Page 52 of Alien Attachment
“Regrets?” Jhorn asks softly as we make our way back through the station’s corridors.
“Ask me again in a year,” I reply, then add more seriously, “though I have to admit, there’s something appealing about the idea of choosing our own jobs instead of hauling whatever OOPS assigned us.”
“Freedom,” he observes.
“Freedom,” I agree. “Assuming we live long enough to enjoy it.”
His tendril finds my hand, squeezing gently. “We will,” he says with quiet certainty. “Together.”
As we board our small ship and prepare to leave Obsidian Haven behind, I find myself actually believing him. Whatever comes next, we’ll face it as partners—equals choosing our own path rather than victims of circumstance.
It’s terrifying and exhilarating and completely insane.
In other words, it’s perfect.
15
Unfinished Business
Kaylee
Istareattheholographic schematic of the Nomad hovering above the command console, my fingers tracing the outline of what used to be my home. Three months of relative safety in the uncharted sectors beyond the Averian Fringe should feel like victory. We’ve established a comfortable routine on The Starlight Tether—Jhorn handling navigation and systems integration with his remarkable tendrils while I manage our growing list of freelance courier contracts. Our new identities as Karly Dorian and Bastian Vale have held up beautifully, and we’ve even found a semi-permanent hideout in an abandoned mining outpost orbiting a gas giant where the atmospheric interference masks our signature.
We’re thriving, actually. Building something real together, something that’s ours by choice rather than circumstance. But something still gnaws at me, sharp and persistent, like a thorn I can’t quite reach.
“You’re thinking about her again,” Jhorn says, his voice a low rumble behind me. I feel his approach through our bond before I hear his footsteps—that constant awareness of each other that’s become as natural as breathing.
I don’t turn around. I don’t need to—our bond transmits every nuance of my emotions directly to him, including the guilt that’s been eating at me for months. “Just reviewing the schematics,” I lie, knowing it’s pointless.
Jhorn moves closer, his footsteps nearly silent despite his size. One tendril extends, gently brushing my shoulder with that feather-light touch that always makes me want to lean into him. “Your grief pulses through our bond like a wounded star, my Kaylee. You cannot hide it from me.”
I sigh, collapsing the hologram with a flick of my wrist. The Nomad disappears, but the ache in my chest remains. “It’s stupid.”
“Nothing that causes you pain is stupid to me.” The tenderness in his voice, the absolute sincerity of it, breaks something loose inside me.
“I abandoned her, Jhorn.” The words come out in a rush, months of suppressed guilt finally finding voice. “After everything, I just... left her.” My voice cracks embarrassingly. “She wasn’t just an AI. She was...”
“Your friend,” he finishes, understanding flowing through our connection like warm honey. Through our bond, I feel his genuine compassion, his recognition of the depth of my loss.
“Six years together. Six years of her terrible jokes and passive-aggressive maintenance reminders and saving my ass when I made stupid decisions.” I run my hands through my hair, still not entirely used to how different it looks now—shorter, darker, part of the disguise that’s become our new reality. “And I left her to be picked apart by Duran’s crew like vultures stripping a carcass.”
The memory of Vex’s words at Obsidian Haven echoes in my mind: The Brotherhood claimed salvage rights almost immediately. Duran’s crew towed it to their hangar in the lower quadrant. Duran—the sleaziest salvage operator in the Fringe, known for stripping ships down to their atoms and selling every component, legitimate or not. The thought of Lila in his hands makes my stomach turn.
“I can’t stop thinking about her memory core being wiped, or worse—her personality matrix being reprogrammed to serve some Brotherhood thug.” The image makes bile rise in my throat. “She deserved better than being abandoned by the one person who was supposed to protect her.”
A soft chime from our communications array interrupts my self-recrimination. Jhorn frowns, his tendrils shifting with concern. “We are not expecting any transmissions.”
“Probably just standard OOPS chatter,” I say, but my heart clenches anyway. Old habits die hard, and part of me still misses the familiar chaos of dispatch calls and courier gossip.
The transmission resolves into Mother Morrison’s gravelly voice, as commanding as ever: “Attention all active OOPS personnel. Effective immediately, courier designation Suki Vega is officially transferred to inactive status following her bonding ceremony with Zaterran Warlord Henrok D’Vorr. Ms. Vega, congratulations on your nuptials and your new career in... Zater Reach Logistical relations.”
I can practically hear Mother’s eye-roll through the comm static. Suki Vega—I remember her from dispatch logs, another courier who took the dangerous runs when credits were tight. The idea that she found her own alien partner and got her happy ending sends a complicated mix of emotions through me.
Mother’s voice continues, taking on that particular tone that means she’s about to deliver one of her famous warnings: “This also serves as a reminder to all couriers that personal attachments can lead to... career changes. Some voluntary, some less so. The galaxy has a way of reclaiming its own, whether through corporate headhunters, romantic entanglements, or simple bad luck. Stay sharp out there, people. The void doesn’t care about your feelings, and neither do the bean counters who want their cargo delivered on time.”
A pause, then Mother’s voice softens just a fraction: “That said, sometimes the best deliveries are the ones that find their way home against all odds. Morrison out.”
The transmission ends, leaving silence in its wake. Through our bond, I feel Jhorn processing the coded message, understanding dawning in his alien consciousness.
