Page 2 of Reluctantly Abducted (Nereidan Compatibility Program #3)

Owen

The cereal is getting soggy, but I can't bring myself to care enough to sit down and eat it properly.

Instead, I'm pacing around my apartment in my boxers, spooning Lucky Charms into my mouth while I stare at the laptop screen displaying yet another batch of job listings that make me want to punch something.

Registered Nurse - Emergency Department. Seeking compassionate healthcare professional for fast-paced environment...

Fast-paced. Right. Because dealing with someone's infected hangnail or a kid with strep throat is the same as keeping a soldier alive while mortars are going off around you.

I take another bite and keep scrolling.

Medical Assistant - Family Practice. Join our team providing quality care in a comfortable, supportive setting...

Comfortable. Supportive. Jesus Christ, they might as well just say "boring as hell" and save everyone the trouble.

The apartment is small enough that my pacing takes me from the kitchen area to the living room and back in about eight steps.

Everything I own fits in two duffel bags and a couple boxes.

After eight years of military housing, the idea of accumulating stuff still feels wrong somehow.

Like I'm not planning to stay anywhere long enough for it to matter.

Which, let's be honest, is probably accurate.

Six months out of the Army and I still feel like I'm waiting for someone to tell me what to do next.

Where to go, what mission needs handling.

Instead, I get to choose between riveting career opportunities like "Administrative Medical Coordinator" and "Clinical Research Assistant. "

I pause at the window, looking down at the street below. Even at 9 AM, people are going about their business with the kind of casual certainty that comes from having a purpose. A place to be. Something that matters.

My spoon clinks against the bottom of the bowl. Empty. I should probably get dressed, make some actual decisions about my life instead of wandering around in my underwear feeling sorry for myself.

The thing is, I know I'm good at what I do.

Eight years of keeping people alive in impossible situations doesn't just disappear because you change zip codes.

The Army may have medically discharged me for a back injury that won't pass their physical standards, but my hands still work fine.

My brain still works fine. But all these civilian positions want you to follow protocols and procedures, to work within systems that prioritize liability over actually helping people.

They want medical technicians, not medics.

I'm heading back toward the kitchen when the world explodes in blue light.

Not explodes, exactly. More like... dissolves. The apartment, the walls, the floor - everything just stops being solid and starts being light instead. Blue, humming, electric light that seems to come from everywhere at once.

My training kicks in before my brain catches up. Threat assessment: unknown. Environment: compromised. Priority: escape and evade.

I drop the bowl - though I never hear it hit the floor - and am reaching for the nearest potential weapon when everything stops.

The light cuts out like someone flipped a switch, and suddenly I'm standing on a floor that definitely isn't mine, in a room that's so white it hurts to look at.

The walls curve in ways that seem wrong, and there's a humming sound coming from everywhere that makes my teeth ache.

The air smells clean, too clean, like hospitals but without the antiseptic bite.

There's an underlying metallic tang that coats the back of my throat, and each breath feels slightly thicker than it should.

And there's someone standing about five feet away from me.

Not someone. Something. Humanoid, but wrong.

Shorter than me - he looks barely out of his teens, small and slight in a way that makes him seem almost fragile - with skin that has a bluish tint and eyes that are gold where they should be brown or blue or green.

He's wearing what looks like a uniform, formal and fitted, and he's staring at me with an expression I can't read.

My brain kicks into threat assessment mode automatically. Small target, no visible weapons, formal posture suggests non-combatant. The room itself is another problem - no obvious exits, walls that curve in unnatural ways, no cover. Whatever this thing is, it's got me at a serious disadvantage.

And I'm standing here in my fucking underwear.

"Owen Hayes," he says, and his voice has an accent I can't place. It resonates oddly, like there's a subtle harmonic underneath his words. "You have been selected for—"

I don't let him finish. My fist connects with his jaw before my conscious mind has time to evaluate whether hitting the alien is a tactically sound decision.

