Page 21 of Snowed In With Jack Frost
“Days instead of weeks,” he says grimly, studying readouts that mean nothing to me. “The medications are needed immediately.”
“Then we better get to work.” I turn back to the damaged engine systems, my mind already cataloguing problems and potential solutions. “Show me how this works. All of it. If we’re going to save lives, I need to understand everything.”
As he begins explaining alien technology with the patient precision of someone who’s spent years learning to communicate across species barriers, I try to ignore the way his voice makes my skin feel too tight, the way his proximity makes it hard to concentrate on technical details.
We have work to do. Lives to save. A ship to repair before the military finds us.
But underneath the professional focus, awareness simmers between us. Every accidental brush of hands, every moment when he leans close to point out a component, every time his breath warms my ear as he explains something—it all feeds the tension that has nothing to do with spaceship repair.
Christmas Day in an alien spaceship, falling for my stalker. Definitely not what I had planned.
But maybe some Christmas miracles are worth the complications.
6
Impossible Repairs
Ja'war
Thedamageisworsethan I hoped, better than I feared.
I run my hands along the twisted navigation array, feeling where the impact shattered crystalline matrices that took generations of Xarian engineers to perfect. The quantum cores are intact—a miracle in itself—but the primary guidance system is destroyed beyondany hope of field repair.
“How bad?” Fiona asks, her voice tight with the kind of professional concern I’ve come to associate with her approach to mechanical disasters.
“The navigation computer is completely destroyed,” I tell her, tracing the paths where energy should flow but now encounters only twisted metal and broken connections. “Without it, the ship cannot calculate hyperspace jumps. We would be limited to sublight speeds.”
“Which means?”
“A journey that should take days would take decades. The medications will have degraded to uselessness long before we reach the research colony.”
She moves closer, studying the damage with those intelligent hazel eyes that seem to see straight through to the heart of any problem. There’s fascination there, the kind of intense focus I’ve seen her apply to particularly challenging engine repairs, but amplified. This is technology beyond anything she’s encountered, and I can practically see her mind racing to understand it.
“What would you need to fix it?” she asks, and there’s an eagerness in her voice that has nothing to do with the medical emergency and everything to do with intellectual curiosity. She wants to understand how this works, wants to learn about systems that make her garage projects look primitive by comparison.
“A replacement guidance matrix, which can only be manufactured in specialized facilities.” I force myself to continue examining the damage instead of watching the way she bites her lower lip when she’s thinking. “Or...”
“Or?”
“Or a compatible Earth component that could interface with our quantum processing systems.” I turn to face her, trying to ignore howthe ship’s confined space puts us close enough that I can smell her skin beneath the winter air. “Something with the right electromagnetic properties, the correct power tolerance.”
“Like what?”
I close my eyes and access the ship’s database, cross-referencing Earth technology with alien engineering specifications. When the match appears, I almost laugh at the cosmic irony.
“A Type-7 plasma capacitor. The kind used in high-end industrial equipment.” I meet her eyes. “The kind you have three of in your garage, powering your main electrical panel.”
Her eyebrows rise. “You want to rip the electrical components out of my garage to fix your spaceship?”
“The theory would work. The power tolerance is nearly identical, and with proper modification, it could interface directly with our quantum processing matrix.” I can hear the desperation creeping into my voice. “But I lack the expertise to modify Earth technology for compatibility. I understand Xarian systems, but the integration, the delicate work of making two completely different technologies communicate...” I meet her eyes. “That requires someone who understands both the mechanical principles and the practical application. Someone who can improvise solutions that shouldn’t exist.”
“And if it doesn’t work?”
“Then hundreds die while we attempt other solutions.”
She’s quiet for a moment, working through the implications. Then: “Show me exactly what you need.”
I lead her deeper into the ship, toward the central processing core where the navigation system interfaces with all other ship functions. The space is cramped, designed for Xarian physiology but barely accommodating two people, especially when one of them ishuman-sized and the other is trying very hard not to notice how her presence affects his body.
