"No," I say, the word coming out rougher than intended. "Override standard protocol. Documentation sequence will begin in... one hour."
The ship acknowledges with a soft tone, and I finally force myself to move. My body feels wrong somehow, heavier, as if the artificial gravity has increased. I know it has not. This is merely the weight of separation.
I move through the quarters that now feel cavernous despite being exactly the same size as before. In the sleeping area, the bed remains disheveled, the sheets bearing the imprint of two bodies rather than one. Without conscious thought, I find myself reaching for the pillow where Jake's head rested. I bring it to my face, inhaling deeply.
His scent lingers, that distinctive human mixture of biochemicals that initially seemed so foreign but now registers as essential. Already it's fading, molecules dispersing into the ship's carefully filtered air. Soon there will be no trace of him here, just as there was never meant to be.
On the floor beside the bed, I notice something small and pale against the dark surface. A strand of hair. Jake's hair. I pick it up with careful fingers, holding it to the light. Such a simple thing, a protein filament, meaningless in any scientific context. Yet I find myself cradling it as if it were infinitely precious.
"Preserve," I say aloud, and a small specimen container materializes from a compartment in the wall. I place the strand inside, watching as the preservation field activates. A completely irrational action with no scientific purpose. I do it anyway.
The kitchen area is next, and here the evidence of Jake is even more pronounced. The synthesizer still displays our last programmed meal, the traditional Nereidan dish I prepared forhim. The plates remain on the table, residue ofmirandried on their surfaces. I should clean this, reset the space to standard configuration.
I leave it exactly as it is.
In the cleansing pools, the water glows with the same blue-green light as always, but it seems dimmer somehow. The memory of Jake here is so vivid that for a moment I almost see him, floating in the gentle current, his face alight with curiosity as I told him about my world. The pools were my sanctuary before his arrival. Now they are simply another space haunted by his absence.
A soft alert tone interrupts my thoughts. "Incoming communication request from Commander Kav'eth. Priority alpha."
My brother. Of course. The report.
I consider ignoring it. The thought is so aberrant, so contrary to everything I have been trained to do, that it momentarily startles me out of my emotional fugue. I have never ignored a communication from a superior officer, let alone my brother. The very idea would have been unthinkable three days ago.
But I am not the same Nereidan I was three days ago.
Nevertheless, I straighten my posture, smooth my facial expression, and activate the communication array. "Accept incoming communication."
The holographic interface shimmers to life, and Kav'eth's face materializes before me. His expression is stern, golden eyes narrowed with what might be concern or suspicion.
"Zeph'hai," he says, using my full name in the formal manner that indicates this is an official communication rather than a familial one. "The transportation cycle completed seventeen minutes ago. Why have you not submitted your preliminary report?"
I force my voice to remain steady, professional. "I am compiling the final data points, Commander. The assessment yielded... unexpected results that require careful documentation."
Kav'eth studies me, and I know he is analyzing every aspect of my appearance, my dimmed bioluminescence, the tension in my facial muscles, the slight alteration in my vocal patterns. He has always been perceptive, even for a Nereidan.
"Your physiological readings are concerning," he says after a moment. "Your bioluminescence patterns indicate severe stress and possible emotional compromise."
"The assessment was... intensive," I reply, choosing my words with utmost care. "I require minor recuperation before completing documentation."
"Recuperation." Kav'eth repeats the word as if it's foreign to him. Perhaps it is. My brother has never required recovery time from any assignment. "The Council is convening in two cycles to review your findings. They expect a comprehensive report on human compatibility."
"They will have it."
Kav'eth's eyes narrow further. "Zeph'hai, I must remind you that this program represents our species' best hope for survival. Your personal... experiences with the human subject must not cloud your objective assessment."
The way he says "experiences" makes something cold and defensive rise within me. "My assessment will be thorough and accurate, Commander."
"See that it is." He pauses, and for a moment his formal demeanor slips, revealing something that might almost be compassion. "Zeph, I understand that first assignments can create... attachments. It is not uncommon for researchers to develop a certain fondness for their subjects. But you must remember that this human was never meant to be your subjectat all. He was an error, a mishap that must not derail our greater purpose."
An error. A mishap. As if Jake Morrison were nothing more than a clerical mistake to be noted and corrected.
"The mishap," I say, unable to keep a slight edge from my voice, "provided valuable insights that may not have been possible with the intended subject."
"Perhaps," Kav'eth concedes. "But that does not change the fact that we must now proceed with properly selected candidates. The Council is particularly interested in the human Derek Cross, your original target. Given his social influence metrics and physical attributes, he represents an ideal first official contact."
The thought of Derek Cross, the human Jake spoke of with such complicated emotions, being brought aboard another Nereidan vessel, experiencing the same assessment protocols, perhaps even meeting another researcher like me... the idea creates a sensation so viscerally unpleasant that I must suppress a visible reaction.
"I will include a comparative analysis of both potential subjects in my report," I say stiffly.