Page 7 of Alien Attachment
“I need to access the manual bypass valve,” she says, more to herself than to me. She moves to a panel in the floor and yanks it open, revealing a tangle of pipes and conduits that look like mechanical intestines. Steam hisses from a cracked section, and the metal around it glows an angry red that reminds me unpleasantly of warning lights in sterile laboratories.
“Too hot,” I say, moving closer, catching her scent even through the heat—something uniquely her beneath the sweat and recycled air. “Will burn you.”
“I don’t have a choice,” she snaps, but I can feel her fear of the heat, the way her body recoils from the rising temperature. “If the drive overheats completely, we’re dead in space. ApexCorp will find us, and then we’re both screwed.”
Screwed. The word carries multiple meanings in her language, and I find myself wondering which definition she prefers.
She reaches for a tool on a nearby rack, her movements betraying her reluctance to get closer to the superheatedcomponents. When she drops to her knees beside the open panel, the heat rising from below makes her face flush in a way that is far too appealing for my peace of mind. As she leans closer, I feel her pain—the scorching air burning her lungs, the metal near her hands hot enough to blister delicate human skin.
Without thinking, I move. My tendrils unfurl from beneath the restrictive jumpsuit, three of them shooting forward to wrap around the hottest pipes, insulating them from her touch. Another tentacle snakes around her waist, ready to pull her back if necessary, and I can’t help but notice how perfectly she fits against me, how right it feels to protect her this way.
“What are you—” she begins, then stops as she realizes what I’m doing. Her surprise flows through our bond, followed by something warmer, more complex.
“Your skin is fragile,” I explain, feeling the heat searing my tendrils but finding the pain manageable. My flesh is designed to withstand extremes she cannot. “I will hold. You fix.”
She hesitates only a moment, her gaze flicking to where my tentacle circles her waist, and I feel a flutter of awareness that has nothing to do with the bond and everything to do with proximity. “Fine. I need to close the primary valve and reroute through the auxiliary system. Can you hold that junction steady?” She points to where two pipes meet, vibrating violently as pressure builds.
I wrap another tentacle around the junction, stabilizing it despite the burning metal. The pain is secondary to watching her work, fascinated by her competence, the way she navigates the ship’s complex systems with intuitive understanding. Knowledge flows from her mind to mine through our connection—the ship’s name is Nomad, an older Caravel-class transport modified for long-haul cargo runs. The jump drive is aftermarket, powerful but temperamental, like its owner. Thecoolant system has been patched three times already, held together with determination and spare parts.
“Almost got it,” she mutters, reaching deeper into the access panel. Her arm brushes against an exposed conduit, and I feel her pain like it’s my own—sharp, burning, immediate.
I react instantly, tendrils moving to shield her, pulling her back slightly while maintaining her access to the critical valves. The motion brings her body flush against my chest, and for a moment, I’m overwhelmed by the sensation of her warmth, her scent, the way she fits against me like she was made for this purpose. “Careful,” I murmur, my voice deeper than before, resonating with protective instinct and something far more primal. “Let me shield you.”
She doesn’t argue this time, allowing my tendrils to create a barrier between her and the hottest components while she completes the bypass. I can feel her awareness of our proximity, the way her pulse quickens when my chest rises and falls against her back. When the final connection clicks into place, the warning lights on the console shift from red to amber, and the temperature in the compartment begins to drop.
“Coolant bypass successful,” Lila announces with infuriating cheerfulness. “Core temperature stabilizing. Warning: Jump drive remains offline. Estimated repair time: five hours, forty-two minutes.”
Kaylee sits back on her heels, exhaustion washing through her in a wave I can feel as clearly as my own fatigue. She looks at my tendrils, still wrapped around the hot pipes, and her expression shifts to something I can’t quite identify. Concern? Guilt?
“Are you... burned?”
I withdraw my tendrils, examining them with more interest than alarm. The skin is blistered in places, discolored in others, but already I can feel the tissue beginning to repair itself, cells regenerating with engineered efficiency. “Will heal,” I assureher, noting how her gaze lingers on the damaged appendages. “Designed for regeneration.”
She stares at me, her expression unreadable but her emotions a complex tangle of fear, gratitude, and something warmer that makes my skin tingle. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes,” I counter simply, letting my certainty flow through our bond. “I did.”
She looks away, uncomfortable with my directness, but I catch the flush that rises in her cheeks. “We need to move. Even with the coolant system bypassed, we’re sitting targets here. I need to get us to a hiding place until the drive is repaired.”
I nod, following as she returns to the cockpit, admiring the efficient grace of her movements. The tentacle connecting us seems less restrictive now, stretching more easily as she moves ahead of me. Perhaps the bond is strengthening, adapting to our shared experiences. Or perhaps she is simply accepting its presence, however reluctantly.
The cockpit is small, designed for a single pilot with perhaps one passenger. I fold myself into the co-pilot’s seat, my tendrils curling close to avoid touching the delicate controls, though part of me is tempted to explore the ship’s systems more thoroughly. Kaylee slides into her chair with practiced ease, her hands moving over the console in a familiar dance that speaks of years of experience.
“Lila, give me options,” she says, her voice taking on that crisp, professional tone again. “Where can we hide until the drive is fixed?”
“Scanning,” the AI responds with maddening calm. “Detecting asteroid field at coordinates 227-mark-43. Composition suggests high metallic content. May provide sensor shielding.”
“How far?”
“Seventeen minutes at current sub-light capacity.”
Kaylee nods, already adjusting course with movements that are almost sensual in their precision. “It’ll have to do. Any sign of pursuit?”
“Negative. However, ApexCorp vessels are equipped with advanced tracking technology. Probability of detection within six hours: seventy-eight percent.”
I feel Kaylee’s spike of fear, quickly suppressed beneath layers of determination and focus. She is accustomed to danger, to being hunted. The realization makes something twist painfully inside me—protective rage mixed with admiration for her strength.
“They want me,” I say quietly, studying her profile in the soft glow of the instrument panels. “Not you. If you return me—”
