Page 14 of Reluctantly Abducted
With a sigh, I settle myself on the opposite couch. It's not the most comfortable sleeping arrangement I've ever had, but after years of catching sleep wherever and whenever possible during deployments, it'll do fine. This way I can keep an eye on him through the night. Just good medical practice, I tell myself. Nothing to do with the strangely compelling way the light moves beneath his skin, or how different he looked when the sharp edges of his personality were softened by sleep.
I stretch out on the couch, suddenly aware of my own fatigue. It's been a long, strange day. As I lie there watching the soft rise and fall of Ry'eth's chest across the room, I find myself thinking about our conversation.
Your natural inclination is toward preservation rather than destruction.
It's been a long time since anyone saw me as primarily a healer rather than a soldier. I'm not sure how I feel about an alien seeing that part of me so clearly when most humans don't.
I close my eyes, listening to the subtle hum of the ship around me, the quiet sound of Ry'eth's breathing across the room lulling me toward sleep.
For medical observation purposes only, of course.
Chapter Six
Ry'eth
I wake to a moment of complete disorientation.
This is not my sleeping chamber. The ceiling above me curves at an unfamiliar angle, and the lights are dimmed to night-cycle levels. My body feels heavy, my skin uncomfortably dry. I blink, trying to figure out where I am.
The common area. I fell asleep in the common area.
Memory returns in fragments. The human insists on monitoring me for a concussion. Our conversation about environmental preservation. My increasingly futile attempts to stay awake.
I shift slightly and feel something slide against my skin. Looking down, I find myself covered with a thermal blanket, one I don't remember getting. The implications are immediately clear, Owen must have placed it over me after I passed out.
The thought sends an unexpected ripple of light across my skin. I should find the gesture presumptuous, an unwelcome invasion of my personal space. Instead, I feel a confusing tangle of emotions I'm too tired to deal with right now.
A soft sound draws my attention to the opposite side of the common area. Owen is asleep on the other couch, one arm thrown over his face, his chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of deep sleep. He stayed. The entire night, apparently, to keep an eye on me.
Again, that unwelcome flicker of warmth beneath my skin. I push the feeling away. His behavior is just consistent with his medical training, nothing more. Humans are social creatures who form attachments quickly and without thinking, a trait that makes them particularly dangerous to ecosystems that need long-term, logical management.
I carefully sit up, wincing at the uncomfortable tightness in my skin. It's been too long since my last immersion. Normally I wouldn't go more than eighteen hours without a proper soak, but between the preparations for this assignment and yesterday's unexpected complications, it's been nearly forty-eight hours.
Not good. My skin needs immediate attention.
I glance at Owen again, making sure he's still asleep. Moving as quietly as possible, I get up from the couch, leaving the blanket carefully folded. My joints protest, another sign I've put off hydration for too long.
The door slides open with a soft hiss that sounds impossibly loud in the quiet room. I freeze, looking back at Owen, but he doesn't stir. Humans, apparently, sleep as inefficiently as they manage resources.
Once in the corridor, I allow myself a deeper breath. The hydration facility is two sections away from the common area. Not that I'm rushing to get away from Owen. I just prefer to take care of my biological needs without having to explain or be watched.
My skin grows increasingly uncomfortable as I walk, the sensation similar to what humans might call "itching," though considerably more intense. The light patterns beneath my skin are sluggish, no longer flowing with their usual smoothness. Another day without immersion would start to fog my thinking as well.
I reach the hydration chamber and place my palm against the access panel. The door slides open to reveal the familiar space, a large circular pool dominating the center, surrounded by storage units for personal items. The water gleams with a faint blue glow, maintained at precisely the right mineral balance and temperature.
I remove my uniform quickly, placing it in one of the storage units. The air against my bare skin makes the discomfort worse, speeding up my movements. Three steps to the edge of the pool, then I slip into the water with barely a ripple.
The relief is immediate and amazing.
My skin lights up instantly, patterns flowing more freely beneath the surface. The water here matches the exact mineral content of our oceans back home, allowing for optimal absorption. I close my eyes, letting myself sink completely beneath the surface.
Underwater, sound becomes a different experience, more felt than heard, vibrations traveling through liquid rather than air. The ship's subtle hum feels different here, reminding me of the deep currents in the southern seas back home. For the first time since starting this assignment, I feel something close to relaxed.
I stay submerged for several minutes, letting my respiratory system extract oxygen from the water, another biological quirk that humans find hard to understand. Their need to breathe air constantly seems terribly limiting, though I suppose it makes sense for a species that evolved on land rather than in the shallows where my ancestors first developed.
Eventually, I surface and float on my back, eyes closed, enjoying the sensation of relief. The light patterns across my body pulse in slow, regular rhythms now, no longer sluggish or erratic. The process takes about thirty minutes for full rehydration, but even these first moments feel so much better.
Maybe Owen was right about needing rest. My systems are clearly running on empty, which might explain why his presence affects my light patterns more than it should. Simple physical exhaustion, nothing more.
