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

The warning is clear, though diplomatically stated.

This assignment was my opportunity to prove myself worthy of advanced research positions.

Failure would result in reassignment to basic data collection—essentially academic exile.

The weight of my family's expectations settles over me like a physical pressure.

Seven generations of research specialists, and I might be the first to fail a primary assignment.

"However," Elder Va'ril continues, her voice softening slightly, "the subject's reasoning does present an intriguing research opportunity. His prioritization of professional obligations over personal circumstances suggests exactly the kind of innovative thinking we seek to understand."

A flicker of hope ignites within me, causing a brief pulse of brighter blue across my skin. "You mean—"

"We mean," she continues, "that adaptability in research methods may be required when dealing with adaptive species."

"Are you suggesting we accommodate his demands?" I ask, uncertain whether this represents opportunity or catastrophe. The standard protocols are clear: subjects remain on the research vessel for the full assessment period. Deviation is... unprecedented.

"We are suggesting," says Councilor Myr'esh, the demographics specialist, her voice carrying the melodic cadence of the northern reaches, "that you find a way to conduct this assessment that yields useful data. If traditional protocols prove insufficient, develop new ones."

Kav'eth's expression becomes calculating, his bioluminescence shifting to patterns that indicate strategic thought—intricate swirls of blue-white light that pulse with each considered alternative. "The subject wishes to return to his natural working environment?"

"Correct." I pull up the human's vital sign readings from the confrontation, displaying them in the shared field. "His distress levels peaked when discussing his interrupted work."

"Then assess him in his natural working environment. Observe human innovation techniques in their native context. Document his problem-solving methodologies under actual working conditions rather than simulated ones."

I feel my bioluminescence brighten as I begin to understand the implications, hope and anxiety mixing in equal measure. The blue-green glow intensifies, reflecting off the metallic surfaces of the communication chamber. "A field study rather than laboratory assessment."

"Precisely," Elder Va'ril confirms, her own patterns stabilizing into the formal configuration that indicates a Council decision has been reached.

"However, this represents a significant deviation from established protocols.

You will have exactly twelve hours on the human's home planet to complete your initial assessment and convince the subject to continue evaluation aboard this vessel. "

The weight of this decision settles on me like physical pressure. My gills flutter rapidly beneath the high collar of my research uniform. "Twelve hours?"

"Twelve hours," Kav'eth confirms, and his tone carries unmistakable finality. "After which you return to this ship with the subject and continue standard protocols, or you return alone and explain to this Council why you were unable to complete your assignment."

The meaning is clear: success or career termination.

I mentally calculate the implications—twelve hours to observe, document, and somehow persuade a hostile human to voluntarily return to a vessel he's currently viewing as a prison.

The probability calculations begin running automatically through my neural implant, and the projected success rate is. .. concerningly low.

"If the subject continues to refuse cooperation after experiencing our accommodation of his demands," Councilor Lyr'tha adds, her medical expertise giving weight to her words, "we will be forced to conclude that broader human integration may be impossible.

This represents not just your assignment, Tev'ra, but our assessment of whether humans as a species can handle knowledge of our existence. "

I feel my bioluminescence dim as the full implications become clear. "You mean..."

"We mean," Elder Va'ril clarifies, her ancient eyes fixing me with a gaze that spans centuries of leadership, "that three successful individual bonds do not necessarily indicate species-wide compatibility.

If humans cannot adapt to our protocols even when approached with full transparency, then revealing ourselves to their population may be catastrophically premature. "

Kav'eth's expression becomes grim, his bioluminescence shifting to deeper blues.

"My brothers and I succeeded with humans who were.

.. adaptable by circumstance. But if we cannot successfully assess humans who prioritize their existing obligations over our program, then we may be dealing with a species too rigidly structured for integration. "

I stare at their projections, feeling the magnitude of what they're asking.

Not just my career, but potentially the future of human-Nereidan relations rests on my ability to convince one stubborn human that our program has value.

The weight of eighteen thousand years of Nereidan history—a history that may end within the next century if we cannot find compatible integration partners—settles on my shoulders.

My neural implant automatically calculates survival projections for our species based on current population trends, and the numbers flash through my consciousness: without successful integration with compatible species, Nereidan extinction probability reaches 78.

4% within three hundred years. The data is grim, familiar, and terrifying.

"I understand, Esteemed Council members," I say, my voice steadier than I expected. The gravity of the situation overrides my personal concerns, activating the deep sense of duty ingrained through decades of training. "I will not fail in this assignment."

"See that you do not," Elder Va'ril replies. "Transportation authorization for limited planetary surface operation is hereby granted. You have twelve hours, Researcher Tev'ra. Use them wisely."

The projections fade one by one, their bioluminescent patterns dissolving into the ambient light of the communication chamber. Kav'eth's projection is the last to disappear, lingering just long enough for him to add: "Remember, adaptation is the key to survival. For all of us."

Then he too is gone, leaving me alone with the weight of impossible expectations and one very angry human who has just become the most important being in the galaxy.

I stand motionless for 2.7 minutes, processing the implications.

Then my training asserts itself, and I begin systematic preparations for planetary surface operation.

I'll need to adjust my physiological settings to match Earth's atmospheric composition, modify my appearance to minimize attention if seen by other humans, prepare observational equipment, and develop a strategy for approaching the subject again.

Most importantly, I need to understand what drives him—what would motivate a human to return voluntarily to a research vessel when his initial reaction was so violently negative.

I access the data collected during initial subject selection, scanning through the information with new purpose.

The profile had been selected for isolation and technical capability, but clearly there are depths to this human that our preliminary scans failed to identify.

His concern for these clients—Rosa, Juniper, and others—suggests a connection pattern at odds with his apparent social isolation.

As I prepare for planetary transport, I try to imagine what would convince me to voluntarily leave my own work if the situation were reversed. What would be valuable enough to overcome resistance? Knowledge? Resources? Protection for those under my care?

The answer comes with sudden clarity: respect. If the human values his work enough to defy an alien abduction, then perhaps the key is demonstrating that we value it too—that we see the importance of what he does, not just to us but to his own people.

I make the final adjustments to my transport parameters, feeling a strange mix of apprehension and determination. Twelve hours to change the mind of one stubborn human. Twelve hours to save my career, my people's future, and perhaps bridge the gap between two civilizations.

The transport chamber activates, blue light filling the space as I step onto the platform. I take one final deep breath of shipboard atmosphere before the molecular dispersion begins.

Next stop: Earth. And the most important negotiation of my life.