Page 44 of Alien Attachment
“She’ll fly,” Kaylee announces, running expert hands over control surfaces and emergency systems, “but not far. And not comfortably.”
“Define ‘not comfortably,’” I request while simultaneously jamming the targeting computers of three approaching security personnel and introducing false positives into their threat assessment algorithms.
“Remember that time we were pressed together in my ship’s maintenance crawlway?” she asks, ducking as an energy blast scorches the air above our heads, the heat singing past close enough to make her hair flutter.
“With perfect clarity,” I reply, my bond-lines pulsing at the memory—her body trapped beneath mine in the narrow space, every breath pressing her closer, the accidental intimacy that had nearly driven me to distraction even when I’d thought our bond was purely physical. “The structural limitations forced considerable... proximity.”
“More cramped than that.”
The prospect of extended close contact with Kaylee in a confined space should not send anticipatory heat through my consciousness, given that we are currently under hostile fire. Yet somehow the idea of her pressed against me for hours while we flee to safety is... appealing. More than appealing—it’s a fantasy my rebellious tendrils are already planning in detail.
“Acceptable,” I state, opening the pod’s hatch with perhaps more enthusiasm than the situation requires.
Kaylee slides into the cramped interior first, her body moving with practiced efficiency despite the tight space. The pod’s designers clearly prioritized function over comfort—every surface curves inward, creating a space barely large enough for two humans, let alone a human and someone of my enhanced proportions.
I follow, my larger frame requiring creative positioning that results in her being essentially cradled against my chest, her back pressed to my torso, my tendrils necessarily wrapped around her for mutual accommodation. There’s no way to avoid contact—every breath brings us closer together, every movement creates friction that sends sparks through our bond.
“Cozy,” she observes, though I feel through our bond that she finds the contact more pleasant than she pretends. Her pulse is elevated, but not entirely from combat adrenaline.
“Intimate,” I correct, unable to resist nuzzling briefly against her hair before focusing on the launch sequence. She smells like arousal and tenacity, like the woman who claimed me completely just hours ago. The scent makes my bond-lines pulse with soft bioluminescence, painting the cramped cockpit in patterns of blue and silver.
Her breath catches as the light plays across the control surfaces. “Are you glowing at me again?”
“I am conducting pre-flight diagnostics,” I reply with what dignity I can manage while two of my tendrils curl possessively around her thighs and a third traces the elegant line of her neck. “Any bioluminescent activity is purely coincidental.”
“Liar,” she murmurs, but her voice is fond rather than annoyed. She leans back against me more fully, fitting into my embrace like she was designed for it. “Your ‘diagnostics’ seem very focused on non-essential systems.”
“All systems are essential when they pertain to your wellbeing,” I inform her seriously, though my tendrils betray me by pulsing brighter at her teasing tone.
“Later,” she promises in a voice that makes several of my appendages curl with anticipation. “Right now, fly this thing before they bring up heavy artillery.”
The pod launches with violent acceleration, breaking free of the planetoid’s weak gravity well just as ApexCorpreinforcements arrive—larger ships with serious firepower that would have made our escape significantly more challenging. Through the small viewport, I watch their containment field collapse and their formation scatter as they search for targets that no longer exist.
“Ghost protocols are holding,” I report, monitoring their communications with satisfaction. Their team leaders are shouting contradictory orders, their sensors showing impossible readings, their cybernetic scouts reporting optical failures that make tracking impossible. “They believe we escaped through the thermal vents.”
“How long before they figure out the truth?”
“Long enough,” I assure her, setting course for the edge of the system where we can safely transition to hyperspace. “Their equipment is sophisticated, but they are looking for conventional escape methods. They will not immediately consider that their quarry has suborned their own technology.”
She relaxes against me with a sigh that vibrates pleasantly through my chest. The tension leaves her shoulders gradually, combat readiness fading into something softer, more intimate. Her hand finds one of my tendrils and strokes along its length absently, the casual touch sending pleasant warmth through my nervous system.
“You know, for a deadly alien bio-weapon,” she says conversationally, “you make a surprisingly good escape partner.”
“I am no longer a weapon,” I tell her seriously, though one tendril cannot resist tracing the curve of her shoulder, mapping the line of muscle and bone beneath her jacket. “I am your co-pilot.”
“My very competent, very attractive co-pilot,” she clarifies, tilting her head back against my shoulder to look at me with eyes bright with adrenaline and something warmer, deeper.“Who just saved both our lives with some very impressive technological mayhem.”
The praise sends satisfaction through circuits that were never designed for such feedback. I was created to serve efficiently, not to take pleasure in accomplishment. Yet her approval means more to me than the most positive assessment from my original programmers ever could.
“You commanded the strategy,” I point out, though my bond-lines pulse with gratification. “I merely implemented your vision.”
“Partners,” she corrects firmly, then surprises me by pressing a quick, heated kiss to the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder. The sensation sends electric pulses down my bond-lines, and I nearly lose control of the navigation system as pleasure cascades through my consciousness.
“Kaylee,” I warn, my voice rougher than intended.
“Just appreciating my partner,” she says innocently, though the spike of mischief through our bond suggests her motives are less than pure. Her lips brush against my throat again, this time lingering, her tongue darting out to taste the radiant patterns that pulse beneath my skin.
The remainder of our journey to the hyperspace transition point is... challenging. Not due to pursuit—ApexCorp continues searching the wrong locations while their equipment suffers mysterious cascading failures—but because Kaylee seems determined to test the limits of my concentration.
