Page 17 of Technically Abducted (Nereidan Compatibility Program #4)

Tev'ra

I move through the ship's corridors with undignified haste, water still dripping from my hair despite the quick drying cycle I managed in the hydration chamber's preparation area.

The Council communication chime continues its insistent pattern, demanding immediate response, and I cannot afford to keep them waiting.

My quarters are exactly as I left them—pristine, organized, every surface reflecting the efficient functionality that defines Nereidan design.

Yet as I cross the threshold, I find myself seeing the space differently.

Through Finn's eyes, perhaps. Sterile. Empty of anything that suggests personality or comfort.

I strip out of my wet undergarments with efficient movements, selecting dry clothing from the storage compartment. The formal attire feels restrictive after the freedom of the water, after the sensation of Finn's hands on my skin, the way his pupils dilated when I kissed him.

Focus. The Council requires attention.

I activate the communication array, and the holographic projections of three Council members materialize in the center of my quarters. Elder Va'ril, distinguished by centuries of service, flanked by Research Coordinator Yil'neth and Assessment Supervisor Mor'ghen.

"Researcher Tev'ra," Elder Va'ril's voice carries the authority of absolute rank. "We have reviewed preliminary assessment data from your current assignment."

"Yes, Elder," I respond, adopting the formal posture required for Council communications. "The assessment is progressing according to modified parameters."

"Modified parameters," Research Coordinator Yil'neth repeats, consulting what appears to be a data tablet. "The diagnostic scenario completion time is listed as six minutes, twelve seconds. Is this figure accurate?"

"Yes, Coordinator. The human subject completed the assessment scenario in that timeframe."

The three Council members exchange glances that suggest significant communication is occurring beyond my observation.

"Researcher Tev'ra," Assessment Supervisor Mor'ghen speaks with careful precision, "no individual in Nereidan history has completed that particular scenario that quickly. The record completion time was twelve minutes, forty-seven seconds, achieved by you during your own assessment period."

I remember. Twelve minutes, forty-seven seconds, with five simulated casualties. A respectable time that earned commendation from my instructors.

"The human achieved this result with zero simulated casualties," I confirm.

"Zero casualties," Elder Va'ril repeats slowly. "In six minutes."

"Correct, Elder."

The silence that follows extends beyond comfortable parameters. I maintain proper posture despite the growing awareness that this conversation has implications I hadn't fully considered.

"Researcher," Research Coordinator Yil'neth says finally, "you appear... unsettled. Is there a concern regarding the accuracy of these results?"

I touch my face reflexively, then realize the gesture betrays exactly the kind of emotional compromise they've detected. My skin feels warm, probably flushed with residual bioluminescence from the pools, from Finn's touch, from the memory of his mouth against mine.

"My apologies," I say, forcing my hands back to proper position. "The human and I were engaged in swimming instruction immediately prior to this communication. I may not have achieved full temperature regulation."

"Swimming instruction," Assessment Supervisor Mor'ghen observes with obvious interest. "Our research indicated humans are naturally aquatic. All subjects should possess basic swimming capabilities."

"The human Finn Sullivan cannot swim," I explain. "He indicated this deficiency stems from his placement in something called 'foster care' during his developmental period."

The Council members exchange another series of meaningful glances.

"Foster care," Elder Keth'var repeats. "This term does not appear in our cultural analysis."

"I admit I'm unfamiliar with the concept as well," I say. "Additional research will be required to understand its implications for human development patterns."

"Indeed," Research Coordinator Yil'neth says, making notes on her tablet. "We will require comprehensive analysis of this 'foster care' system and its effects on human subjects. Your findings should be forwarded to the Research Division immediately upon completion."

"Of course, Coordinator."

"Researcher Tev'ra," Elder Va'ril's tone shifts to something approaching curiosity, "in your preliminary assessment, would you characterize the human Finn Sullivan as representative of typical human capabilities?"

The question requires more consideration than I can provide in the context of a formal Council communication. Finn is unlike anything our research predicted—chaotic yet effective, resistant yet collaborative, afraid yet brave enough to trust me with vulnerabilities he's clearly never shared before.

