Page 4 of Reluctantly Abducted (Nereidan Compatibility Program #3)

Owen

The sliding door opens with a soft hiss, revealing what's obviously some kind of kitchen or dining area. It's all sleek surfaces and curved walls, like everything else I've seen on this ship, but at least it smells like food. Actual food, not whatever processed nutrient paste I was half-expecting.

Blue boy—Ry'eth—is standing by what looks like a counter, holding some kind of serving utensil. He startles when I walk in, nearly dropping whatever he's holding. For someone who claims to be conducting scientific research, he's jumpy as hell.

"Sorry," I say, not feeling sorry at all. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No," he says, quickly recovering his composure. "You are punctual."

I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms over my bare chest. The pants he provided fit surprisingly well, soft material that moves easily and doesn't bind anywhere important, but the shirts were too tight across my shoulders and chest. Military service leaves you with certain standards about being able to move freely, so I left them behind.

Judging by the way Ry'eth's eyes dart to my chest and then away, followed by that telltale glow under his skin, my partial state of undress bothers him a lot more than it bothers me.

"Nice kitchen," I say, pushing off from the doorframe and moving into the room. "What's cooking?"

"I have prepared a standard nutritional meal," he says stiffly, gesturing to what looks like purple soup in bread bowls. "It is compatible with human digestive systems."

"Thoughtful of you," I reply, studying the strange setup. The room is arranged with mathematical precision, everything at perfect right angles, dishes aligned with geometric exactness. This guy has control issues written all over him.

I pull out one of the chairs, or what I assume is a chair, though it's shaped differently than what we use on Earth, more like a stool than anything, and sit down. Ry'eth seems momentarily surprised by this, like he expected more resistance.

"So, Ry," I say, deliberately using the shortened name, "what exactly are we eating here?"

His skin flares with that blue-green glow again. "My name is Ry'eth," he corrects sharply. "And this is vesh'tar , a nutritionally balanced meal containing proteins, complex carbohydrates, and essential micronutrients."

"Sounds delicious," I say dryly, picking up what I hope is the alien equivalent of a spoon. "And it's purple."

"The root vegetable has natural pigmentation that—" he begins, then stops himself. "It is unnecessary to explain the botanical properties of each ingredient."

I dip the spoon into the purple soup, catching the alien watching me with what looks like scientific curiosity. The smell is strange but not unpleasant, earthy with something almost like mint underneath. I take a cautious taste.

It's... surprisingly good. Different, definitely, but not bad. Reminds me a little of sweet potato soup, but with an herbal aftertaste that's actually pretty refreshing.

"Not bad, Ry," I say, watching his skin light up again at the shortened name. "Better than MREs, that's for damn sure."

He sits down across from me, his movements precise and controlled. "I am unfamiliar with that term."

"Meals Ready to Eat. Military food." I take another spoonful. "Designed to last through nuclear winter but taste like the inside of a boot."

Ry'eth looks genuinely perplexed. "You consume footwear?"

That startles a laugh out of me. "No, it's an expression. Means they taste terrible."

"I see." He's watching me eat with that same clinical detachment, like I'm a lab specimen. "You find the vesh'tar acceptable, then?"

"It's good. I like the bread bowl thing a lot." I take another spoonful. "Way better than what we had to eat in the field."

He seems slightly pleased by this assessment, though he's trying to hide it. I decide to change tactics.

"How's your head feeling?" I ask, gesturing toward the spot where he hit the control panel.

The question clearly catches him off guard. "My head?"

"Yeah, you know, the part of you that smacked into a metal panel after I decked you." I set down my spoon. "Mind if I take a look?"

Before he can answer, I'm already up and moving around to his side of the table. He stiffens visibly as I approach.

"This is unnecessary," he says, but I'm already examining the back of his head, gently probing the area where I saw the impact.

"I'll be the judge of that. I've treated more head injuries than you've had hot meals." His skin is cooler than human temperature, with an unusual texture, smoother, almost like fine suede. The bump has already gone down considerably. "Looks like you heal pretty quickly. That's a good sign."

He's rigid under my examination, his skin practically glowing wherever my fingers make contact. "Nereidan physiology includes accelerated cellular regeneration compared to humans," he says stiffly.

"Handy," I comment, moving around to check his split lip. I tip his chin up with my finger, studying the small cut. It's already mostly healed, just a faint blue line where it was bleeding earlier.

I find myself noticing the unusual texture of his lips, fuller than I expected, and surprisingly soft-looking despite their bluish tint. There's something almost delicate about them, contrasting with the sharpness of his other features.

"So how long until these are completely healed? Hours? Days?" I ask, maintaining a clinical tone despite our proximity.

"The minor laceration will be fully healed by morning. The contusion perhaps a day longer." His voice is carefully controlled, but I can feel a slight tremor under my fingers.

"Fascinating," I say, genuinely impressed. "Your nervous system obviously works differently too. Those light patterns under your skin, they follow neural pathways?"

He pulls away from my touch. "My bioluminescent responses are not relevant to the compatibility assessment."

"I disagree," I say, returning to my seat. "Seems pretty relevant to understand the biology of whoever you're being 'assessed' for compatibility with."

I continue eating while he processes this, noting how his posture remains rigid. He's barely touched his own food.

"Not hungry?" I ask.

"I am monitoring your response to Nereidan nutrition."

