Chapter 8 Strategic Advantages
Strategic Advantages
Crash
For approximately thirty minutes after Jitters’s catastrophic interruption, Zola and I engage in the kind of aggressive professionalism that fools absolutely no one.
She organizes her medical kit with the focused intensity of someone defusing a bomb. I study the navigation console like it contains the secrets of the universe. We both pretend the air between us isn’t still shimmering with pheromones and frustrated desire.
Jitters, meanwhile, has compressed himself into the smallest possible form in the corner, occasionally making small whimpering sounds that suggest he knows he’s committed some terrible social transgression but isn’t sure what.
“We should double check our course,” Zola says without looking at me, her voice slightly higher than normal.
“Yes. Very practical,” I agree, my own voice rough with lingering arousal that I’m desperately trying to suppress.
“And run a full systems diagnostic.”
“Excellent idea.”
“Maybe recalibrate the atmospheric processors.”
“Certainly.”
We’re both grasping at technical tasks to avoid acknowledging what almost happened, but my biology isn’t cooperating with the pretense. Every time she moves, every time she speaks in that crisp professional tone while her scent still carries traces of arousal, my pheromone production spikes.
Which is when KiKi decides to be helpful.
“Attention, bonded partners!” the AI announces with inappropriate enthusiasm.
“I’m detecting elevated stress hormones, increased pheromone production, and what my upgraded protocols identify as ‘unresolved sexual tension.’ Shall I dim the lights and play soft music to encourage completion of bonding activities? ”
“No!” we both say simultaneously.
“Are you certain? My databases suggest that interrupted intimate encounters often result in biological frustration that can be resolved through—”
“KiKi,” Zola says firmly, “no relationship advice.”
“But the atmospheric contamination readings are quite concerning,” KiKi continues. “Current pheromone concentration is approaching levels that could affect ship systems.”
I freeze. “What do you mean, affect ship systems?”
“Well, the air filtration processors are working overtime to cycle the biochemical compounds you’re both producing. Engine efficiency is currently reduced by thirty-seven percent due to the extra power drain.”
The words hit like a gravity well collapsing in my chest. My arousal is literally sabotaging our ship.
Heat floods my face—actual heat, the kind that has nothing to do with biology and everything to do with mortification so complete I want to melt into the deck plating. I’m not just failing to control my responses. I’m actively endangering us through sheer biochemical incompetence.
“Engine efficiency reduced by how much?” Zola asks, her professional demeanor snapping into place.
“Thirty-seven percent and climbing,” KiKi reports cheerfully. “At current production levels, I estimate complete atmospheric contamination within six hours.”
“And then what happens?”
“Oh, the engines will function normally, but anyone breathing the air will experience heightened arousal, reduced inhibitions, and what humans typically describe as ‘being incredibly horny.’”
The mortification deepens. I’ve turned the ship into a floating aphrodisiac delivery system.
“I am very sorry,” I manage, my voice strangled with embarrassment. “This is... I have never... this level of loss of control is completely unacceptable.”
“It’s not your fault,” Zola says, but I can see her brilliant mind working through the implications. “Can you control the pheromone production?”
“Not easily. The bonding creates automatic responses to your proximity, your emotional state, your...” I trail off, realizing what I’m about to admit.
“My what?”
“Your competence,” I say miserably. “When you demonstrate professional expertise or tactical thinking, my biology responds with enthusiasm.”
She stares at me. “So when I was examining your glands and being all medical and thorough...”
“My pheromone production increased dramatically, yes.”
“And when I make command decisions or solve problems...”
“Also yes.”
“So essentially, the more professional and competent I am, the more your biology tries to seduce everyone on the ship.”
I nod, unable to meet her eyes. The Golden Viper, legendary gladiator of the Nexus circuits, defeated by his own mate’s professional competence. My ancestors must be laughing.
There’s a long pause, and then she makes a sound that might be laughter or might be strangled hysteria.
“Well,” she says finally, “that’s problematic.”
Before I can respond, KiKi interrupts with news that makes the pheromone situation seem trivial by comparison.
“Oh! I should also mention that long-range sensors are detecting a pursuit vessel approximately six hours behind our current position. The ship’s configuration matches Exoscarab design specifications and appears to be following our exact trajectory.”
