Chapter 12 Bond Diagnostics
Bond Diagnostics
Crash
Two hours past the asteroid field, and I still can’t keep my hands off her.
Zola sits curled against my chest in the pilot’s chair, both of us finally dressed but reluctant to separate even the few feet to different seats.
She’s studying something on her datapad—OOPS regulations regarding interspecies bonding declarations, from what I can see over her shoulder—while I methodically work my fingers through her hair.
Not just grooming. Scenting.
My enhanced senses catalog every subtle change as I rub my cheek against the crown of her head, letting the pheromone glands along my jaw transfer my claim-scent into her hair.
The vanilla-sweet human scent that first drew me is still there, but now layered with my own chemical signature—golden scales and possession, copper and mine.
The claiming bites on her throat have sealed into perfect golden crescents that proclaim to anyone with eyes that she belongs to me.
But scent carries further than sight, especially in the confined spaces of stations and ships.
I need every male we encounter to know she’s thoroughly claimed before they even consider approaching her.
Our bond lets me feel her awareness of what I’m doing—not embarrassment, but amused acceptance tinged with arousal. She tips her head slightly, giving me better access to the sensitive spot behind her ear.
“Mother is going to flay us alive,” she says conversationally, scrolling through another regulation. “Section 47.3: ‘All bonding declarations must be filed within seventy-two hours of initial biochemical integration.’” She glances up at me. “We’re at what, four hours?”
“Approximately.” I pause my scenting to press a kiss to her temple. “Though technically the seventy-two hour clock doesn’t start until we reach official jurisdiction. Space between stations is legally neutral.”
“Lawyer Crash. Who knew?” She’s teasing, but I sense her genuine concern about the bureaucratic nightmare we’re facing. “What about Section 51.8: ‘OOPS personnel involved in xenobiological bonding must submit to medical evaluation and psychological assessment before returning to active duty’?”
I wrap my arms around her more securely, tucking her against my chest. “Then we submit. Together.”
“That’s not what worries me.” She saves the document and pulls up something else—station schematics for Kallos. “What worries me is that Mother knows everything that happens in her network before it happens. She probably already knows we’re bonded. She’s just waiting to see how we handle it.”
The thought makes my throat tighten with apprehension. Mother isn’t just a dispatcher—she’s a legend, a force of nature who’s been running the OOPS communication nexus longer than most species have had spaceflight. Nothing escapes her notice. Nothing.
“She might surprise us,” I offer weakly.
Zola’s laugh vibrates against my chest. “Crash, she once threatened to space a pilot for filing their fuel logs late. We just violated about twenty different protocols and bonded while my scanner was screaming about biohazardous materials.” She looks up at me, eyes glinting with dark humor. “We’re so dead.”
The bond reveals her mixing genuine worry with gallows humor—a very human coping mechanism that I’m rapidly learning to appreciate. She’s not wrong about our situation. We’ve created a bureaucratic disaster that will take months to sort through.
But underneath her concern, I also feel her certainty: worth it.
“We need a strategy,” I agree, resuming my methodical scenting while she studies the schematics. “Something better than ‘we fell into biochemical bonding while escaping a Level 5 threat.’”
“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 to analyze 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—”
“He calculated our destination.” The realization settles like ice in my gut. “Kallos is the only station in this sector equipped to handle inter-species bonding. He knew we’d have to dock here. He didn’t chase us through the field.”
“He beat us to the finish line,” Zola finishes, her voice hollow.
All that time I thought we were gaining distance, thought we’d outsmarted him with superior piloting—he was three moves ahead. While we fought through the asteroid field, he took a faster FTL lane straight to Kallos and set his trap.
Thek-Ka isn’t behind us.
He’s waiting in the dark ahead, somewhere in the blind spots around the station, patient as death.
“KiKi,” Zola says, her voice steady despite the fear flowing through our bond, “what’s our fuel status?”
“Eighteen percent. Enough for approximately six more hours of standard operation, or twenty-three minutes of combat maneuvering.”
“Air scrubbers?”
There’s a pause. “Saturated. The pheromone levels from your bonding activity have clogged the filters. Full system flush and filter replacement required. Current air quality will become hazardous in approximately four hours.”
Our entwined senses allow me to feel Zola’s tactical mind processing the trap we’re in.
We can’t run—not enough fuel, and Thek-Ka is somewhere ahead waiting for us to bolt.
We can’t wait—the air is slowly poisoning us with our own pheromones, and eventually we’ll have to dock somewhere.
And we can’t go forward—the station is locked down, the blockade grid designed to keep threats contained.
“We have to convince them to let us dock,” she says finally. “Before the air goes completely bad.”
“They won’t open the doors with a Level 5 threat in the area.”
“Then we make them.” She’s already accessing the communications array, her fingers flying over the controls. “This is where being a Safety Inspector actually helps. I have override codes for emergency situations.”
I watch her work, my clever mate turning regulations and protocols into weapons. She’s broadcasting on multiple channels, her Inspector credentials attached to every transmission, demanding emergency docking on grounds of environmental hazard and biochemical contamination.
For a long moment, nothing happens. The station remains dark and silent, the blockade ships holding their positions. Jitters has shifted to pure red, terror and protective instincts flooding through his small body as he senses the danger closing around us.
Then the comm system crackles to life.
But not with the station’s traffic control. Not with the military blockade commander.
The screen flickers, and a face appears—weathered and wise, with eyes that have seen everything the universe can throw at a sentient being and remained unimpressed.
Mother.
“Inspector Cross,” she says, her voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. “Mr. Maxone.”
Through our shared awareness, I feel Zola’s spike of pure terror mixing with my own. Not the physical fear of Thek-Ka hunting us, or the tactical dread of being trapped between threats.
This is the fear of facing someone who knows exactly what you’ve done and is about to make you explain yourself.
“You have,” Mother continues, her tone suggesting she already knows every detail of the past four days, “some explaining to do.”