"While your own food gets cold? That's dedication." I finish my soup, wiping the last bit with a piece of the bread bowl. "So, Ry, when do I get the grand tour?"

His skin flashes again at the nickname. "The vessel is not large. A tour is unnecessary."

"Come on, I'm stuck here for three days. Might as well know my way around." I lean back in the chair. "Unless you're trying to keep me contained to specific areas."

"That is not—" he begins, then stops. "I am... tired. Perhaps tomorrow."

My medical training kicks in immediately. Fatigue after a head injury is a red flag for concussion. I lean forward, studying his eyes more carefully.

"Tired? Since when? Did you develop fatigue in the last hour?"

"I am fine," he says quickly. "It has been a demanding day."

"Yeah, no." I stand up. "Getting tired suddenly after a head injury is a classic concussion symptom. Let me check your pupils again."

"That is not necessary," he says, standing as well and backing away slightly. "I am not actually tired. I was merely attempting to postpone the tour."

"So you were lying," I say, advancing on him. "That's not very scientific of you, Ry."

"My name is Ry'eth," he says automatically, his skin glowing brighter as I move closer. He continues backing up until he hits the wall, trapped between it and my approaching form.

I close the distance with deliberate steps, my combat-trained instincts responding to his retreat by advancing. When I reach him, I place one hand against the wall beside his head and use the other to cup his chin, tilting his face up toward mine.

"Hold still," I say, my voice dropping lower. "I need to check your pupils."

He's effectively caged now, our bodies inches apart. I can feel the coolness radiating from his skin, see the rapid flutter of pulse at his throat. The blue-green glow beneath his skin intensifies where my fingers touch his face.

"Look at me," I command softly, studying his golden eyes. His pupils contract normally in response to the light, but I take my time anyway, holding him firmly in place. "Pupillary response seems normal. That's good."

I don't step back immediately, instead maintaining our position as I continue. "Well, Ry'eth, even if you're not tired, the fact that you lost consciousness earlier means you need monitoring for at least 24 hours. Standard concussion protocol."

"I do not have a concussion," he insists, his voice slightly less steady than before. "Our species is highly resistant to cerebral trauma."

"Maybe so, but you still blacked out. That means something was affected.

" I finally step back, giving him space.

"Look, I'm not having you die on me when you're my only ticket back to Earth.

So either you're giving me that tour you promised while I keep an eye on you, or I'm following you around all night to make sure you don't slip into a coma. "

His expression shifts through several emotions, frustration, resignation, and something that might be reluctant amusement.

"You are using medical concerns to manipulate the assessment parameters."

"I'm using medical concerns because I'm genuinely concerned," I say, which is mostly true. "The manipulation is just a bonus."

He studies me for a moment, then his shoulders drop slightly. "Very well. A brief tour, then you will return to your assigned quarters."

"Great," I say cheerfully. "Lead the way, Ry."

His skin flares again, the blue-green light creating interesting patterns beneath the surface. "I have asked you not to call me that."

"Yes, you have. And as long as I get to keep you company so that you don't die on me from your head injury, I'll use your name. Try to get rid of me and it's back to Ry."

Something between exasperation and amusement flickers across his face. "That is extortion."

"I prefer to think of it as incentive," I reply, grinning. "Now, which way to the bridge, Ry'eth?"

His relief at the proper use of his name is almost comical, visible in both his expression and the settling of the glow beneath his skin.

As he turns to lead me out of the kitchen, I notice he's walking with deliberate care, making sure to keep me in his peripheral vision this time.

He's learning. That's good, means he's adaptable.

If I'm stuck on this ship for three days, at least my alien host isn't completely rigid in his thinking.

I follow him into the corridor, noting the layout, the locations of what might be control panels, the subtle vibration under my feet that suggests engines or some kind of propulsion system. Old habits die hard, always know your environment, always look for exits, always identify potential weapons.

"So, Ry'eth," I say, keeping my promise to use his full name, "how long have you been doing these 'compatibility assessments'?"

"This is my first direct involvement," he says, a subtle relaxation visible in his posture at my use of his proper name. "And we are currently in the primary research corridor."

"Fascinating," I say, genuinely curious despite my casual tone. "And what's behind door number one, Ry'eth?"

The glow shifts subtly beneath his skin, but remains calm and steady. I'm starting to think I could read his emotions just through those light patterns if I watched long enough.

Not that I'm planning to fight my way off an alien spaceship. But the familiar mental exercise is comforting, a routine that's kept me alive through two tours and countless missions.

"And this area contains environmental regulation systems," Ry'eth is saying, gesturing toward a section of the wall that looks identical to every other section we've passed.

"Environmental regulation, got it," I reply. "Very important stuff."

His explanation continues smoothly, his voice becoming more animated when discussing the technical aspects. "It is essential for maintaining optimal atmospheric conditions. The next section is—"

"Let me guess. More curved walls and mysterious alien technology?" I interrupt, but with a smile that takes any sting out of the words. His skin glows in response, but it seems different somehow, less sharp, more diffuse.

Besides, three days with Mr. Glowy might not be so bad. He's clearly intelligent, obviously uncomfortable with the situation, and undeniably interesting to talk with. And the food's better than I expected.

As far as abductions go, I've definitely had worse assignments. And I have to admit, there's something about watching those patterns of light shift beneath Ry'eth's skin that's oddly mesmerizing. For medical observation purposes, of course.