Page 41 of Accidentally Abducted

"Good." Kav'eth nods, apparently satisfied. "And Zeph'hai? I expect you to report to medical for evaluation after submitting your documentation. Your physiological readings are outside acceptable parameters."

"Understood."

The communication ends, the holographic projection dissolving into nothing. I stand motionless, staring at the empty space where my brother's face had been.

The thought of Derek Cross experiencing the same protocols... of another Nereidan learning about human pancakes and the way Earth food is meant to bring happiness rather thanmere sustenance... of someone else discovering the remarkable adaptability and insight that Jake demonstrated...

I find myself moving without conscious intent to the area where we cooked together. The synthesizer still holds the instructions for the pancakes we prepared. I activate it, watching as it produces the ingredients in exactly the quantities Jake specified. The flour, white and fine. The eggs, with their delicate shells. The milk, in its precise measure.

My hands move through the preparation sequence, following the patterns Jake taught me. Not the precise, efficient movements of a Nereidan researcher, but the more organic, intuitive motions he showed me. When the first pancake begins to bubble on the heating surface, I find myself watching for the exact moment to flip it, just as he instructed.

The result is a perfect golden circle, nothing like the gray construction material of my first attempt. I place it on a plate, staring at this simple human food as if it might contain answers to questions I haven't even formulated.

What am I doing? This serves no purpose. Jake is not here to eat this. I am not hungry. This is irrational behavior, a waste of resources, a violation of efficiency protocols.

I make three more pancakes anyway.

When they are done, I sit at the table where we shared meals, staring at the plate of cooling food. I should begin the report. I should compile the data. I should fulfill my duty to my people, to my brother, to the program that represents our best hope for survival.

Instead, I close my eyes and reach for the empathic bond.

It's there, but attenuated, stretched thin across whatever vast distance now separates us. I focus on it, pouring my consciousness into that fragile connection, trying to sense anything, a feeling, an echo, the faintest impression of Jake'spresence. For a moment, I think I detect something... a whisper of emotion, a flicker of warmth.

Then nothing.

The silence in my mind is deafening.

Without allowing myself to consider the implications, I move to the storage compartment where the emergency protocols are kept. The neural communicators are secured behind a biometric lock, a safeguard to prevent unauthorized use. My hand presses against the panel, and the compartment slides open, revealing the array of devices meant for true emergencies only.

I should not do this. It violates at least seven security protocols. It risks contaminating the assessment results. It could compromise the entire program.

I activate a communicator anyway, sending a brief pulse, not a true emergency signal, but a ghost of one, a whisper through the void.

The moment it's done, regret and shame flood through me. What am I doing? This is precisely the kind of emotional compromise that Kav'eth warned against. I am betraying my training, my duty, my species, all for the comfort of feeling connected to a human who was never supposed to be here in the first place.

I deactivate the communicator immediately, but it's too late. The signal has been sent. There is no calling it back.

Disgusted with my own weakness, I move to the workstation and force myself to begin the documentation sequence. The familiar routine of data entry and analysis should be comforting, a return to the ordered, logical world I have always inhabited. Instead, each clinical observation feels like a betrayal of the connection Jake and I formed.

How do I quantify the way his laughter changed the molecular composition of the air? How do I measure the impactof his insights on my understanding of not just humans, but my own species? What metric captures the significance of teaching someone to make pancakes that are "happy, not optimal"?

I work mechanically, inputting the objective data while struggling to maintain professional distance in my subjective assessments. The ship's systems record my findings, compiling them into the standard format for Council review. The process should take approximately forty minutes. It takes me nearly three hours.

When it's finally complete, I transmit the report to the secure Council server, knowing that Kav'eth will review it immediately. I have included everything required: physiological compatibility metrics, cultural adaptation potential, genetic diversity benefits, resource-sharing possibilities. By every objective measure, humans represent an ideal partner species for Nereidans.

What I have not included, what cannot be quantified in any meaningful way, is the simple truth that I would trade our entire species' future for just one more day with Jake Morrison.

The realization is so treasonous, so fundamentally opposed to everything I have been trained to believe, that it leaves me physically shaken. This is not who I am. I am Zeph'hai of the Nereidan Research Collective. I am a scientist, a researcher, a servant of my people's greater good. I do not place individual desires above collective survival.

Except, it seems, I do.

I should report to medical as ordered. My physiological readings are indeed outside acceptable parameters. But the thought of being examined, of having my emotional state documented and analyzed, is unbearable. Instead, I move to the cleansing pools, dimming the lights until the space is nearly dark.

I slide into the water, feeling the familiar embrace of the mineral-rich liquid against my skin. This should be comforting. The water has always been my sanctuary, the place where thoughts clarify and emotions settle into proper perspective.

Now it only reminds me of Jake's wonder as he experienced it for the first time. His delight at the buoyancy, his fascination with the bioluminescent properties, his unexpected skill at adapting to the aquatic environment. The memory of his body pressed against mine in this very pool, his legs wrapped around my waist, his fingers tangled in my hair as I told him about the deep-sea creatures of my homeworld.

I submerge completely, letting the water close over my head. In the darkness, I open my eyes, staring up at the surface rippling above me. My own bioluminescence is dimmed to almost nothing, barely illuminating the water around me. Another physiological anomaly to add to my growing list of concerning symptoms.

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