"I would characterize him as... atypical," I say carefully. "His problem-solving methodologies deviate significantly from expected parameters, yet produce superior results. His background appears to have created adaptive capabilities that our standard research failed to identify."

"Atypical in ways that suggest broader compatibility potential, or atypical in ways that indicate he is an anomaly?"

That's the question I cannot answer. Not yet. Possibly not without compromising the very objectivity the Council expects from this assessment.

"Insufficient data for conclusive analysis," I say, which is true but feels like an evasion.

"Very well," Elder Va'ril says. "Continue your assessment according to established protocols. Document all deviations from expected behavioral patterns. We will review your preliminary findings in forty-eight hours."

"Understood, Elder."

Their images fade, leaving me alone in my quarters with the lingering awareness that this conversation has introduced complications I hadn't anticipated.

The Council's interest in Finn extends beyond simple compatibility assessment.

His exceptional performance, his unusual background, his apparent deviation from their research expectations—all of it marks him as significant in ways that create pressure I'm not certain how to manage.

I move to the wall interface to begin researching foster care systems, but before I can activate the search parameters, the door chime sounds. I activate the door controls, and it slides open to reveal Finn Sullivan standing in my corridor.

He's dressed now, in clothing that he must have brought with him. His hair is still damp from the pools, and there's something in his expression that suggests he's been waiting here for some time.

"How did you find my quarters?" I ask, genuinely curious about the navigation challenge this must have presented.

"I asked the ship to show me the way," Finn says with a slight smile. "It lit up a path on the floor. Apparently your AI is very helpful."

"The ship's guidance systems are designed to assist with orientation," I say, though I cannot recall ever asking the ship for directions to personal quarters. "Was there something you required?"

Finn's expression shifts, becoming more serious. "You left kind of abruptly. I wanted to make sure everything was okay."

"Council communications require immediate response," I explain. "There was no choice in the timing."

"I know. I just..." He pauses, seeming to search for words. "In the pool, what happened between us—I don't want you to think I'm going to panic and run away now."

The statement catches me off guard. "Why would I think that?"

"Because that's what I usually do," Finn says with unexpected honesty. "When things get complicated, when they start meaning something, I find ways to sabotage them. Distance myself. Go back to just work and isolation." He meets my eyes. "I don't want to do that with you."

"The Council call had nothing to do with our... interaction. They reviewed the assessment scenario results and required clarification regarding your performance metrics."

"My performance metrics?"

"You completed the diagnostic scenario faster than any individual in Nereidan history," I say. "With zero simulated casualties. The Council finds this result... significant."

Finn's eyebrows rise. "Significant how?"

"I'm not certain yet. But they've requested comprehensive analysis of your background, particularly regarding this 'foster care' system you mentioned." I pause. "I'll need to research the concept thoroughly."

"Foster care," Finn repeats, and something shadows his expression. "What do you want to know?"

The offer is simple, direct, and completely at odds with formal research protocols. I should decline, indicate that proper analysis requires objective data sources rather than subjective personal accounts.

Instead, I step back from the doorway.

"Would you like to come in?" I ask. "I could prepare something to drink while you explain."

Finn's smile is warmer than any I've observed from him previously. "Yeah, I'd like that."

As he crosses the threshold into my private quarters, I realize that nothing about this assessment is proceeding according to established parameters. The Council expects professional analysis, objective findings, systematic evaluation of human compatibility potential.

What they're going to receive is something far more complex, far more personal than any protocol anticipated.

And as I watch Finn examine my living space with obvious curiosity, I find myself significantly less concerned about protocol compliance than I should be.

"Your quarters are exactly what I expected," Finn says, running a hand along the pristine surface of my work station. "Very organized. Very... you."

"Nereidan design principles prioritize functional efficiency," I explain, moving to prepare the beverages.

"Right," Finn says, and there's amusement in his voice. "Functional efficiency."

I glance back at him, noting the way he's studying the space—not with judgment, but with the same careful attention he brought to understanding the ship's adaptive systems.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothing," Finn says, settling onto the seating platform with obvious comfort. "It's just... after what happened in the pool, after that kiss, somehow 'functional efficiency' feels like it might not be the most important thing anymore."

His words send warmth through me. "No," I admit quietly. "I'm beginning to suspect it's not."