Page 11 of Reluctantly Abducted (Nereidan Compatibility Program #3)

"You know," Owen says after a few minutes of silence, "I've been thinking about those pancakes. Your synthesizer can probably make blueberries, right? Or something close to them?"

"I believe so," I reply. "Earth fruits are in the database."

"Good, because they're essential for proper pancakes," he explains. "The synthesizer handled the omelet ingredients pretty well, so I'm optimistic."

"You seem quite invested in this food preparation," I observe.

Owen shrugs, sending small ripples across the water's surface. "Like I said, we've only got two days left. I figure this is my only chance to introduce you to the finer points of human cuisine."

The reminder of our limited time together creates an unexpected sensation in my chest that I quickly suppress. "Your commitment to cultural exchange is... commendable."

"It's not just that," he says, his expression becoming more thoughtful. "Back in the military, sharing food was important. When you're surrounded by danger and uncertainty, a good meal becomes more than just nutrition. It's comfort. Connection."

I consider this. Nereidans view food primarily as fuel, with flavor and texture as secondary considerations. The idea of food as a social binding agent is not entirely foreign, we have communal meals for important occasions, but the emotional significance Owen describes is different.

"In many human cultures," he continues, "cooking for someone is a way of showing you care. Even if it's just pancakes."

I'm not certain how to respond to this. The implication that he cares, that these food preparations hold emotional significance beyond mere cultural exchange, creates a cascade of reactions I'm not prepared to process.

"I should complete my atmospheric readings," I say instead, reaching for the monitoring device at the pool's edge.

Owen allows the subject change, closing his eyes and floating peacefully as I take the necessary measurements. His vital signs remain stable despite the reduced oxygen levels, further evidence of human adaptability.

"Your physiological adjustment to Nereidan atmospheric conditions is impressive," I note, recording the data. "Most species would show more distress at this oxygen reduction."

"Military training," he explains without opening his eyes. "We did altitude conditioning, oxygen deprivation exercises. Prepares you for different combat environments."

"Your species prepares for combat in diverse conditions," I observe. "Yet you personally chose a healing role within that combat framework."

He opens his eyes now, looking directly at me. "Someone has to put the pieces back together when everything goes to hell."

The simple statement carries weight, revealing a complexity to his character that intrigues me. Owen represents a contradiction I hadn't anticipated, a member of a destructive species who dedicates himself to repair and restoration.

Perhaps, I think unexpectedly, we are not so different in our fundamental drives. I work to heal damaged ecosystems; he works to heal damaged bodies. Both of us facing the aftermath of destruction, attempting to restore balance.

This parallel had not occurred to me before, and I'm not entirely comfortable with the implications.

"So," Owen says, breaking into my thoughts. "After we finish here and I make you pancakes, what's next on your scientific agenda?"

"I'll need to continue monitoring your adaptation to the new atmospheric conditions," I reply, grateful to return to assessment protocols. "Now that we've adjusted the ship's environment, it's important to document any changes in your respiratory patterns or physical responses over time."

"Makes sense," he says. "Just let me know if I start turning blue."

"That would be cause for immediate intervention," I say seriously, before noticing the slight quirk of his lips. "That was another joke."

"You're catching on," he says with a smile. "Seriously though, I feel fine. Maybe a little like I'm at high altitude, but nothing problematic."

"Your adaptability is quite remarkable," I observe, making a note of his self-reported condition. "Most species would show more distress at this oxygen reduction."

"And your philosophy," I say, thinking about our earlier conversation, "about leaving things better than you found them. That is... a commendable approach."

"High praise from the environmental specialist," he says with a small smile. "Now, how much longer do you need me in here for your readings?"

I check the monitoring device. "Another fifteen minutes should provide sufficient data."

"Good," he says, settling back into the water. "And then pancakes."

"And then pancakes," I agree, finding myself unexpectedly looking forward to the experience.

For the data, I remind myself firmly. This is all for the assessment.

But as I watch Owen float peacefully in the hydration pool, his body adapting to my world's atmosphere with remarkable resilience, I'm finding it increasingly difficult to maintain the scientific detachment this assignment requires.

Two more days, I think. Just two more days of assessment, and then we return to our separate lives. This strange, unexpected connection, whatever it is, will end, and the proper order of things will resume.

Why, then, does that thought create such an uncomfortable sensation in my chest?