Page 3 of Reluctantly Abducted (Nereidan Compatibility Program #3)
Ry'eth
I walk a few paces ahead of the human, maintaining what should be a proper distance according to both safety protocols and basic dignity standards. Yet I find myself uncomfortably aware of his presence behind me, like a gravitational anomaly disrupting my equilibrium.
The corridor stretches before us, its curved architecture designed to maximize both space efficiency and aesthetic harmony.
Under normal circumstances, I would appreciate the elegant mathematics of its construction.
Currently, I am focusing on these details primarily to avoid acknowledging the nearly unclothed human following me.
Humans wear clothes. This is a documented fact from our extensive observation data.
They do not walk around their dwellings—or research vessels—in nothing but thin fabric coverings that expose nearly all of their skin.
The concept of a sentient being so casually displaying their physical form is deeply unsettling.
I have never seen anyone outside my immediate family so exposed, and not since we all reached physical maturity. Even our sleeping attire covers most of the body. It is simply not done.
"Do you always walk around with your back to strangers, or is this a special treatment just for me?"
The human's voice—Owen Hayes, 38 Earth years, former military medical specialist according to his file—interrupts my cataloging of appropriate conversational topics that do not involve commenting on the state of his undress.
I do not turn around. "Your quarters are this way. Naturally I would face the direction in which we are traveling."
"You don't have any sense of self-preservation, do you?"
This comment is unexpected enough that I glance back, despite my determination not to.
My momentary lapse in judgment results in another unwanted visual confirmation that the human is still wearing nothing but the thin fabric covering his lower body, revealing a muscular torso marked with several scars.
A particularly noticeable one runs across his chest, a reminder that this human has seen combat.
I force my eyes back to his face. "What do you mean?"
"I mean you're walking ahead of someone who already punched you once, leaving yourself completely open to attack.
" His tone contains both criticism and something that sounds oddly like professional assessment.
"You turned your back on a potential threat, you have no defensive stance, and based on how you handled that punch earlier, you don't know the first thing about defending yourself. "
My skin betrays me immediately, illuminating with embarrassment. The bioluminescent response is uncontrollable and intensely frustrating, especially when it is triggered by this human's accurate observation of my tactical deficiencies.
"Our species does not typically resolve differences through physical combat," I say stiffly, pressing my lips together to prevent further defensive remarks. The less I engage, the sooner this humiliating experience will end.
I turn and continue walking, though I am now acutely aware of my vulnerable position and the combat-trained human behind me. It is a deeply unsettling sensation.
We continue in silence until we reach the designated guest quarters. I place my palm against the identification panel, and the door slides open with a soft hydraulic sound.
"These are your assigned quarters," I state, stepping aside to allow him to enter first. A tactical correction, if a minor one.
The human—Owen—steps into the room, his eyes scanning the space with what appears to be professional assessment.
I observe his gaze noting the entry and exit points, the environmental controls, the dimensions of the space.
It is, I realize, exactly how I would evaluate a new environment, though presumably for different reasons.
"How do I open the doors?" he asks, turning to face me. "Or am I supposed to be trapped in here?"
"You are not a prisoner," I say, perhaps too quickly. "The doors operate on a biometric recognition system."
I step to the control panel beside the main door and place my hand against it. "I will program the system to recognize your biometrics."
I navigate through the control protocols, deliberately focusing on the technical details rather than the human's proximity. His body radiates heat at a higher temperature than Nereidan physiology, creating a noticeable thermal gradient between us.
"Place your hand here," I instruct, moving aside.
He steps forward and presses his palm against the panel. His hand is larger than mine, with calluses along the palm and fingers that suggest regular physical labor or training. The scanner illuminates his hand briefly with blue light.
"Registration complete," I say. "You now have access to all common areas of the vessel, including the nutrition center, bathing facility, and observation deck."
"What about your quarters? In case of emergency." His expression is neutral, but there is a challenge in his tone.
"That will not be necessary."
"Right. Because you'd definitely be able to handle any emergency that came up, what with your excellent combat skills."
My skin flares again, the bioluminescence responding to his provocation despite my attempts to suppress it. I make a small adjustment to the access protocols.
"You now have access to all areas except the bridge and my private quarters. The bridge is restricted to authorized crew only." I pause, then add, "Not that your primitive human brain would understand how to operate the navigation systems regardless."
The words emerge before I can properly evaluate their diplomatic implications, and I immediately recognize the error. Antagonizing the subject is not conducive to effective assessment procedures.
Owen's expression hardens. "My primitive human brain managed to incapacitate you within five seconds of meeting you, so maybe don't underestimate what I'm capable of understanding."
A valid point, though I have no intention of acknowledging it aloud.
Instead, I step toward the storage compartment embedded in the wall opposite the sleeping platform. I place my hand on the access panel, and the door slides open to reveal a selection of garments in various sizes.
"Clothing," I state unnecessarily. "You may select whatever fits appropriately."
Owen approaches the storage unit, examining the unfamiliar garments with skepticism. "Are these all made for your people? They look... different."
"They are standard Nereidan attire, modified to accommodate a range of body types and proportions.
" I do not mention that these modifications were specifically implemented for the human compatibility program that my brothers have so enthusiastically embraced without any apparent concern for the ecological implications.
"How do I put these on?" Owen asks, pulling out a tunic and examining the fabric. "The cut is different from Earth clothes."
"They fasten with drawstrings," I explain, reaching for the garment without thinking. "You simply adjust them to—"
I stop abruptly, realizing I was about to demonstrate on his bare torso. My hand freezes in mid-air, and I feel the telltale warmth of bioluminescence spreading across my face again.
The human's eyes flick to my face, clearly noticing the glow. One corner of his mouth lifts slightly. "Something wrong?"
