Page 20 of Reluctantly Abducted (Nereidan Compatibility Program #3)

I hesitate, then decide scientific honesty requires me to share my actual findings.

"My data indicates that our world could sustainably integrate humans in limited numbers, perhaps equal to five percent of our current population, but no more than that.

The resource allocation would be manageable with proper protocols. "

Owen raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised by this admission. "That's... not what I expected you to say."

"It is not what I expected to conclude," I admit. "But the data is clear. The environmental impact would be sustainable if carefully managed."

"Then why—" he begins, but stops himself. "Right. Protocol."

But there's something in his voice, disappointment, acceptance, that makes my chest tighten uncomfortably.

"Ry'eth," he says after a moment, turning back to face me, my full name carefully pronounced. "I want you to know that I—"

"Ry," I interrupt, the word emerging before I can analyze its implications.

He stops, confusion crossing his features. "What?"

"You can call me Ry," I clarify, my skin glowing with the significance of what I'm offering. "Just you."

Understanding dawns in his expression, followed by something softer, warmer.

He knows what this means, how I've corrected everyone, even my brothers, when they've attempted to shorten my name.

It's a small thing, perhaps insignificant in the grand scheme of our temporary connection, but it feels important to give him this.

"Ry," he repeats, the single syllable somehow conveying more than my full name ever has. "I like that."

The ship's navigation system chimes, a three-tone sequence that indicates final approach to orbital positioning. The sound cuts through the moment like a physical presence, reminding us both of the countdown we've been trying to ignore.

"I should complete the final approach calculations," I say, not moving from where I stand.

"Yeah," Owen agrees, also making no move to leave. "And I should probably change back into the clothes I arrived in. Just my underwear, exactly how you found me. Full circle, right?"

The reminder of how he arrived, disoriented, angry, nearly naked, contrasted with the person standing before me now creates an unexpected ache in my chest. Neither of us moves.

For a moment, we simply look at each other across the small space of the nutrition center, Earth looming ever larger in the window beside us.

"Thank you," I say finally. "For breakfast. And for... everything else."

It's inadequate, this expression of gratitude.

It doesn't encompass what I want to say, what I'm still not sure I understand enough to articulate.

How do you thank someone for changing the way you see the world?

For challenging assumptions you didn't even realize you held?

For making you question the path you've walked your entire life?

"Anytime," Owen replies, his smile carrying the same inadequacy, the same weight of things unsaid. "Thanks for the company. And the... everything else."

The parallels in our speech patterns would be fascinating from a linguistic perspective, I think distantly. Another data point to add to my collection.

"I should go," I say, still not moving.

"Me too," he agrees, similarly stationary.

Then, as if by mutual decision, we both step forward, meeting in the middle of the room.

There's no hesitation this time, no uncertainty as his arms wrap around me and mine encircle him.

The embrace is not sexual, not charged with the same energy as our earlier encounters.

It's something else, comfort, perhaps. Connection.

Acknowledgment of something neither of us has named.

I close my eyes, allowing myself to simply experience the moment without analysis. The solid warmth of him against me. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The scent that is uniquely his.

I am not the same person I was when this assessment began. The data is conclusive on that point, even if I haven't yet determined whether the change is positive or negative, beneficial or detrimental.

The ship's navigation system chimes again, more insistent this time. We separate slowly, reluctantly.

"I really do need to complete those calculations," I say, my voice steadier than I expected.

"And I should change back," Owen agrees.

This time we do move, heading toward our respective duties.

At the door, I pause, looking back at him one last time before I go.

He's silhouetted against the window, Earth a blue-green backdrop behind him, and for a moment I see him as he will be, back on his own world, continuing his life, perhaps occasionally remembering the alien who abducted him for a scientific assessment.

I wonder if he'll ever make hot chocolate with cinnamon and think of me.

I wonder if I'll ever taste it again without thinking of him.

The thoughts are unproductive, irrelevant to the conclusion of our assessment. I dismiss them and turn away, heading to the bridge to complete my duties.

As I begin the approach sequence, my mind drifts to the report I'll need to present to the Council.

They expect me to confirm their suspicions, that my brothers were compromised by emotional attachments, that humans pose an unacceptable risk to our environment, that the integration program should be terminated.

But my data doesn't support those conclusions.

I could, of course, emphasize certain findings while minimizing others. Highlight potential risks while downplaying observed benefits. The Council rarely questions the methodology of technical reports, particularly when they align with expected outcomes.

But that would violate the scientific principles I've dedicated my life to upholding. It would compromise the integrity that defines me as a researcher.

Yet presenting my actual findings, that humans like Owen could be compatible, that our world could sustainably accommodate a limited human population, that my brothers' attachments might have been scientifically justified rather than emotional aberrations, feels equally problematic.

Not because it's untrue, but because it requires acknowledging how deeply this assessment has affected me personally.

How do I report objectively on an experience that has been anything but objective?

The countdown continues, relentless as gravity. Three hours and forty-six minutes until stable orbit. Five hours and twenty-two minutes until the transport cycle can be initiated.

I tell myself this is as it should be. As it must be.

Protocol is clear: without the empathic bond my brothers formed with their humans, Owen cannot return with me.

He is not "my human" in the eyes of the Council.

Without that bond, I have no right to keep him, no justification to bring him into our world.

But for the first time in my life, I find myself wishing protocol could be broken.