Page 55 of Alien Attachment
I engage the thrusters, propelling us toward the station under the cover of the billowing clouds of superheated waste gases. The ship’s sensors scream warnings about extreme temperatures surrounding our hull, but Jhorn’s modifications hold, protecting us from both the heat and detection.
We dock at an abandoned maintenance port in Sector 7, the magnetic clamps engaging with a soft thud that reverberates through the ship’s frame. I shut down all non-essential systems, leaving only minimal life support and Jhorn’s disruption field active.
“How long will the field hold?” I ask, strapping on my utility belt and checking the charge on my compact blaster. The familiar weight of the weapon is reassuring, though I hope we won’t need it.
“Approximately two hours before the power drain becomes noticeable,” Jhorn replies, donning a hooded cloak that conceals most of his distinctive features. “Less if they actively scan this sector.”
I nod, securing the data extractor in a padded pouch at my hip. The device feels heavier than it should, weighted with hope and three months of guilt. “Then we’d better move fast.”
We exit through the emergency airlock, bypassing the main docking protocols that would alert station security. The maintenance corridor beyond is dimly lit and reeks of industriallubricants and decay—the familiar perfume of places where people work hard for little pay and fewer questions.
I consult the station schematic on my wrist display, orienting myself in the maze of corridors that honeycomb the asteroid. “Duran’s hangar is three levels down and two sectors over,” I whisper, though our bond makes verbal communication almost unnecessary. “We’ll need to avoid the main thoroughfares.”
Jhorn nods, his enhanced senses clearly extending far beyond my human capabilities. “Two life forms approaching from the eastern junction. Maintenance workers, judging by their movement patterns and bio-signatures.”
We press ourselves into a recessed doorway, waiting as two overall-clad figures trudge past, their conversation a litany of complaints about shift rotations, pay cuts, and the general unfairness of life on a criminal space station. Once they’re gone, we continue through the labyrinthine corridors of Obsidian Haven’s underbelly, Jhorn’s enhanced senses warning us of approaching personnel with enough time to avoid detection.
The journey to Duran’s hangar takes longer than I’d like, each detour and hiding spot eating into our limited window of opportunity. By the time we reach the outer perimeter of Brotherhood territory—marked by crude gang symbols spray-painted on the walls in a dozen different languages—nearly forty minutes have passed.
“Security increases exponentially from this point,” Jhorn warns, his concealed tendrils shifting restlessly beneath his cloak. “I detect at least seven armed individuals within the next corridor.”
I gnaw my lower lip, studying the schematic with growing frustration. “There’s a maintenance shaft that runs parallel to the main corridor. It’ll be tight, but it should bypass most of the guards.”
The maintenance shaft proves to be even tighter than anticipated—a cramped tube barely wide enough for my shoulders, let alone Jhorn’s larger frame. I’m about to suggest we find another route when he surprises me by partially liquefying his physical form, his solid mass becoming more fluid to squeeze through the narrow space. It’s a sight that still unnerves me slightly despite our intimacy.
“That’s a handy trick,” I whisper as we crawl through the dusty confines of the shaft. “Any other shape-shifting abilities I should know about?”
“My cellular structure allows for limited reconfiguration,” he replies softly, his voice slightly distorted by his altered state. “It was designed for infiltration purposes, among other applications.”
“Of course it was,” I mutter. “Remind me to explore that particular talent when we’re not crawling through a filthy tunnel on a suicide mission.”
His amusement ripples through our bond, warm and unexpected in our tense circumstances. Even in situations like this, he finds ways to make me feel less alone.
The shaft eventually opens into a small junction box overlooking Duran’s main hangar. Through the grated cover, I get my first glimpse of the Nomad—or what remains of her. My heart clenches painfully at the sight, grief hitting me like a physical blow.
My ship sits in a corner of the vast space, surrounded by Brotherhood salvage crews like scavengers around a corpse. Her hull has been partially stripped, exposing the inner workings like an autopsy in progress. Cables and components hang from her opened panels like entrails, and several of her key systems have already been removed and sorted into bins for resale.
“Oh, Lila,” I whisper, grief and anger twisting together in my chest like a living thing.
Jhorn’s tendril wraps around my wrist through the confines of his cloak, offering silent comfort. Through our bond, I feel his understanding of my pain, his shared determination to complete our mission and restore what was taken.
I force myself to focus, scanning the hangar for security with professional detachment. “Four guards,” I count softly. “Two by the main entrance, one patrolling the perimeter, one half-asleep by the tool station.”
“And approximately twelve salvage workers,” Jhorn adds, his enhanced vision cataloging details I can barely make out. “Most appear to be focused on the far side of the hangar where they’re dismantling a larger vessel.”
I study the Nomad’s position, noting with relief that the bridge—where Lila’s core would be housed—appears relatively intact. “We need a distraction,” I murmur. “Something to clear that area long enough for me to extract Lila’s matrix.”
Jhorn is quiet for a moment, his gaze moving methodically across the hangar as he processes possibilities. “The fuel cells for that freighter they’re dismantling,” he finally says, pointing to a stack of cylindrical containers. “If I could create a small power surge in the nearest one, it would trigger their containment alarms without causing actual damage.”
“Without actually causing an explosion?” I clarify, raising an eyebrow.
He gives me a look that somehow manages to be both offended and amused. “I am capable of precision, my Kaylee. I have no desire to incinerate either of us in the name of dramatic effect.”
“Just checking. I like my molecules arranged exactly as they are, thank you very much.”
We wait for the patrol guard to complete his circuit before removing the grate and dropping silently into a shadowed alcove below. The hangar is filled with the sounds of machineryand the occasional shout of a worker, providing cover for our movements as we skirt the edge of the vast space.
Jhorn positions himself behind a stack of salvaged components with a clear line of sight to the fuel cells, while I prepare to make my dash to the Nomad once the distraction begins. Through our bond, I feel his concentration intensify as he extends his consciousness toward the nearest cell, interfacing with its electronic systems in a way I still don’t fully understand but have learned to trust completely.
