“Here,” I say, kneeling beside the main access panel and pulling it open to reveal the intricate network of crystalline circuits and quantum conduits that make interstellar travel possible. “The guidance matrix would normally slot in here, creating a direct neural link with the ship’s consciousness.”
She kneels beside me, close enough that her shoulder brushes mine as she leans in to examine the exposed systems. The contact sends electricity racing through my nervous system, and I have to force myself to focus on technical explanations instead of the way her hair catches the ship’s bright lighting.
“Neural link?” she asks, her breath warm against my ear as she studies the complex array. “The ship has consciousness?”
“All vessels above courier class develop a form of consciousness over time. Frost Walker has been my companion for eight years.” I trace the pathway where the guidance matrix should connect. “She learns my flying patterns, anticipates my needs, responds to my emotional state.”
“That’s...” Fiona pauses, something shifting in her expression. “That’s beautiful. And incredibly sophisticated.”
The wonder in her voice does something dangerous to my control. She sees beauty in my technology, understands the emotional connection between courier and ship. Most humans would find the concept disturbing, alien. She finds it beautiful.
“She responds to touch,” I continue, trying to keep my voice steady as Fiona leans closer to examine a particular circuit node. “Xarian nervous systems interface directly with ship systems. Every surface, every component, is an extension of the pilot’s sensory network.”
“So when you touch the controls...”
“I feel what the ship feels. Her pain when damaged, her joy when flying through open space, her... contentment when carrying precious cargo.”
Fiona reaches out instinctively, her fingers hovering over one of the primary interface nodes. “May I?”
The question stops my breath. She’s asking permission to touch something that is, essentially, an extension of my nervous system. The implications make my cock throb insistently against the confines of my thermal suit.
“Yes,” I manage.
Her fingertips make contact with the bio-responsive surface, and I feel the touch as if she’s stroking my skin. The ship’s systems respond immediately, lights brightening slightly, a soft harmonic resonance humming through the hull as Frost Walker recognizes a new presence.
“Oh,” Fiona breathes, her eyes widening as she feels the ship respond to her touch. “I can feel her. She’s... alive.”
“She likes you,” I say, my voice rougher than intended. Through the neural link, I can sense Frost Walker’s curiosity about this human female, her approval of Fiona’s gentle touch and obvious competence. “She has never responded to a non-Xarian before.”
Fiona’s fingers trail across the interface surface, and I bite back a groan as the sensation translates directly through my nervous system. She’s essentially caressing me through the ship’s consciousness, and my body is responding with embarrassing enthusiasm.
“The patterns,” she murmurs, tracing the flow of energy through visible circuits. “They’re following my touch.”
“The ship is learning you,” I explain, my control hanging by threads as she continues her innocent exploration. “Mapping your bio-electric field, understanding your neural patterns.”
“Is that... safe?”
“Completely.” I lean closer to point out a specific pathway, bringing us close enough that I can feel her body heat through our clothes. “See how the quantum resonance adapts to your touch? She is incorporating your patterns into her memory matrix.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means she will remember you. Your touch, your presence, your...” I swallow hard as Fiona’s fingers accidentally brush against a particularly sensitive interface node. “Your compatibility with Xarian technology.”
The word ‘compatibility’ hangs in the air between us, loaded with implications that have nothing to do with technology. Because what I’m really saying is that my ship—an extension of my own consciousness—finds her suitable. Acceptable. Compatible in ways that go far beyond mechanical aptitude. Frost Walker is anticipating my needs, amplifying every sensation, responding to my desire by making her touch more intense, more pleasurable. The ship is facilitating what my body wants, even if my mind knows we should maintain professional distance.
“Ja’war,” she says softly, and something in her tone makes me look up from the circuits to find her watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. “You’re shaking.”
I am. My hands are trembling with the effort of maintaining control while she inadvertently stimulates neural pathways that connect directly to my arousal centers. Through the ship’s interface, her every touch is amplified, translated into sensation that makes my entire body burn with need.
“The interface can be... intense,” I admit. “When someone touches the ship while I’m connected to her consciousness.”
“Intense how?” Her voice has dropped to something almost intimate, and I realize she’s noticed the way my breathing has changed, the way my pupils have dilated.
“Every touch you make, I feel.” The admission comes out rough, desperate. “The ship translates your bio-electric signature into sensory input that flows directly through my nervous system.”
Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed immediately by something that looks like curiosity rather than alarm. “So when I do this...” She deliberately traces her finger along a primary conduit, and I can’t suppress the sharp intake of breath as the sensation rockets through me.
“Yes,” I grit out. “Exactly like that.”
