The words come out more raw than I intended, exposing far more than strategic wisdom would suggest. But something about this human strips away my diplomatic training and leaves me speaking truth I’ve never voiced aloud.
“But you are right,” I concede, the admission unfamiliar. “Your skill... it was extraordinary. I apologize.”
Her anger fades immediately, replaced by something softer—understanding, perhaps, or sympathy. She studies my face with those perceptive pilot’s eyes, and I realize she’s cataloging the tension in my jaw, the way my hands have clenched into fists, the desperation I’m trying to hide.
“Forty years,” she says quietly. “Three generations of work.” Her voice has lost all its teasing edge. “And if you don’t make this delivery...”
“My people lose everything,” I confirm, surprised by how much relief I feel at her understanding. “The Meridian Consortium has been waiting for exactly this opportunity. They’ve spent decades positioning themselves to absorb our territories the moment we show weakness.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, processing. Then: “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize what was riding on this.” She pauses, something shifting in her expression. “But you’re also right that my ship saved our lives. Your mission won’t matter if we’re dead.”
The acknowledgment—that both our perspectives have merit—feels like a diplomatic victory and something more personal. “Your skill truly was extraordinary,” I say, the admission easier this time. “I apologize for my... tunnel vision.”
“Apology accepted.” Her smile returns, but it’s warmer now, less mocking. “Though I have to say, watching Mr. Perfect Composure actually lose it was pretty educational. You’re almost human when you’re panicking.”
I should move away now. Put proper distance between us. Instead, I find myself asking, “Where are we?”
She turns back to the console, and I reluctantly release my hold on her to give her room to work. Immediately, my body protests the loss of contact—another concerning development.
“That’s another problem,” she says, frowning at the flickering displays. “Navigation took a hit. We’re somewhere in the Onyx Sector, but our exact position is uncertain.”
“Can you send a distress signal?”
“To who?” She gestures at the viewscreen showing empty space. “We’re off the main shipping lanes, and the anomaly created an interference field.”
I process our options methodically, though part of my mind is still fixated on the way she felt in my arms—solid, warm, completely alive. The protective instincts haven’t faded; if anything, they’re getting stronger.
“What’s our immediate status? Life support? Power reserves?”
She raises an eyebrow, perhaps impressed by my practical focus. “Life support is stable for now. Power at sixty-eight percent. The real issue is environmental control.”
As if summoned by her words, the ship’s systems announce: “POWER CONSERVATION PROTOCOLS INITIATED. NON-ESSENTIAL SYSTEMS OPERATING AT MINIMAL CAPACITY.”
I feel the temperature immediately begin to drop. For me, with my enhanced physiology, it’s merely uncomfortable. For Polly...
“How cold will it get?” I ask.
“Cold enough to be a problem,” she admits. “The ship will conserve power by shutting down environmental controls in all but essential areas. We’ll need to stay in the cockpit and galley to maintain reasonable temperatures.”
The implications are clear, and they send another surge of heat through my system. Close proximity. Shared warmth. All the things my enhanced senses and protective instincts are craving.
“I need to check the engine compartment,” she continues, standing and stretching in a way that draws my attention to the elegant line of her back. “See what we’re dealing with. You can come along if you want, or stay here and brood.”
I follow her to the engine compartment, ostensibly to help but primarily because my heritage is making it difficult to let her out of my sight. The space is cramped and warm, filled with the complex scents of machinery and ozone that my enhanced senses parse into their component parts.
“Hand me that diagnostic scanner,” she says, pointing to a tool.
I comply, and when our fingers brush during the transfer, I feel her slight flinch at my elevated temperature. She doesn’t comment, but I catch her quick, curious glance at my hand.
“How severe is the damage?” I ask, deflecting attention from my unusual warmth.
She runs the scanner over exposed circuitry, and my enhanced hearing picks up every minute variation in the device’s readings. The prognosis isn’t good.
“Primary coolant manifold is cracked. Power coupling to the FTL initiator is fried. Quantum calibration matrix showing phase variance outside acceptable parameters.” She looks up at me. “The quantum calibration matrix is completely fused. We have to rebuild it from scratch. We’re grounded for at least thirty hours.”
Thirty hours. Alone with her. While my heritage is already responding to her proximity in ways I can’t fully control. The mission timeline is in jeopardy, but that concern is being rapidly overshadowed by something far more immediate.
“Begin your repairs,” I say, as if she requires my permission. “I’ll assist if needed.”
