of a smile before she suppresses it. “Are you making jokes? Now?”
“You find my humor... inadequate?” I ask, genuinely curious. Through our bond, I feel her amusement warring with stress, a brief flicker of warmth in the cold current of her fear.
“I find your timing questionable,” she says, but the tension in her shoulders eases fractionally. “Save the comedy routine for when we’re not running for our lives.”
“Noted. I shall reserve my wit for more appropriate moments.” I pause as another tendril makes a break for freedom, forcing me to catch it before it can investigate the interesting electromagnetic field her console is generating. “Though you should know that my sense of appropriate timing may be... compromised by current circumstances.”
“Current circumstances?”
“Proximity to you combined with elevated stress responses appears to be causing what I can only describe as systemic disobedience among my appendages.”
