Page 44 of Reluctantly Abducted
"I should go," I say, still not moving.
"Me too," he agrees, similarly stationary.
Then, as if by mutual decision, we both step forward, meeting in the middle of the room. There's no hesitation this time, no uncertainty as his arms wrap around me and mine encircle him. The embrace is not sexual, not charged with the same energy as our earlier encounters. It's something else, comfort, perhaps. Connection. Acknowledgment of something neither of us has named.
I close my eyes, allowing myself to simply experience the moment without analysis. The solid warmth of him against me.The steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The scent that is uniquely his.
I am not the same person I was when this assessment began. The data is conclusive on that point, even if I haven't yet determined whether the change is positive or negative, beneficial or detrimental.
The ship's navigation system chimes again, more insistent this time. We separate slowly, reluctantly.
"I really do need to complete those calculations," I say, my voice steadier than I expected.
"And I should change back," Owen agrees.
This time we do move, heading toward our respective duties. At the door, I pause, looking back at him one last time before I go. He's silhouetted against the window, Earth a blue-green backdrop behind him, and for a moment I see him as he will be, back on his own world, continuing his life, perhaps occasionally remembering the alien who abducted him for a scientific assessment.
I wonder if he'll ever make hot chocolate with cinnamon and think of me.
I wonder if I'll ever taste it again without thinking of him.
The thoughts are unproductive, irrelevant to the conclusion of our assessment. I dismiss them and turn away, heading to the bridge to complete my duties.
As I begin the approach sequence, my mind drifts to the report I'll need to present to the Council. They expect me to confirm their suspicions, that my brothers were compromised by emotional attachments, that humans pose an unacceptable risk to our environment, that the integration program should be terminated.
But my data doesn't support those conclusions.
I could, of course, emphasize certain findings while minimizing others. Highlight potential risks while downplayingobserved benefits. The Council rarely questions the methodology of technical reports, particularly when they align with expected outcomes.
But that would violate the scientific principles I've dedicated my life to upholding. It would compromise the integrity that defines me as a researcher.
Yet presenting my actual findings, that humans like Owen could be compatible, that our world could sustainably accommodate a limited human population, that my brothers' attachments might have been scientifically justified rather than emotional aberrations, feels equally problematic. Not because it's untrue, but because it requires acknowledging how deeply this assessment has affected me personally.
How do I report objectively on an experience that has been anything but objective?
The countdown continues, relentless as gravity. Three hours and forty-six minutes until stable orbit. Five hours and twenty-two minutes until the transport cycle can be initiated.
I tell myself this is as it should be. As it must be. Protocol is clear: without the empathic bond my brothers formed with their humans, Owen cannot return with me. He is not "my human" in the eyes of the Council. Without that bond, I have no right to keep him, no justification to bring him into our world.
But for the first time in my life, I find myself wishing protocol could be broken.
Chapter Thirteen
Owen
The countdown display on the wall flashes in silent reminder: 53 minutes until transport.
I stand in the center of my temporary quarters, wearing nothing but the plain black boxer briefs I had on when I was abducted three days ago. The Nereidan clothes I've been wearing are folded neatly on the bed, ready to be recycled or sterilized or whatever they do with things humans have touched. Protocol, as Ry would say.
Three days. Seventy-two hours that somehow managed to change... everything and nothing at all.
I run my hand over the soft material of the shirt one last time, remembering how Ry's fingers brushed against mine when he first handed it to me. Those first touches, clinical and impersonal then, charged with meaning now. I'm not allowed to take anything back with me, no alien technology, no artifacts, no evidence. Just my body, my underwear, and my memories.
It's funny. I spent eight years in the military. Fifteen months in an active war zone. Four years in a marriage that dissolved like salt in water. Yet somehow, these three days with a blue-skinned alien scientist have carved deeper channels into my soul than any of it.
How is that possible? How can seventy-two hours with someone not even from my planet reshape everything I thought I knew about connection?
No one on Earth would believe me anyway. Alien abduction stories are for conspiracy theorists and late-night radio shows, not for former combat medics trying to rebuild their lives. But I'll know. Every time I look at the stars, every time I see the color blue, every time I close my eyes in the dark, I'll remember the way Ry's skin glowed when I touched him. Theway his scientific detachment crumbled bit by bit with each hour we spent together.
