Page 20 of Accidentally Abducted (Nereidan Compatibility Program #1)
Zeph
The blue light fades, leaving nothing but empty space where Jake stood moments ago. I remain frozen, hand still outstretched toward the void he occupied, as if by sheer force of will I might call him back. The transportation cycle has completed. He is gone.
The ship's environmental systems, still calibrated to accommodate a human occupant, maintain a temperature several degrees warmer than Nereidan standard. A temperature that now serves no purpose but to remind me of his absence.
"Transport cycle complete. Human subject successfully returned to origin coordinates," the ship announces, its toneless voice echoing in the suddenly too-large room.
Subject. As if Jake Morrison could ever be reduced to such a clinical term.
I lower my hand slowly, aware of the uncharacteristic tremor in my fingers.
My bioluminescence has dimmed to almost nothing, a physical manifestation of the hollow sensation spreading through my chest. The empathic bond still exists, I can feel it, a gossamer thread stretched to breaking, but the distance renders it a pale echo of what we shared.
Protocol dictates immediate documentation following subject departure. A comprehensive summary of all observations, metrics, and conclusions. I should be at my workstation, compiling data, preparing my recommendation for the Council.
Instead, I find myself standing in the exact spot where Jake vanished, unable to move, unable to process the simple fact of his absence.
Three days. Three days that have somehow reconfigured my entire perception of existence.
"Researcher Zeph'hai," the ship prompts after what must be several minutes of my inaction. "Departure documentation sequence has not been initiated. Do you require assistance?"
"No," I say, the word coming out rougher than intended. "Override standard protocol. Documentation sequence will begin in... one hour."
The ship acknowledges with a soft tone, and I finally force myself to move. My body feels wrong somehow, heavier, as if the artificial gravity has increased. I know it has not. This is merely the weight of separation.
I move through the quarters that now feel cavernous despite being exactly the same size as before.
In the sleeping area, the bed remains disheveled, the sheets bearing the imprint of two bodies rather than one.
Without conscious thought, I find myself reaching for the pillow where Jake's head rested. I bring it to my face, inhaling deeply.
His scent lingers, that distinctive human mixture of biochemicals that initially seemed so foreign but now registers as essential. Already it's fading, molecules dispersing into the ship's carefully filtered air. Soon there will be no trace of him here, just as there was never meant to be.
On the floor beside the bed, I notice something small and pale against the dark surface.
A strand of hair. Jake's hair. I pick it up with careful fingers, holding it to the light.
Such a simple thing, a protein filament, meaningless in any scientific context.
Yet I find myself cradling it as if it were infinitely precious.
"Preserve," I say aloud, and a small specimen container materializes from a compartment in the wall. I place the strand inside, watching as the preservation field activates. A completely irrational action with no scientific purpose. I do it anyway.
The kitchen area is next, and here the evidence of Jake is even more pronounced.
The synthesizer still displays our last programmed meal, the traditional Nereidan dish I prepared for him.
The plates remain on the table, residue of miran dried on their surfaces.
I should clean this, reset the space to standard configuration.
I leave it exactly as it is.
In the cleansing pools, the water glows with the same blue-green light as always, but it seems dimmer somehow.
The memory of Jake here is so vivid that for a moment I almost see him, floating in the gentle current, his face alight with curiosity as I told him about my world.
The pools were my sanctuary before his arrival.
Now they are simply another space haunted by his absence.
A soft alert tone interrupts my thoughts. "Incoming communication request from Commander Kav'eth. Priority alpha."
My brother. Of course. The report.
I consider ignoring it. The thought is so aberrant, so contrary to everything I have been trained to do, that it momentarily startles me out of my emotional fugue.
I have never ignored a communication from a superior officer, let alone my brother.
The very idea would have been unthinkable three days ago.
But I am not the same Nereidan I was three days ago.
Nevertheless, I straighten my posture, smooth my facial expression, and activate the communication array. "Accept incoming communication."
