Page 20 of Technically Abducted
"Like amphibians," Finn says, still facing away. "You good now? Can I turn around?"
"Yes. I am appropriately covered." My uniform feels uncomfortably constricting against my freshly hydrated skin, but protocol requires proper attire in the presence of assessment subjects.
Finn turns, his gaze immediately drawn to my neck area. "Your gills are still visible. They were all sealed up before." He steps closer, examining me with undisguised interest that seems to be more than merely scientific curiosity. The proximity triggers another cascade of bioluminescence that I struggle to control.
I resist the urge to touch the now-exposed gill structures. "They will remain open for approximately forty minutes post-immersion to complete the hydration cycle. The protective membranes reseal automatically once the process is complete."
"Huh." He approaches again, his analytical gaze reminding me that he too is a technical specialist, albeit in a different field. "So you literally have to soak or you start to malfunction. That's why you looked like you were about to pass out earlier."
"Dehydration affects cognitive and physical performance, yes."
"And you put yourself through that just to meet the Council's twelve-hour deadline for babysitting me on Earth." He shakes his head. "That's some serious dedication to protocol."
I am uncertain how to respond to this observation. It seems to contain both criticism and something resembling respect, an ambiguity I find difficult to parse.
"So can humans actually use these pools?" Finn asks, changing the subject as he looks at the water again. "Or are they just for Nereidan use?"
"You may use them if you wish," I confirm. "According to the assessment records, previous human subjects have found the pools quite therapeutic. The mineral composition appears to have some beneficial properties for human physiology as well."
Finn glances at me, his expression suddenly sharper. "Previous human subjects? What happened to the last person you brought here?"
The question is unexpected. "I have not personally conducted a human assessment before. This is my first assignment with your species." I pause, then add what factual information I possess. "However, the previous human subjects in the program are all still alive and well, as far as I am aware."
"Well, that's reassuring," he mutters, turning back to the water. His fingers trail along the surface again. "It does look... nice."
There's something in his posture that suggests hesitation despite his apparent interest. I study him more carefully, noting subtle physiological signs of increased stress.
"However, I should note that the depth of the main immersion pool is significant. If you are not proficient in—"
"I can't swim," Finn interrupts, the words coming out with unexpected force.
This admission seems to cause him discomfort, his posture becoming more defensive. I find myself curious about this apparent vulnerability in someone otherwise so capable.
"There are shallower pools designed for partial immersion," I offer, uncertain why this feels like important information to provide.
Finn looks at the water again, then quickly shakes his head. "Maybe some other time."
An unexpected impulse causes me to say, "I could teach you. Swimming is a basic survival skill that all Nereidans learn in early development stages."
The moment the words leave my mouth, I recognize the protocol violation. Teaching survival skills is not part of the assessment parameters. It represents an inappropriate level of personal investment in the subject.
Yet I do not retract the offer.
Finn looks at me with surprise, then something that might be suspicion. "Why would you do that?"
"It would be... pragmatically beneficial for assessment purposes if you could access all facilities aboard the vessel," I say, constructing a justification that sounds reasonably aligned with my assignment. "Additionally, swimming is an essential survival skill for any species that inhabits planets with significant water coverage."
He studies me for a moment, as if trying to detect some hidden motive. Then he simply shrugs, offering no explanation for his lack of this basic skill. "I'll think about it."
"The offer remains open," I say, then redirect to assessment procedures. "Now that my hydration cycle is complete, we should proceed with the formal orientation and initial assessment protocols."
"Right. Back to business." Finn's gaze lingers on the water for a moment longer before he turns toward the exit. "Lead the way, Blue."
As we leave the hydration chamber, I find myself unexpectedly concerned with Finn Sullivan's reaction to the pools—the mixture of interest and apprehension, the defensiveness about his inability to swim. It represents a vulnerability at odds with his otherwise confident demeanor.
I should document this observation as potentially relevant to the assessment. Instead, I file it away as personalknowledge—something to be handled with care rather than clinical analysis.
This distinction troubles me. Professional detachment is essential for valid assessment procedures.
