Page 9 of Technically Abducted (Nereidan Compatibility Program #4)
Tev'ra
The molecular stabilization process completes, and the transportation chamber's blue light fades. We have arrived safely aboard the research vessel.
I am dangerously dehydrated.
Twelve hours and seventeen minutes have passed since my last hydration cycle—well beyond recommended duration for Nereidan physiology.
My skin feels uncomfortably tight, the natural luminescence patterns beneath dulled and sluggish.
The gills at the base of my neck ache with dryness despite my body's automatic protective response of sealing the delicate membranes.
Yet protocol demands I complete arrival procedures before attending to personal needs.
"Welcome back to my research vessel," I tell Finn, my voice rougher than usual. "This is the transportation chamber. From here, I will escort you to your temporary quarters for the assessment period."
Finn is looking around, his expression a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. His bare chest—which he insisted on maintaining despite my discomfort—rises and falls with slightly elevated respiration. Stress response, most likely.
"Looks exactly like I remember," he says. "Sterile. White. Alien."
"The design emphasizes functionality and efficiency," I explain, stepping from the platform. A wave of dizziness hits me, and I must briefly steady myself against the chamber wall. My movement is not as smooth as it should be.
Finn notices. "You okay? You're looking a little... less blue than usual."
"I am functioning within acceptable parameters," I say automatically, though this is not entirely accurate.
The truth is that I miscalculated. I should have utilized the hydration facilities prior to our departure for Earth, but I was concerned about maximizing our observation time within the strict twelve-hour window the Council had granted.
Now I am paying the physiological price for that decision.
Finn's eyes narrow. "Right. And I'm the queen of England. What's actually wrong with you?"
I consider prevarication, but decide honesty may facilitate cooperation. "I require hydration. Nereidan physiology is semi-aquatic. Extended periods away from proper immersion facilities result in suboptimal functioning."
"You need water," he translates, his direct manner cutting through my formal explanation. "You're dehydrated."
"Yes."
"So go get hydrated or whatever you need to do," he says with a dismissive wave. "I can find my own way around the alien spaceship."
"Protocol requires that I escort you to your assigned quarters and complete orientation procedures," I insist, though the pressure behind my ocular structures is intensifying, a warning sign of severe dehydration.
Finn folds his arms across his chest, drawing my unwilling attention to the exposed skin again.
"Listen, Blue. I'm not going to sabotage your ship or run off.
There's literally nowhere for me to go. And you look like you're about to pass out.
So how about you show me where my room is, then go take care of yourself before you collapse? "
The use of that informal designation—"Blue"—still causes an unexpected reaction in my neural pathways. I should correct him, insist on proper address protocols. Instead, I find myself nodding.
"A reasonable compromise. Please follow me."
We exit the transportation chamber and enter the main corridor of the research deck.
The vessel's environmental systems automatically adjust to optimal settings as we walk—temperature, humidity, atmospheric composition all calibrated for ideal Nereidan functioning.
Under normal circumstances, this would provide relief.
Today, it merely highlights how desperately my body needs actual immersion.
Finn walks slightly behind me, his footsteps quieter than I would expect for someone of his size and species. He moves with the cautious awareness of someone in unfamiliar territory, yet without the fear or awe most humans might display. His adaptability is... notable.
"Your temporary quarters are located in this section," I explain, pausing before a door panel. I press my palm to the access sensor, then program it to recognize Finn's biometric signature as well. "Place your hand here."
He does so without hesitation, his palm slightly smaller than mine against the scanner. The system chimes confirmation.
"You now have access to these quarters. The central systems have been programmed to respond to basic verbal commands for lighting, temperature control, and other environmental factors."
The door slides open, revealing the standard assessment quarters—a living area with integrated work surfaces, separate sleeping chamber, and basic hygiene facilities.
All designed to accommodate various species' needs while maintaining the clean, minimalist aesthetic that characterizes Nereidan architecture.
