Page 43 of Reluctantly Abducted
"Yeah," he agrees, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "In another timeline."
We finish our meal in silence, the weight of our impending separation growing heavier with each passing minute. I find myself memorizing details, the specific blue of his eyes, the pattern of freckles across his nose, the way his hand curls around his coffee cup. Data points I want to preserve with perfect accuracy.
"You know," Owen says as he collects our empty plates, "I'm curious. Has your view on humans changed at all since Iarrived? Still think we're all environmental disasters waiting to happen?"
The question is casual, but I can hear the undercurrent beneath it. Something important lies in my answer.
I consider his question carefully. "My assessment has... evolved," I admit. "I previously viewed humans as a monolithic entity defined by your species' historical environmental impact. I now recognize that was an oversimplification."
"An oversimplification," he repeats, a small smile playing at his lips. "That's scientist-speak for 'I was wrong,' isn't it?"
"It is scientist-speak for 'my data set was incomplete,'" I correct, though I find myself returning his smile. "Individual humans, it seems, can demonstrate environmental awareness and respect that contradicts the broader patterns of your species' behavior."
"Individual humans like me?" he asks, turning back to place the dishes in the recycling unit.
"Perhaps," I concede. "Your approach to healing, both in your medical work and in how you interact with your surroundings, has challenged several of my assumptions."
He turns back to face me, his expression more serious now. "But not enough to change your conclusion about human-Nereidan compatibility."
It's not quite a question, but I feel compelled to answer anyway. "The assessment has multiple parameters. Environmental impact concerns are just one factor among many."
I hesitate, then decide scientific honesty requires me to share my actual findings. "My data indicates that our world could sustainably integrate humans in limited numbers, perhaps equal to five percent of our current population, but no more than that. The resource allocation would be manageable with proper protocols."
Owen raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised by this admission. "That's... not what I expected you to say."
"It is not what I expected to conclude," I admit. "But the data is clear. The environmental impact would be sustainable if carefully managed."
"Then why—" he begins, but stops himself. "Right. Protocol."
But there's something in his voice, disappointment, acceptance, that makes my chest tighten uncomfortably.
"Ry'eth," he says after a moment, turning back to face me, my full name carefully pronounced. "I want you to know that I—"
"Ry," I interrupt, the word emerging before I can analyze its implications.
He stops, confusion crossing his features. "What?"
"You can call me Ry," I clarify, my skin glowing with the significance of what I'm offering. "Just you."
Understanding dawns in his expression, followed by something softer, warmer. He knows what this means, how I've corrected everyone, even my brothers, when they've attempted to shorten my name. It's a small thing, perhaps insignificant in the grand scheme of our temporary connection, but it feels important to give him this.
"Ry," he repeats, the single syllable somehow conveying more than my full name ever has. "I like that."
The ship's navigation system chimes, a three-tone sequence that indicates final approach to orbital positioning. The sound cuts through the moment like a physical presence, reminding us both of the countdown we've been trying to ignore.
"I should complete the final approach calculations," I say, not moving from where I stand.
"Yeah," Owen agrees, also making no move to leave. "And I should probably change back into the clothes I arrivedin. Just my underwear, exactly how you found me. Full circle, right?"
The reminder of how he arrived, disoriented, angry, nearly naked, contrasted with the person standing before me now creates an unexpected ache in my chest. Neither of us moves. For a moment, we simply look at each other across the small space of the nutrition center, Earth looming ever larger in the window beside us.
"Thank you," I say finally. "For breakfast. And for... everything else."
It's inadequate, this expression of gratitude. It doesn't encompass what I want to say, what I'm still not sure I understand enough to articulate. How do you thank someone for changing the way you see the world? For challenging assumptions you didn't even realize you held? For making you question the path you've walked your entire life?
"Anytime," Owen replies, his smile carrying the same inadequacy, the same weight of things unsaid. "Thanks for the company. And the... everything else."
The parallels in our speech patterns would be fascinating from a linguistic perspective, I think distantly. Another data point to add to my collection.
