Page 50 of Alien Attachment
The docking sequence requires my full attention as we navigate through the station’s traffic control, but once we’re secured in Bay 47—a maintenance dock in a section of the station that caters to the sort of clientele who don’t ask questions—I find myself hesitating.
“Vex will have new identities ready within six hours,” I say, checking the time on my wrist display. “Ship registration, employment histories, credit accounts—everything we need to disappear and start fresh.”
“But?” Jhorn prompts, clearly sensing my uncertainty through our bond.
“But then what?” I turn to face him fully, noting the way his bond-lines pulse gently in the dim lighting of our cockpit. “We get new names, buy a better ship, and then... what? Become courier services for criminals and revolutionaries? Hope we can stay ahead of ApexCorp forever?”
Jhorn considers this, his expression thoughtful as one tendril traces absent patterns on the armrest of his chair. “You are concerned about the sustainability of such a lifestyle.”
“I’m concerned about a lot of things,” I admit, standing to pace the small confines of our escape pod. “What happens when we take the wrong job, or someone recognizes us despite the new identities? What happens when ApexCorp gets lucky, orwe get careless, or the universe decides we’ve had enough good fortune?”
His tendrils reach for me as I pass his chair, wrapping gently around my wrist with that careful strength that still amazes me. “What happens,” he says quietly, “is that we face those challenges together. As we have faced everything else.”
“Together,” I repeat, testing the weight of the word. It should be comforting—and it is—but it’s also terrifying in its implications. “You know, I spent six years flying solo. Making my own decisions, taking my own risks, dealing with my own consequences. This whole ‘partnership’ thing is still new to me.”
“As it is to me,” he admits, his bioluminescence pulsing with what I’ve learned to recognize as vulnerability. “My creators programmed me for devotion, not partnership. The distinction between serving and collaborating is... something I am still learning.”
I look down at him, this impossible alien who chose me over his programming, who risked everything to protect someone he’d known for days. “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we? The commitment-phobic courier and the escaped bio-weapon learning how to be equals instead of master and servant.”
“I prefer to think of us as complementary skill sets learning to function as an integrated unit,” he replies with that precise, scientific tone that somehow makes the most romantic statements sound like technical manuals.
“You really need to work on your romantic language, tentacles.”
“I am open to instruction,” he says, then adds with a hint of heat in his voice, “though I believe you found my previous... educational methods quite satisfactory.”
The memory of our passionate reunion after escaping ApexCorp sends warmth through me, and I feel his answering response through our bond. Even now, worried about our futureand sitting in a cramped escape pod in a criminal haven, I want him with an intensity that should probably concern me.
“Focus, Kaylee,” I mutter to myself, though I don’t pull away from his touch. “We need to figure out our next move before we get distracted by your unfair biological advantages again.”
“My advantages are only unfair if you consider multiple simultaneous points of stimulation to be—”
“Jhorn.”
“Yes?”
“Not helping with the focus.”
His laughter rumbles through the small space, warm and genuine. “Forgive me. You are correct that we should discuss practical matters before...” He trails off, his gaze traveling over me in a way that makes my pulse quicken.
“Before we test the structural integrity of this docking bay,” I finish dryly.
“Precisely.”
I force myself to step back, though his tendril maintains its gentle hold on my wrist. “Right. Practical matters. Vex will have our new identities ready, but we need more than just paperwork. We need a plan, a ship, and enough credits to get started.”
“I have been researching potential opportunities,” Jhorn says, his expression shifting to that calculating look that means he’s been processing information while we talked. “The outer rim territories have significant demand for discrete cargo transport. Medical supplies to quarantined colonies, research materials to independent stations, personal effects to refugee settlements.”
“All of which sounds suspiciously legitimate for someone planning a life of crime.”
“Perhaps ‘crime’ is too narrow a definition,” he suggests. “There are many legal activities that corporations and governments prefer to discourage through bureaucraticobstacles. We would simply be... facilitating the circumvention of unnecessary administrative delays.”
I stare at him. “Did you just describe smuggling as customer service?”
“I described providing essential services to underserved market segments,” he corrects with complete seriousness.
“You’re going to fit right into this life, aren’t you?”
His bond-lines pulse with what might be pride. “I am highly adaptable.”