Finn steps inside, looking around with obvious judgment in his expression. "Still loving the sterile laboratory vibe, I see."
"The design emphasizes—"
"Functionality and efficiency. Yeah, you said that already." He turns back to me, his gaze suddenly sharp and assessing. "Your skin looks different. Paler. And you've got this weird cracking thing happening around your neck."
I resist the urge to touch the sensitive gill area, where the protective membranes are indeed showing signs of dangerous desiccation. "The effects of dehydration. They will resolve once I access hydration facilities."
"Then go," he says firmly. "I'm good here. Just tell me how to work the alien toilet and we're all set."
I provide brief instructions for the hygiene facilities, an abbreviated version of the standard orientation. "The nutrition center is located three sections west of here. I will return in approximately forty-seven minutes to continue orientation procedures and initiate the formal assessment."
"Take your time," Finn says, dropping his backpack onto the sleeping platform. "I'll be here. Not like I've got anywhere else to go."
I should insist on stricter scheduling, but my physical state makes further delay inadvisable. With a formal nod, I exit the quarters, the door sliding shut behind me.
The moment I am alone in the corridor, I permit myself to move at maximum efficiency toward the hydration chamber. My gait is not as smooth as normal standard, but speed takes priority over aesthetics now.
The hydration chamber is located in a separate section of the research deck, accessed through a curved corridor that branches off from the main passage. I press my palm to the access panel with more force than necessary, my usual precision compromised by urgency.
As I approach the chamber doors, I allow my formal posture to deteriorate slightly. No observers means no need to maintain appearance protocols. My shoulders slump, my head tips forward, and I permit myself a small exhale that might, in other species, be classified as a groan.
The hydration chamber doors slide open, and the scent of mineral-rich water immediately triggers a physiological response—my gills attempt to expand despite their sealed state, sending a sharp pain through my neck.
The expansive space features multiple hydration pools of varying depths and mineral compositions, with the main immersion basin occupying the central area.
Soft, blue-green lighting reflects off the water's surface, and the atmospheric controls maintain the perfect balance of humidity and temperature.
I move directly to the preparation area, removing my uniform with efficiency rather than the standard careful folding and storage. The garments drop to the floor as I step toward the main pool, my dehydrated skin already anticipating the relief to come.
The moment I enter the water, the difference is immediate and profound.
My sealed gills reflexively open, the delicate structures unfurling to absorb the mineral-rich liquid.
The pain transforms into relief so intense it borders on pleasure, sending waves of bioluminescence cascading across my skin.
I submerge completely, allowing the water to envelop every surface of my body. The specialized cells in my epidermis begin absorbing essential minerals and conducting the bioelectric processes that maintain Nereidan health.
For several minutes, I simply float, all thoughts of assessment protocols and Council expectations temporarily suspended.
In this relaxed state, unbidden thoughts of Finn Sullivan emerge.
The human has not responded according to any predicted parameters.
His apartment, his working methods, his very existence defies the structured, optimization-focused approach I expected based on the research briefs.
His chaotic environment should logically produce inferior results, yet he consistently creates functional solutions from apparent disorder.
Even more perplexing is his relationship with his clients.
His concern for their welfare goes beyond professional obligation, manifesting as something closer to.
.. protection. He positions himself as a shield between their technological vulnerabilities and potential harm.
This protective instinct extends even to individuals he has never physically met.
Unexpected. Intriguing.
I surface partially, allowing my face to emerge while keeping my gill structures submerged.
A thought crystallizes: Finn Sullivan may represent an adaptation strategy I had not previously considered. His apparent chaos might be a form of resilience, an adaptation to unpredictable conditions that Nereidan systematic approaches cannot match.
This possibility is... disruptive to established assessment parameters.
I submerge again, allowing the mineral-rich water to flow through my gill structures. My bioluminescence patterns shift and swirl with my thoughts, reflecting the complex interplay of professional curiosity and personal reaction that Finn elicits.