“Is that likely to work?”
I look at her—competent, focused, absolutely magnificent as she pilots us through deadly hazards with the kind of professional expertise that makes me want to catalog every detail of how perfect she is—and shake my head.
“No. It is not likely to work.” I force myself to be completely honest. “Every time you demonstrate tactical competence, my biology responds. Every perfect maneuver, every command decision, every moment of brilliance—I’m fighting an increasingly losing battle against responses that are hardwired into my species.”
“Other options?”
The only other option involves significantly more intimacy than we’ve established, and I’m not certain either of us is ready for that conversation while navigating an asteroid field under pursuit by an alien warrior.
“We could...” I start, then trail off, unable to finish the sentence.
“We could what?”
“We could address the biological imperative directly,” I say carefully, watching the tactical display instead of her face. “Together. In a way that maintains the bond connection while providing the relief necessary for continued tactical function.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, and I can feel through the bond that she’s processing the implications of what I’m suggesting.
“You mean...” she starts.
“I mean that bonded pairs are designed to handle biological crises through shared intimacy rather than individual solutions. And more importantly—if I stop fighting my biology and channel it instead, I can function as the enhanced sensor array you need. But I cannot do both. I cannot fight these responses and maintain tactical awareness simultaneously.”
Another pause, during which she executes a navigation sequence so perfect that my biology spikes so dramatically the environmental systems start beeping warnings.
“Crash,” she says finally, “are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”
Before I can answer, Jitters emits a sharp, urgent whistle from the sensor console—a sound I’ve learned means immediate danger. He flashes bright alarm-red, bouncing frantically between two points on the display while vibrating hard enough to blur.
“KiKi, what’s he detecting?” I ask, my combat instincts immediately sharpening.
“Jitters reports pursuit vessel adapting to debris field navigation patterns,” KiKi translates. “Thek-Ka is learning from our cleared path. Distance decreasing.”
On the tactical display, I can see that the Exoscarab warrior is indeed adapting to the hazards, using our cleared path to improve his own navigation speed. He’s still slower than us, but he’s no longer losing ground at the rate we need.
“We need more speed,” Zola says, her hands flying over the controls as she pushes The Precision through increasingly narrow gaps between debris chunks.
“And I need to stop being a tactical liability,” I say, making a decision. “Zola, if you’re serious about integrating my biology into our survival strategy, then we need to do it now. Before my fragmented focus gets us both killed.”
“Together,” she says suddenly, her voice carrying that edge of command.
“What?”
“You said bonded pairs handle biological crises through shared intimacy.” She doesn’t look at me, keeping her attention focused on the navigation display even as I can smell her scent shifting toward something warmer. “What if we handle this together? Right now.”
The words make my entire system spike with arousal so intense that the bond snaps between us like a fusion coupling engaging under load.
“Zola...”
“I need both hands for piloting,” she continues, her voice carefully professional despite the way her pulse is hammering. I can hear it, feel it, taste it in the air between us. “But you need relief, and we can’t risk the bond separation. More importantly, I need you functioning at one hundred percent—all your enhanced senses focused on keeping us alive, not half your attention fighting your own biology.”
“So?” My voice comes out strangled.
“So maybe there’s a way to solve both problems without compromising either navigation safety or biochemical stability.” She pauses, and I can feel her heartbeat accelerate through the bond. “I can’t take my hands off these controls. But you can take care of your biology while staying close enough to maintain the bond. And if you stop fighting it, you can channel everything into being my sensor array instead of my liability.”
The implications of what she’s suggesting hit me like a kinetic strike, and I have to grip the armrests of my chair to keep from making sounds that would definitely qualify as inappropriate for a tactical situation.
“Are you certain?” I manage, though the bond is already flooding with her determination, her tactical reasoning, her acceptance of what needs to happen.
“I’m certain that we need to solve this problem,” she says, executing another flawless maneuver while her voice takes on that rough edge that makes my biology surge. “You’re splitting your focus between fighting your biology and helping me navigate. I need all of you, Crash. All your attention, all your senses, all that legendary gladiator focus—channeled into keeping us alive, not suppressing natural responses.”