Turns out it's not.

He goes down like he's never been hit before in his life - which, judging by his complete lack of defensive reflexes, he probably hasn't.

He staggers backward with a look of pure shock, his feet get tangled up, and he goes down hard, the back of his head connecting with what looks like a control panel with a sound that makes me wince.

The alien - because that's clearly what he is, and holy shit, aliens are real - slides down the wall and doesn't get back up.

There's a thin line of blue blood trickling from his lip where I hit him.

It catches the light differently than human blood would, more iridescent, like motor oil on wet pavement.

"Fuck," I say aloud, because the situation seems to call for it.

I stand there for exactly three seconds, taking in the scene. Unconscious alien. Weird white room that's definitely not on Earth. Me in my boxers, apparently having just assaulted an extraterrestrial.

Then my training takes over again, but different training this time. Not combat assessment - medical assessment.

I drop to my knees beside him, automatically checking for responsiveness. "Hey. Hey, can you hear me?"

No response. His eyes are closed, and there's already swelling starting where his head hit the panel.

I check his pulse - or what I hope is his pulse.

His wrist feels different than a human's, the bone structure subtly wrong, but there's definitely something beating under the skin.

Fast, but steady. His skin is cool to the touch, several degrees below human temperature, with a texture like fine suede.

"Okay, okay," I mutter, gently turning his head to check the injury. Just a bump forming where he hit the panel, no bleeding. The split lip is minor too. "This is what I get for punching first and asking questions later."

When I touch his head to examine the bump, something weird happens. His skin suddenly glows brighter, patterns of light rippling across his face and down his neck like he's got Christmas lights under his skin.

"What the hell?" I pull my hand back, and the glow fades immediately.

The alien - person, whatever - makes a soft sound, somewhere between a groan and a sigh. His eyelids flutter.

"That's it," I say, falling back into the voice I use with patients. Calm, steady, professional. "Come on back. You're okay."

His eyes open, unfocused and confused. They really are gold, I realize. Not brown with gold flecks or hazel that looks gold in the right light. Actually, genuinely gold, with pupils that remind me of camera shutters adjusting to light.

"What..." he starts, then stops, blinking slowly.

"You hit your head," I tell him. "Can you tell me your name?"

He stares at me for a moment, and I can practically see him trying to process what happened. "Ry'eth," he says finally. The name has a musical quality when he says it, almost like two notes played simultaneously.

"Good. Do you know where you are?"

"Research vessel," he says automatically, then his expression sharpens with returning awareness. His gaze fixes on me with immediate hostility. "You struck me."

"Yeah, I did." Now that I know he's not dying, my own anger starts building again. "What did you expect? You kidnap someone, you get punched. That's how it works."

"You were not kidnapped," Ry'eth says, attempting to sit up.

I put a hand on his shoulder to keep him still, and he jerks away from my touch like I'm toxic.

His skin flares with that weird light again when I make contact, and I see his jaw clench in what looks like embarrassment.

The light pulses with what seems like his heartbeat, quickening as I move closer.

"Don't touch me," he snaps, his gaze pointedly avoiding looking at my near-naked state.

"Fine by me," I snap back, noting how he keeps his eyes fixed firmly on my face. "But you still might have a concussion, so maybe don't move around too much until we're sure your alien brain is working properly."

"My cognitive functions are perfectly adequate," he says stiffly, though I notice he's got a flush of that blue-green light rippling under his skin. "Unlike your species' tendency toward unprovoked violence."

"Unprovoked?" I stand up, crossing my arms, and definitely don't miss the way his eyes dart down and then quickly back up. That quick, almost furtive glance is oddly satisfying given how superior he's trying to act. "You abducted me from my own apartment. That's pretty fucking provoking."

"It is a selection process," Ry'eth says coldly, managing to sit up while keeping his gaze determinedly above my neck. "You were chosen for compatibility assessment."

