Chapter 7 #2
The diagnostic scanner confirms my assessment, projecting a three-dimensional model of the affected neural pathways. The disruptor’s energy signature has disrupted approximately 37% of the nerve function in her left arm, with secondary effects spreading toward her central nervous system.
I prepare the neural regenerator, calibrating it for human physiology.
“This will be uncomfortable,” I warn her, trying not to notice how the clinical lighting makes her skin seem to glow, how the simple act of breathing causes interesting movements beneath the fabric that still covers her torso.
“Neural regeneration stimulates the damaged pathways to accelerate natural healing processes.”
“Uncomfortable as in ‘slight tingling sensation’ or as in ‘feels like my arm is being dipped in molten metal’?” she asks dryly.
“Closer to the latter, I’m afraid.”
She sighs, the movement causing interesting shifts in the fabric that still covers her torso. “Wonderful. Well, get on with it, then.”
I position the device over the worst of the damage. “I recommend you lie back and attempt to relax your musculature. Tension will amplify the discomfort.”
“Relaxing while being pursued by bounty hunters and my psychotic fiancé. Sure, no problem.” Despite her words, she reclines on the examination platform, her eyes fixed on the ceiling.
The position causes her remaining clothing to pull taut across her form, and I find myself grateful for the clinical focus required by the medical procedure. “Distract me.”
“Distract you?”
“Yes, talk to me. Tell me something. Anything to focus on besides what’s about to happen to my poor, innocent nerve endings.”
I activate the regenerator, and she immediately tenses, a sharp intake of breath hissing between her teeth.
Her reaction triggers an unfamiliar sensation in my chest—a constriction that defies physiological explanation.
Her uninjured hand clenches into a fist, and without conscious thought, I reach out and cover it with my own.
The contact sends electricity up my arm, but I tell myself it is merely to provide comfort during the procedure.
“The Gluxian diplomatic corps,” I begin, my voice slightly unsteady from the contact, “maintains seventeen distinct classifications of formal greeting, each calibrated to the specific status of the receiving party.”
A strained laugh escapes her, and her fingers curl around mine, gripping tightly as another wave of regeneration pain washes through her. The touch sends electricity up my arm, and I find myself stroking my thumb across her knuckles in what I tell myself is merely a calming gesture.
“Of course that’s what you choose to talk about. Protocol even now.” Her grip tightens as the regenerator targets a particularly damaged cluster of nerves. “God, your hands are warm. I never noticed before.”
The observation affects me more than it should.
Gluxians do run warmer than humans—a basic physiological fact I have never given much consideration.
Yet hearing her acknowledge it, feeling her reaction to my touch, creates a feedback loop of awareness that makes maintaining clinical detachment increasingly difficult.
“Each greeting classification,” I continue, adjusting the regenerator’s intensity while maintaining contact with her uninjured hand, “includes specific requirements regarding physical proximity, duration of contact, and appropriate verbal responses.”
“Physical proximity?” she asks, her voice breathless from pain. “How close do diplomats get during these greetings?”
“It varies according to species and cultural context,” I explain, noting how her skin has developed a faint sheen of perspiration from the treatment.
The sight is far more affecting than medical observation should permit.
“Some require minimal contact—a formal bow at precisely 23.7 degrees. Others involve extensive physical contact to exchange pheromonal information.”
“Pheromonal information,” she repeats, her voice taking on a different quality. “What kind of information?”
I adjust the regenerator’s focus to a new cluster of damaged nerves, the movement requiring me to lean closer to reach the proper angle. The position brings my face mere inches from her shoulder, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
“Health status, emotional state, reproductive availability,” I state, my voice slightly strained from our proximity. “For species that communicate through chemical signals, such exchanges are equivalent to detailed biographical data.”
“And what would your pheromones tell someone about you right now?” she asks, her voice soft but intense.
The question creates a moment of silence broken only by the regenerator’s low hum. What would my pheromones reveal? That I am aroused beyond any previous experience. That her proximity is affecting every system in my body. That I am fighting the most basic biological urges with decreasing success.
“That would be... inappropriate to discuss during a medical procedure,” I manage.
“Would it?” Her eyes find mine, and the intensity of her gaze makes my chest feel tight. “Or would it be honest?”
The regenerator completes its second cycle. I deactivate it temporarily, allowing her neural pathways a brief recovery period before the final treatment. In the sudden silence, I can hear the subtle changes in her breathing, the way it catches slightly when she shifts position.
And I realize I am still holding her hand.
“You should remain still,” I advise, making no move to release her fingers. “Movement can disrupt the neural regeneration process.”
“Answer me,” she persists. “The real reason you’re helping me. Not the logical justification you’ve constructed.”
I should withdraw from her touch. I should maintain professional distance. I should redirect the conversation to relevant tactical considerations.
