Page 49 of Alien Attachment
Hours later, as we prepare to emerge from the debris field and continue toward Obsidian Haven, I find myself reflecting on the vast improbability of our situation. A failed experiment and a burned-out courier, thrown together by accident and corporate conspiracy, choosing to build something neither had imagined possible when they woke up this morning in entirely different circumstances.
“Kaylee,” I say as she runs final systems checks on our improvised navigation, her competent hands moving over controls with the same sure confidence she applies to everything from emergency repairs to intimate exploration.
“Yeah?”
“Whatever happens next—whatever challenges we face, whatever dangers pursue us—I want you to know that findingyou has been the most significant event of my existence.” The words carry more weight than I intended, but they represent truth I want spoken before we face whatever awaits us at our destination.
She pauses in her work, turning to look at me with an expression I am still learning to read—surprise mixed with affection mixed with something that might be the beginning of love reflected back through our bond. “Even if I accidentally kidnapped you from a shipping container?”
“Especially because you accidentally kidnapped you from a shipping container,” I correct with complete sincerity. “Without that particular act of unintended larceny, I would still be property. Product. A weapon waiting for deployment to someone who saw me as equipment rather than individual.”
“And now?”
“Now I am Jhorn,” I say, testing the weight of my chosen name, my chosen identity, the self I am building from choice rather than specification. “Partner of Kaylee. Co-pilot of whatever vessel we acquire next. Free to choose my own purpose, my own goals, my own definition of success.”
“And what do you choose?” she asks softly, though I can feel through our bond that she already knows the answer and finds it satisfactory.
“You,” I reply without hesitation, letting the simple word carry all the complexity of meaning I am still learning to understand. “Always you. My anchor. My light. My North Star.”
The escape pod’s navigation system chimes softly, indicating our arrival at the designated coordinates. Ahead lies Obsidian Haven, with all its possibilities and dangers—black market dealers who might help us disappear or sell us to the highest bidder, opportunities for new identities or new forms of captivity.
“Ready for this?” Kaylee asks, her fingers dancing over the approach controls with practiced ease.
“With you? I am ready for anything,” I tell her, meaning every word.
Her smile is fierce and beautiful as she initiates the docking sequence. “Then let’s go buy ourselves a future.”
The station grows larger in our viewport, a sprawling maze of metal and opportunity where two fugitives might just find the freedom they’re looking for. And for the first time in my existence, I understand what humans mean when they speak of hope.
14
New Trajectories
Kaylee
ObsidianHavengrowslargerin our viewport, its jagged metal superstructure jutting from the asteroid like the ribcage of some ancient beast. Even from this distance, I can see the increased security Jhorn mentioned—additional patrol vessels, new sensor arrays, the telltale glow of enhanced shield generators.
“Second thoughts?” Jhorn asks quietly, his tendrils still interfaced with our navigation systems as he guides us through the approach vectors that will keep us hidden among the legitimate traffic.
“About meeting Vex? No.” I settle back in my seat, watching the controlled chaos of ships coming and going from the station’s many docking arms. “About everything else? Maybe.”
Through our bond, I feel his immediate concern, the way his attention sharpens on my emotional state even while maintaining our delicate approach. “Explain.”
I gesture toward the station ahead of us. “Three weeks ago, we barely escaped this place with our lives. Now we’re voluntarily returning to buy fake identities and plan a life of crime. You don’t think that’s at least a little crazy?”
“I think,” he says carefully, “that ‘crazy’ may be relative when one’s alternatives involve remaining in hiding indefinitely or surrendering to corporate interests.”
He’s not wrong, but something about this whole situation feels surreal. A month ago, I was a burned-out courier hauling cargo for OOPS, my biggest worry being whether I could afford protein instead of synth-paste for dinner. Now I’m planning to become a freelance criminal with my alien partner who was literally designed for devotion and destruction.
“Partnership,” Jhorn corrects gently, and I realize I’ve been broadcasting my thoughts through our bond again.
“What?”
“You referred to our relationship in terms that suggest inequality,” he explains, his voice taking on that precise tone he uses when making important distinctions. “I prefer ‘partner’ to other terminology. It more accurately reflects our dynamic.”
Despite my nerves about returning to Obsidian Haven, I find myself smiling. “Partner it is. Though I reserve the right to call you ‘tentacles’ when you’re being particularly alien.”
“Acceptable,” he agrees with mock solemnity, though I feel his amusement through our connection.
