Page 19 of Reluctantly Abducted (Nereidan Compatibility Program #3)
Ry'eth
I stand at the observation window, watching as Earth grows steadily larger in our approach trajectory.
The blue-green planet dominates the view now, cloud systems swirling across its surface in patterns I would normally find scientifically fascinating.
Today, I can only think about how soon we'll be in orbit. How soon our time will end.
Four hours until stable orbit. Less than six until the transport cycle.
A subtle chime from the nutrition center's synthesizer pulls me from my thoughts.
Owen is there, his back to me as he arranges ingredients on the counter with practiced efficiency.
After our time in the hydration chamber, he suggested breakfast while I finalized the orbit approach calculations.
Now the air is filled with unfamiliar but enticing aromas as he works.
I approach quietly, observing his movements.
There's something captivating about watching him create food, his hands confident and sure, his focus complete.
It's so different from how Nereidans approach nutrition.
For us, sustenance is functional. For humans, for Owen, it's an expression of something more.
"What are you preparing?" I ask, though I remember his earlier mention of "breakfast pizza."
He turns, a smile brightening his face when he sees me. The expression causes an immediate response in my chest that I've given up trying to categorize scientifically.
"Earth's greatest culinary achievement," he declares with mock solemnity. "Breakfast pizza. All the best breakfast foods on a pizza crust."
I move closer, examining the circular dough base he's prepared. "Traditional pizza is not typically a morning meal on Earth, correct?"
"That's the beauty of it," Owen says, cracking an egg onto the center of the dough. "The best breakfast foods aren't breakfast foods at all. Cold pizza, leftover curry, birthday cake, all superior to actual breakfast food."
"That seems counterintuitive," I observe, fascinated despite myself. "Your nutritional culture categorizes meals by time of day, but then you deliberately subvert those categories?"
"Exactly," he grins, sprinkling cheese over the egg. "Humans love rules almost as much as we love breaking them."
I watch as he arranges various vegetables in a pattern that seems unnecessarily artistic for something that will soon be consumed. There's care in his movements, attention to detail that reminds me of how I approach my environmental samples.
"It seems inefficient to create something visually appealing when its primary purpose is consumption," I note, though I find I can't look away from his hands as they work.
"Inefficient, maybe. But worth it," Owen says. "Food should feed more than just your body."
His words settle into me, another piece of human philosophy that I would have dismissed as illogical days ago. Now I find myself considering it seriously, wondering what other aspects of existence I've been evaluating through an overly narrow lens.
The synthesizer chimes again, and Owen retrieves the completed pizza. The aroma is complex and appealing, savory, slightly spicy, with undertones I can't identify.
"Perfect," he declares, setting it on the counter between us. He turns to the beverage synthesizer next. "Coffee to go with it?"
"Coffee?" I repeat, recognizing the word from my research. "The caffeine-based stimulant beverage?"
"The lifeblood of human civilization," Owen confirms with a wink. "Want to try some?"
"Yes," I decide, curious about this substance so many humans seem dependent upon.
He programs the synthesizer with practiced ease, and soon two steaming cups appear. He hands one to me, watching expectantly as I take a cautious sip.
The flavor is... overwhelming. Bitter, acidic, with complex undertones that assault my senses. I try to maintain a neutral expression, but something must show on my face because Owen laughs.
"Not a fan?" he asks, taking a long drink from his own cup with evident enjoyment.
"It is... intense," I admit, setting the cup down. "The bitterness is quite pronounced."
"Yeah, it's an acquired taste," he acknowledges. "How about hot chocolate instead? The way I made it for you last night?"
The memory of that sweet, warming beverage sends a ripple of light across my skin that I can't suppress. "That would be preferable."
Owen turns back to the synthesizer, adjusting settings with careful precision.
"I make it a specific way," he explains as he works.
"With cinnamon and a little vanilla. Most places don't add those.
If you want it like this in the future, you'll need to ask for it specifically. Otherwise, it won't be the same."
The simple statement carries a weight that settles in my chest. In the future. When he's gone. When I'm alone again.