The words hit like ice water. Thek-Ka. Six hours behind and gaining.
“Pursuit vessel?” Zola’s voice goes sharp, professional. “Show me.”
The tactical display activates, showing a large ship following our exact course with the kind of steady determination that makes my combat instincts activate.
“That’s Thek-Ka’s warship,” I confirm, already calculating threats and escape routes. I can hear the flutter of her pulse accelerating, smell the sharp tang of adrenaline cutting through the vanilla-honey baseline of her scent. “He’s found us.”
“Six hours behind us, and our engines are running at sixty-three percent efficiency because of atmospheric contamination,” Zola says, and I can see her processing the tactical situation with the kind of rapid analysis that makes my biology respond despite the crisis. “Can you stop producing pheromones?”
“I can try, but...” I gesture helplessly. “You’re about to demonstrate tactical competence under pressure. My biology finds that extremely appealing.”
“So the more I try to save us, the more your pheromones will sabotage our escape.”
“Probably, yes.”
She looks at me for a long moment, and I can practically see her brilliant mind working through solutions.
“Emergency atmospheric purge,” she decides, moving to the environmental controls with the kind of decisive efficiency that makes the bond between us snap tight like a magnetic lock engaging. “It’ll clear the contamination and restore engine function.”
“And after that?”
“After that, we change tactics entirely.” Her hands move over the controls with practiced competence, and I have to grip the edge of the console to keep from making sounds that would be entirely inappropriate for a crisis situation. “We’re not running anymore.”
The atmospheric purge begins with a sharp hiss, and immediately I can breathe without tasting my own arousal in the air. The relief is temporary—watching Zola work the ship’s systems with professional expertise is making my biology gear up for another round of enthusiastic pheromone production.
“Engines responding,” KiKi reports with satisfaction. “Full power restored. Shall I plot an evasive course?”
“Negative. We’re going to make him work for it.” Zola activates the tactical display, her fingers dancing over the controls in ways that make me think entirely inappropriate thoughts about what else those hands could do.
Focus, Crash. She’s saving both your lives.
“There,” she says, pointing to a dense asteroid field marked with navigation warnings. “The Kepler Mining Remnants. Highly unstable, full of debris, and absolutely terrible for large ships with limited maneuverability.”
I study the display, understanding her strategy immediately. “You want to lead him into a hazard field where his ship’s size becomes a disadvantage.”
“Exactly. The Precision is small, fast, and equipped for navigating dangerous areas. We can thread through gaps that would cripple an Exoscarab warship.”
The tactical brilliance of it creates a sensation like a fusion reactor coming online in my chest—heat and pressure building to critical levels. She’s not just running—she’s turning his advantages against him.
“You are brilliant,” I breathe, and the words come out rougher than intended.
She glances at me, and I can see her processing my reaction to her strategic thinking. The way her pupils dilate slightly suggests she’s not entirely immune to how I’m looking at her.
“Just practical problem-solving,” she says, but her voice carries a rough edge that wasn’t there before.
“No,” I insist. I can feel the spike in her body temperature, see the flush spreading across her throat, hear the subtle catch in her breathing.
“You are taking control of an impossible situation and turning it to our advantage. It’s brilliant, and beautiful, and I’m completely useless right now because watching you work is making my biology malfunction in ways that are actively sabotaging our survival. ”
“Then we need to find a way to make your biology an asset instead of a liability,” she says, her hands never stopping their movement across the controls as she plots our course through the hazard field.
She’s right. She’s always right. Which is extremely attractive and also deeply frustrating given current circumstances.
“The asteroid field will buy us time,” she continues, “but we need more than time. We need you functioning at full capacity.” She pauses, then looks at me directly.
“You were a gladiator. The Golden Viper. Legendary for maintaining perfect focus under impossible conditions—whose biology responds to competence with the kind of focus that makes legends.”
The words hit me with unexpected force, and I realize this is the moment. The moment to tell her what the “legend” actually meant.
“Is that what they taught you in the Nexus?” she asks, her voice quieter now, more intimate despite the crisis bearing down on us. “How to channel the adrenaline, the arousal, the chaos into tactical advantage?”