"Nothing is wrong," I reply, pulling my hand back. "The garments are self-explanatory. You will determine their function."
"I'll figure it out," he says, with a hint of amusement in his voice that I do not understand.
I step toward the exit. "Food will be available in the nutrition center in one hour."
"What kind of food?" he asks, still holding the garment in his hands.
"Food," I repeat, unwilling to engage in a detailed discussion of Nereidan nutrition when I am still struggling to maintain scientific objectivity. "Take it or leave it."
"Very hospitable," Owen remarks dryly. "You're really selling this whole abduction experience."
"It is not an abduction," I correct automatically. "It is a compatibility assessment."
"For which you kidnapped me without consent. That's an abduction where I come from."
I do not have an adequate response to this observation, so I exit the room without further comment, relieved when the door slides closed behind me.
Once alone in the corridor, I allow myself a moment to process the unexpected complications of this assignment.
The human is combative, uncooperative, and distressingly perceptive about my tactical weaknesses.
He is also physically imposing, unnervingly direct, and currently occupying an unreasonable amount of my cognitive processing capacity.
This is not proceeding according to protocol.
My brothers would find this situation amusing, I realize with sudden clarity.
Zeph'hai, despite being only seven years my senior, would likely point out the statistical improbability of all three of us encountering humans who disrupt our carefully structured research methodologies.
Kav'eth, the eldest at fourteen years my senior, would offer unsolicited advice about "adapting to unforeseen variables" while pretending he had never experienced similar difficulties.
I straighten my posture and proceed toward the laboratory, my pace slightly faster than necessary though I refuse to acknowledge I'm effectively retreating.
I need to update the assessment parameters to account for this particular human's hostile approach to first contact.
This is a scientific challenge, nothing more.
I will maintain professional composure and complete the assignment as required.
The fact that my skin continues to emit a subtle glow at the memory of Owen Hayes' direct gaze is merely a physiological response to stress. It has no bearing on my ability to conduct this assessment with proper scientific detachment.
None whatsoever.
The nutrition center is precisely as I left it, equipment organized and surfaces pristine. I approach the synthesizer console, considering the upcoming meal preparation. This is the first nutritional interaction with the human subject, and therefore carries significance beyond mere sustenance.
I hesitate, fingers hovering over the interface. According to the preparation materials, successful assessment subjects are more cooperative when provided with familiar nutritional options. The research vessel is equipped with a database of Earth cuisine for this purpose.
For a moment, I contemplate accessing these files. It would be the scientifically sound approach, minimize variables that might negatively impact the assessment. Providing Earth-based nutrition would potentially reduce the human's hostility.
My finger hovers over the search function. I could synthesize the base components for what my data indicates is a common Earth meal, protein from domesticated animals, starch-based side components, perhaps one of their sweeter confections.
But the thought of preparing animal flesh makes my skin prickle with discomfort.
Nereidans evolved beyond such practices centuries ago.
Besides, I reason, the assessment should include evaluation of the subject's adaptability to new environments and experiences.
Accommodation of primitive dietary preferences would skew the results.
Decision made, I input the commands for a standard Nereidan evening meal.
The synthesizer hums to life, producing the base ingredients for vesh'tar , a hearty vegetable soup served within a hollowed bread sphere.
It's a practical, nutritionally complete meal that has sustained our species through countless research expeditions.
The synthesizer completes its cycle, presenting me with fresh ingredients: purple-tinged root vegetables, leafy greens with a subtle luminescence, and the specially cultivated grain for the bread spheres.
I could have the synthesizer create a basic finished meal, but I deliberately choose the option requiring manual preparation.
I normally find the methodical process of food preparation calming, a rare opportunity to quiet my analytical mind.
Right now, however, I simply need something to occupy my hands and focus my thoughts away from the human occupying my ship.
I set about slicing the vegetables with precise, practiced movements.
The familiarity of the task is soothing after the unexpected complications of this assignment.
The root vegetables release their earthy aroma as the knife glides through them, a scent that reminds me of the research gardens at the Central Academy.
As I work, I find my thoughts returning to the human. Will he refuse the meal out of spite? Or perhaps due to physiological incompatibility? The compatibility research indicates that Nereidan cuisine contains no components toxic to humans, but palatability is another matter entirely.
I place the prepared vegetables into the cooking unit and turn my attention to the bread spheres.
The dough requires hand-shaping, a deliberate inefficiency in our food culture that persists because of its cultural significance.
As I work the dough, forming it into perfect spheres, I consider the irony of my situation.
My entire academic career has focused on the environmental impact of interspecies contact.
I have published three research papers on the ecological devastation that followed human expansion on their own planet.
I had planned to spend this research cycle collecting data on sustainable terraforming techniques.
Instead, I am preparing food for a combative human who punched me within seconds of our first meeting.
The cosmic irony would not be lost on the Academy board.
The bread spheres are baking, filling the nutrition center with a pleasant aroma, when I become aware of the time. The human will arrive soon, if he chooses to accept the invitation to eat.
I ladle the thick, purple-tinted soup into the hollow bread spheres, arranging them on the serving surface with mathematical precision. The meal is aesthetically pleasing, nutritionally balanced, and completely alien to human cuisine.
I am not looking forward to the upcoming interaction. The human has already demonstrated hostility, and the unfamiliar food will likely provoke additional negative responses. But the assessment requires sustained proximity and interaction.
I straighten my posture and mentally review protocol for cross-species dining etiquette. Whatever happens next, I will maintain scientific objectivity and professional composure.
I'm so absorbed in my preparations that I lose track of time. When the door to the nutrition center slides open, I nearly drop the serving implement I'm holding. I hadn't realized an hour had already passed. The human is punctual, at least.