"I will remember that," I say quietly.
He hands me the new cup, our fingers brushing in the exchange.
The touch sends another wave of light beneath my skin, stronger than would be proportional to the physical contact.
But there's something else, a fleeting sensation I can't quite identify.
Almost like an echo, a whisper of something just beyond my perception.
For a fraction of a second, I feel a ghost of.
.. warmth? Emotion? Something that seems to originate outside myself yet resonates within.
The sensation is gone before I can analyze it, leaving me momentarily disoriented.
I've heard my brothers describe the empathic bond, of course, but they always emphasized its unmistakable nature.
This was too subtle, too brief to be what they experienced.
A statistical anomaly in my neurological response, nothing more.
The hot chocolate is perfect, sweet but not cloying, with a warmth that seems to spread through my entire body. The cinnamon adds a complexity that balances the sweetness, creating a harmony of flavors that is distinctly... Owen.
"This is excellent," I tell him, savoring another sip.
"Glad you like it." His smile is warm, genuine in a way I'm still learning to recognize in humans. "Let's eat before the pizza gets cold."
We settle at the small table in the nutrition center, Earth visible through the observation window beside us. Owen cuts the pizza into triangular segments, a procedure he insists is the only proper way to serve it. I follow his example, taking a piece and biting into it cautiously.
The flavors are remarkable, the egg soft and rich, the cheese adding a savory depth, the vegetables providing texture and freshness. It's unlike anything in Nereidan cuisine, which tends toward simple, unmixed nutrients.
"Your assessment?" Owen asks, watching me with barely concealed anticipation.
"It is... surprising," I admit. "The combination of elements creates something more complex than I would have predicted from the individual components."
"That's the magic of cooking," Owen says, taking another bite of his own piece. "The whole becomes more than the sum of its parts."
A silence falls between us as we eat, but it's not uncomfortable. I find myself studying him, the way the artificial lighting catches in his hair, the precise movements of his hands, the relaxed set of his shoulders that contradicts the tension I can sense beneath the surface.
"I wish I could have experienced more of your Earth foods," I say suddenly, surprising myself with the admission. "There seems to be significant cultural information embedded in your cuisine that I've only begun to understand."
Owen's expression softens. "I wish I could've cooked more for you. There's so much I think you'd like, tacos, curry, proper homemade pasta..." He trails off, the unspoken reality hanging between us. There won't be time for any of that.
"Perhaps in another timeline," I offer, attempting to adopt the casual tone humans use when discussing impossibilities.
"Yeah," he agrees, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "In another timeline."
We finish our meal in silence, the weight of our impending separation growing heavier with each passing minute.
I find myself memorizing details, the specific blue of his eyes, the pattern of freckles across his nose, the way his hand curls around his coffee cup.
Data points I want to preserve with perfect accuracy.
"You know," Owen says as he collects our empty plates, "I'm curious. Has your view on humans changed at all since I arrived? Still think we're all environmental disasters waiting to happen?"
The question is casual, but I can hear the undercurrent beneath it. Something important lies in my answer.
I consider his question carefully. "My assessment has... evolved," I admit. "I previously viewed humans as a monolithic entity defined by your species' historical environmental impact. I now recognize that was an oversimplification."
"An oversimplification," he repeats, a small smile playing at his lips. "That's scientist-speak for 'I was wrong,' isn't it?"
"It is scientist-speak for 'my data set was incomplete,'" I correct, though I find myself returning his smile. "Individual humans, it seems, can demonstrate environmental awareness and respect that contradicts the broader patterns of your species' behavior."
"Individual humans like me?" he asks, turning back to place the dishes in the recycling unit.
"Perhaps," I concede. "Your approach to healing, both in your medical work and in how you interact with your surroundings, has challenged several of my assumptions."
He turns back to face me, his expression more serious now. "But not enough to change your conclusion about human-Nereidan compatibility."
It's not quite a question, but I feel compelled to answer anyway. "The assessment has multiple parameters. Environmental impact concerns are just one factor among many."