Instead, I find myself answering with a truth I have barely acknowledged even to myself.
“I received a coded directive from OOPS Command,” I admit finally, the words emerging with unexpected difficulty. “Specifically from Mother.”
Dominique’s expression sharpens with interest. “When?”
“After our encounter with the Royal Guard patrol. While you were resting.”
“What did it say?”
I recall the message with perfect clarity, each word etched into my memory.
“I was instructed to report your location and status immediately, then maintain position until a specialized OOPS extraction team could rendezvous with us. You were to be... transferred to their custody and returned to the Human Concord authorities.”
Her face pales further, though this time not from physical pain. “And you didn’t report me.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
The final treatment cycle is ready. I reactivate the regenerator, focusing on the remaining damaged neural pathways. The device’s low hum fills the space between us as I struggle to formulate an answer.
“The directive contradicted my assessment of the situation,” I say finally.
“Your assessment?” she presses, her voice tight with pain as the regeneration process resumes.
“The bounty notice clearly indicated Prince Dante’s intent to frame me as your abductor.
The specific mention of ‘mind-altering substances’ suggested a predetermined narrative designed to discredit any testimony I might offer regarding your voluntary departure from the Concord.
” I adjust the regenerator’s angle slightly, the movement bringing me even closer to her.
“Furthermore, your reaction when discussing your arranged marriage indicated genuine distress. The probability that you would be returned to a coercive situation was 89.7%.”
She stares at me, her expression a complex mixture of emotions I cannot fully interpret. “So you... what? Decided to become a fugitive instead? To throw away your perfect record and disobey direct orders from your superior? For me?”
Put so plainly, my actions seem incomprehensible even to myself. I have violated core principles that have guided my entire existence. I have compromised my duty, my reputation, and potentially the diplomatic standing of my species.
Yet I cannot bring myself to regret it.
“Yes,” I say simply.
The regenerator signals the completion of the final treatment cycle.
I deactivate it and set it aside, then retrieve a dermal sealer to address the superficial burns left by the disruptor.
The gel is designed to cool and heal, but as I apply it to her shoulder, I am acutely aware of the way she shivers at the contact—not from cold, but from something else entirely.
“You should experience a gradual return of full neural function over the next 2.7 hours,” I inform her, my voice slightly rough as I smooth the gel across her skin with perhaps more care than strictly necessary.
“Some residual tingling may persist for approximately 12 hours. I recommend limited use of the affected limb during this recovery period.”
She doesn’t respond to my medical assessment. Instead, she captures my wrist with her uninjured hand, halting my ministrations. The contact sends an unexpected current through my system—a physiological reaction that defies my attempts at control.
“Why?” she asks again, her voice barely above a whisper. “The real reason, Wi’kar. Not the logical justification you’ve constructed.”
I should withdraw from her touch. I should maintain professional distance. I should redirect the conversation to relevant tactical considerations.
Instead, I find myself answering with a truth I have barely acknowledged even to myself.
“Because you chose freedom,” I say, the words emerging with difficulty. “At great personal cost. With significant risk. You rejected a path that was predetermined for you, regardless of your desires or wellbeing. And I... I have never made such a choice.”
Her fingers tighten around my wrist. “Until now.”
“Until now,” I agree, the admission both liberating and terrifying.
A small alert chimes from the ship’s communication system. “Agent Wi’kar,” AXIS announces, “we have cleared Klethian’s orbital security range. Hyperspace coordinates are required for jump sequence initiation.”
The interruption should be welcome—a return to practical matters, away from this dangerous conversation. Yet I find myself reluctant to break the moment, reluctant to address the implications of what I have just admitted.
“Where are we going?” Dominique asks, finally releasing my wrist. The absence of her touch leaves an inexplicable sensation of loss.
“We require a secure location to reassess our situation,” I respond, though my voice lacks its usual certainty. “Given the extensive nature of the bounty notice, most established ports are compromised.”
She sits up carefully, testing the movement of her injured arm. The neural regeneration has clearly been effective, though she still favors the limb. “So we’re going somewhere unofficial. Somewhere off the grid.”
“Correct.” I step back, attempting to reestablish professional distance, though every instinct protests the separation. “AXIS, set coordinates for the Cressida Nebula, outpost designation Umbra-7.”
“Coordinates set,” AXIS confirms. “Hyperspace jump in 30 seconds.”
Dominique slides from the examination platform, her movements careful but steady. When she looks at me, there’s something in her expression that makes my chest feel tight—understanding, perhaps, or acceptance.
“You know what I think?” she says, her voice soft but intense. “I think you’re finally making the choices you should have been allowed to make all along.”
Before I can respond to this assessment—before I can process the warmth it creates in my chest—the hyperspace engines engage, reality folding around us as we leap toward an uncertain future.
Together.