The holographic interface shimmers to life, and Kav'eth's face materializes before me. His expression is stern, golden eyes narrowed with what might be concern or suspicion.
"Zeph'hai," he says, using my full name in the formal manner that indicates this is an official communication rather than a familial one. "The transportation cycle completed seventeen minutes ago. Why have you not submitted your preliminary report?"
I force my voice to remain steady, professional. "I am compiling the final data points, Commander. The assessment yielded... unexpected results that require careful documentation."
Kav'eth studies me, and I know he is analyzing every aspect of my appearance, my dimmed bioluminescence, the tension in my facial muscles, the slight alteration in my vocal patterns. He has always been perceptive, even for a Nereidan.
"Your physiological readings are concerning," he says after a moment. "Your bioluminescence patterns indicate severe stress and possible emotional compromise."
"The assessment was... intensive," I reply, choosing my words with utmost care. "I require minor recuperation before completing documentation."
"Recuperation." Kav'eth repeats the word as if it's foreign to him. Perhaps it is. My brother has never required recovery time from any assignment. "The Council is convening in two cycles to review your findings. They expect a comprehensive report on human compatibility."
"They will have it."
Kav'eth's eyes narrow further. "Zeph'hai, I must remind you that this program represents our species' best hope for survival. Your personal... experiences with the human subject must not cloud your objective assessment."
The way he says "experiences" makes something cold and defensive rise within me. "My assessment will be thorough and accurate, Commander."
"See that it is." He pauses, and for a moment his formal demeanor slips, revealing something that might almost be compassion.
"Zeph, I understand that first assignments can create.
.. attachments. It is not uncommon for researchers to develop a certain fondness for their subjects.
But you must remember that this human was never meant to be your subject at all.
He was an error, a mishap that must not derail our greater purpose. "
An error. A mishap. As if Jake Morrison were nothing more than a clerical mistake to be noted and corrected.
"The mishap," I say, unable to keep a slight edge from my voice, "provided valuable insights that may not have been possible with the intended subject."
"Perhaps," Kav'eth concedes. "But that does not change the fact that we must now proceed with properly selected candidates.
The Council is particularly interested in the human Derek Cross, your original target.
Given his social influence metrics and physical attributes, he represents an ideal first official contact. "
The thought of Derek Cross, the human Jake spoke of with such complicated emotions, being brought aboard another Nereidan vessel, experiencing the same assessment protocols, perhaps even meeting another researcher like me.
.. the idea creates a sensation so viscerally unpleasant that I must suppress a visible reaction.
"I will include a comparative analysis of both potential subjects in my report," I say stiffly.
"Good." Kav'eth nods, apparently satisfied. "And Zeph'hai? I expect you to report to medical for evaluation after submitting your documentation. Your physiological readings are outside acceptable parameters."
"Understood."
The communication ends, the holographic projection dissolving into nothing. I stand motionless, staring at the empty space where my brother's face had been.
The thought of Derek Cross experiencing the same protocols... of another Nereidan learning about human pancakes and the way Earth food is meant to bring happiness rather than mere sustenance... of someone else discovering the remarkable adaptability and insight that Jake demonstrated...
I find myself moving without conscious intent to the area where we cooked together.
The synthesizer still holds the instructions for the pancakes we prepared.
I activate it, watching as it produces the ingredients in exactly the quantities Jake specified.
The flour, white and fine. The eggs, with their delicate shells. The milk, in its precise measure.
My hands move through the preparation sequence, following the patterns Jake taught me.
Not the precise, efficient movements of a Nereidan researcher, but the more organic, intuitive motions he showed me.
When the first pancake begins to bubble on the heating surface, I find myself watching for the exact moment to flip it, just as he instructed.
The result is a perfect golden circle, nothing like the gray construction material of my first attempt. I place it on a plate, staring at this simple human food as if it might contain answers to questions I haven't even formulated.