"Compatibility assessment," I repeat, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "For what, exactly? Because from where I'm standing - half-naked and pissed off - this doesn't seem like a great start to whatever scientific experiment you've got planned."

"Partnership evaluation with Nereidan species.

" His skin does that glowing thing again, and he looks thoroughly disgusted by the whole situation.

A faint, sweet scent intensifies around him, reminiscent of jasmine but with an edge that's definitely not from Earth.

"Though I am beginning to suspect there may have been a catastrophic error in the selection criteria. "

"Oh, there was definitely an error," I say. "You picked a guy who doesn't like being told what to do, doesn't play well with others, and really doesn't appreciate being kidnapped by arrogant aliens who think they can just beam people up for their weird research projects."

"We are not weird," Ry'eth says with wounded dignity. The floor beneath us vibrates subtly, a low thrum that feels like distant machinery.

"You're lighting up like a neon sign every time I get near you. That's pretty weird."

"Why are you helping me?" Ry'eth asks, genuine confusion in his voice. "You just struck me."

"Yeah, well. I hit you, I fix you. That's how it works.

" I lean forward again, checking his pupils one more time.

They contract differently than human eyes, closing like camera apertures rather than circular pupils shrinking.

"Besides, I need to make sure I didn't scramble your alien brain before we have this conversation. "

"What conversation?"

I sit back on my heels, suddenly very aware that I'm having this discussion in my underwear. The floor beneath me is neither warm nor cold, but has a slight give to it, like standing on dense foam. "The one where you explain why you abducted me for some kind of alien dating program."

"This is not a dating program," Ry'eth says with genuine offense, still refusing to look below my collarbone. His voice rises slightly, carrying that strange harmonic overtone that makes it sound like he's speaking in two voices at once.

"Right. Compatibility assessment. Much more dignified." I stand up, crossing my arms, and watch his skin do that light thing again. "So what happens now? Do I get clothes? An explanation? A ride home?"

"The assessment period is seventy-two hours," Ry'eth says, carefully pushing himself up to a sitting position. "At the conclusion of that time, you will be returned to Earth and compensated for your participation."

"Seventy-two hours." I stare at him. "You want me to spend three days on an alien spaceship in my underwear?"

His blue skin definitely gets darker at that, and he looks like he's trying very hard to think about anything else. The glow intensifies around his cheeks and neck. "Appropriate attire will be provided."

"How generous." I offer him a hand up, but he smacks it away and gets to his feet on his own.

He's steady enough, which is good, but I can see he's still a little shaky.

The ship—because I'm pretty sure that's where we are—makes a subtle shift under our feet, like the gentle roll of a boat on calm water.

"You should take it easy for a while. Head injuries are nothing to mess around with. "

"You are treating my injury," Ry'eth observes, like this is somehow surprising.

"Don't read too much into it. I'm not doing this to be nice.

" I cross my arms again, noting how he keeps finding reasons to look anywhere but at me.

The scar that runs from my right shoulder down across my chest—a souvenir from an IED in my second tour—stands out pale against my tan.

"I just don't want you dying on me before I figure out how to get home. "

"How... practical," he says, and there's something almost insulting in his tone.

"Yeah, well, that's what you get when you kidnap a soldier instead of whatever cooperative test subject you were expecting."

Ry'eth nods toward what I now realize is probably a door, though it looks like just another section of wall. "Your quarters are this way. You will find everything you need there."

"And you'll be staying where?"

"Adjacent quarters. We are to remain in proximity for the duration of the assessment."

Of course we are. Because having an alien abduct me wasn't weird enough - now I have to be roommates with one.

"Great," I say. "This should be fun."

Ry'eth's expression suggests he has a very different definition of fun than I do. As we move toward the door, I catch a whiff of another strange scent, something like ozone mixed with sea air, fresh but with an alien undertone that reminds me I'm further from home than I've ever been.