“That’s literally what happened.”
“Yes, but we need to make it sound less like reckless behavior and more like... tactical necessity.”
She snorts. “Tactical. Right.” But her clever engineer’s mind is already working on the problem, analyzing angles and approaches. “Okay. We walk in united. No apologizing, no excuses. We acknowledge the situation, request the mandatory medical evaluation, and cooperate fully with any investigation.”
“Professional. Competent,” I add, watching her nod.
“Exactly. We own it.” She scrolls through more regulations. “And we emphasize that the bonding occurred during a verified emergency situation while transporting classified materials. That should trigger protective protocols.”
The bond carries her confidence building as she constructs our defense. This is what she does—find the safe path through dangerous territory, identify the regulations that will protect rather than condemn.
My perfect mate. My brilliant partner.
“KiKi,” she calls out, “please run a full diagnostic on our environmental systems. I want documentation of the atmospheric contamination levels during the bonding period. If we’re going to claim emergency circumstances, we need data to support it.”
“Certainly!” The AI’s cheerful voice fills the cabin. “I should mention that the pheromone concentrations during your bonding reached levels classified as ‘biochemically coercive’ by seven different medical authorities. That’s actually quite helpful for your case! No biological entity could reasonably be expected to resist that level of chemical influence.”
I can feel Zola’s scientific curiosity warring with her embarrassment through our connection. Part of her wants toanalyze the technical details, while another part wishes KiKi would stop quantifying their intimate connection.
“Include it in the medical report,” she says finally. “Along with the timeline of exposure and any relevant health monitoring data.”
“Already compiled! I’ve prepared a comprehensive analysis including atmospheric readings, biochemical marker progression, and comparative data from seventeen documented interspecies bonding cases. Very thorough documentation!”
“Good.” Zola leans back against my chest, and I resume my scenting, rubbing my jaw along her hairline while she works. I sense her grudging appreciation for the AI’s relentless data collection. What felt intrusive during the bonding itself might actually save our careers now.
Jitters, who has been quietly dozing on the console in a peaceful blue-green, suddenly flashes to orange and begins bouncing frantically.
“What is it, little one?” I ask, my enhanced senses immediately going on alert.
Through our bond, I feel Zola’s shift from strategic planning to tactical awareness. Her body tenses against mine, every instinct suddenly focused on threat assessment.
“KiKi,” she says sharply, “what’s Jitters detecting?”
“Sensor contact!” The AI’s cheerfulness vanishes into crisp professionalism. “Multiple ships dead ahead. Kallos Station is... they’ve established a blockade perimeter.”
The words hit like a plasma blast to the gut. Along our connection, I feel Zola’s immediate tactical analysis while my own enhanced senses catalog every micro-change in the ship’s environment. The subtle electromagnetic shifts. The way Jitters has gone from orange alarm to deep red terror.
“How many ships?” I demand.
“Six distinct signatures. Military-grade. Weapons powered. They’re broadcasting on emergency channels—station lockdown is in effect. No traffic in or out.”
Zola’s already pulling up the tactical display, her engineer’s mind processing the formation patterns. “That’s not a standard patrol configuration. That’s a containment grid.”
She’s right. The ships are positioned in a sphere around the station, overlapping fields of fire that would catch anything trying to run. Not designed to catch ships approaching from outside.
Designed to keep something from escaping.
I feel it through the bond, the moment she reaches the same conclusion I do. Her breath catches, and terror spikes through our connection—not for herself, but for me.
“Crash,” she says carefully, “check our six.”
I’m already scanning the aft sensors. Empty space. Clear readings. Nothing there.
Nothing we can detect.
“He’s not behind us anymore,” I say quietly, and I can feel her dread matching my own. “He’s ahead of us.”
“But how?” Zola’s analytical mind is already working through the problem. “The asteroid field was the faster route. He couldn’t have—”
