Page 70 of Technically Abducted
I should return to work. Submit myself for psychological evaluation and accept whatever treatment protocols are recommended for managing inappropriate attachment responses. Resume my professional duties and contribute meaningfully to Nereidan advancement rather than wallowing in self-pity over a connection that was never sustainable.
But the thought of returning to systematic analysis and technical documentation feels like contemplating a lifetime of gray emptiness. How do I go back to my previous existence when I now understand what connection can feel like? How do I find satisfaction in solitary achievements when I have experienced the joy of sharing discoveries with someone who sees the universe through completely different frameworks?
The family group moves further down the beach, their laughter carrying on the thermal currents. I remain alone with the perfect waves and ideal climate of Sil'than, attempting to heal from something that cannot be healed.
My creator-parents will continue their attempts at contact until I respond. Eventually, they will involve administrative channels and I will be required to provide explanations for my unusual behavior. I will need to fabricate appropriate justifications—stress from deep-space assignment, adjustment difficulties, routine psychological maintenance.
I will not tell them about Finn. I will not explain that their offspring has experienced perfect connection and lost it, that I am attempting to rebuild my functionality around a permanent absence. There is no point in sharing information that would only create concern without providing solutions.
The bond exists. Finn is gone. These are facts that cannot be altered by discussion or administrative intervention.
So I lie on the thermal sands of Sil'than and imagine sharing this beauty with someone who chose my sky over his own familiar stars, someone who trusted me with his fears and called me Blue with affection rather than clinical description.
The waves continue their perfect rhythm, the suns paint new patterns across the water, and I remain alone with the knowledge that paradise means nothing without someone to share it with.
Tomorrow I will compose responses to my creator-parents' messages. I will return to my assignment and complete my professional duties with appropriate efficiency. I will function as I always have, with precision and dedication to Nereidan advancement.
But tonight, I allow myself to remember the way Finn looked when he first saw my homeworld's stars, and I wish with every fiber of my being that he could see this beach, these waters, this light that makes everything beautiful.
Even if wishing changes nothing at all.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Finn
"This is either brilliant or completely insane," I say, watching Alex's fingers fly across his keyboard as he adds another layer to our digital message.
"Why not both?" Alex grins without looking up from his screen. "The best plans usually are."
It's been a week since the revelation about Alex's abduction, and we've spent every evening since then hunched over our computers, building something that's guaranteed to get alien attention. The plan is elegantly simple in concept, terrifyingly complex in execution: create a self-replicating program that spreads our message through every system we have legitimate access to, ensuring it can't be contained or quietly swept under the rug.
"Remind me again why we're not just posting 'I was abducted by aliens' on social media like every other conspiracy theorist?" I ask, taking a sip of coffee that's gone cold hours ago.
"Because social media gets dismissed as crazy people looking for attention," Alex replies, still typing. "This is different. This spreads through actual infrastructure networks, using our legitimate client access points. Every system we've ever worked on becomes a distribution node."
A few of the gems sit on my desk between our laptops, their alien beauty a constant reminder of what this is really about. I'd kept three as mementos and sold the rest—enough money to set up my clients for years. The transfers went out three days ago, donations that let Rosa upgrade her entire restaurant system, gave Juniper the capital to expand her business, and provided safety nets for all the others who'd depended on me. They needed to be taken care of, no matter what happened to me.
"You know this is going to burn our entire lives to the ground, right?" I say, watching Alex refine the replication algorithm. "If this works, if it gets their attention, we can't exactly go back to normal afterward."
"What normal?" Alex looks up at me with an expression that's half-desperate, half-determined. "You think you're going back to normal after what happened? You think I can keep pretending that decade-old 'hallucination' was just my brain misfiring?"
He's right, of course. The past month has been an exercise in going through the motions while feeling like I'm sleepwalking through someone else's life. Every client call, every system repair, every mundane interaction with the human world feels hollow and meaningless compared to three days of genuine connection with someone who saw the universe through completely different eyes.
"Fair point," I concede. "So walk me through it one more time. Make sure we're not missing anything."
Alex cracks his knuckles and points to his primary monitor. "We deploy the code through every client system we have access to—restaurants, online stores, small businesses, all connected to larger networks. The program replicates and spreads organically, using normal internet infrastructure."
"Like a virus, but with a message instead of malicious payload," I nod.
"Exactly. It doesn't damage anything, just displays our message and then copies itself to connected systems. Within hours, it'll be everywhere—corporate networks, government systems, research institutions. Impossible to contain once it starts spreading."
"And the message?"
Alex pulls up the text we've been refining all week: "Assessment subject Finn Sullivan was returned to Earth afterforming an empathic bond with researcher Tev'ra. Minor was abducted ten years ago by inexperienced Nereidan. We demand answers about unauthorized alien contact programs."
I study the words that represent our digital declaration of war. "You think mentioning the minor thing will get their attention?"
"Finn, if there's one thing that'll make them panic, it's the suggestion that someone took a kid without authorization. That's the kind of protocol violation that would have their entire oversight system scrambling for answers. At least that's what I'm assuming."
