Page 45 of Claimed By the Deep
"Partly. There's also philosophy." I search for human parallels. "You have a saying about eggs and baskets?"
"Don't put all your eggs in one basket."
"Exactly. We operate similarly with exploration. Small, carefully selected teams establish initial contact. Only after confirming a world's safety would larger contingents follow." I feel the familiar ache of mission failure. "Our crash classified Earthas potentially hazardous. Any follow-up would require extraordinary justification."
Meri works through the implications. "So even wanting to find you wouldn't overcome the risk assessment."
"Correct." The truth I've lived with for decades. "Add our observational data transmitted before the crash—showing unprecedented global warfare. We arrived in 1917, during your World War I. Our last transmission included industrial-scale killing, chemical weapons, millions of casualties across continents."
"Terrible timing for first impressions," she grimaces.
"Indeed. Earth appeared self-destructing. Nations deploying technologies specifically for maximum casualties, with no apparent ethical constraints." I remember our crew's horror observing the Western Front from orbit. "Any review would immediately classify Earth as too dangerous for contact, possibly for centuries."
She leans back, looking at stars with new understanding. "So distance, limited resources, risk assessment, and our own chaotic nature means no one's coming."
"That's the most likely reality. Even if another mission launched tomorrow, it would take twenty-two years to arrive."
"And they'd have no reason to expect you're still alive."
"None. They'd have no reason to expect anyone survived this long after a crash."
She nods, understanding. After a moment, she looks up at the stars, her expression thoughtful. The stars reflect on hereyes, fighting back tears. Humans are so emotional, after all. "Does it bother you?" she finally asks. "Knowing they classified your mission as lost and moved on?"
"It did, for many years," I admit. "The first decades were difficult. I maintained communication protocols long after knowing they were futile. I repaired what I could, created signal amplifiers from salvaged components, positioned beacons along the coastline."
I remember those lonely years—desperate hope that against all probability, someone might still be looking. The gradual acceptance that no one was coming. Slowly building a life in a world that would view me as monstrous if revealed.
"Eventually, I accepted reality. My people believe that when life veers from its expected course, it's an opportunity to discover new purpose." I gesture toward the ocean. "I found mine observing this world, documenting changes, occasionally helping without revealing myself."
"Until me," she says softly.
"Until you." I brush hair from her face, marveling how this one human changed everything. "The first person in a century who saw me—truly saw me—and didn't run. Who looked at something completely alien and called it beautiful."
Her eyes soften as she leans into my touch. "I meant it. You are beautiful."
"In your eyes, perhaps." I smile, old memories' ache fading in her presence. "And that has made all the difference."
She moves closer, arms around me as we watch stars reflect on water. We sit in comfortable silence, the weight of history and distance less crushing when shared.
"Thank you," she says eventually. "For telling me. For trusting me with this."
"You deserved to know." I rest my cheek against her hair, breathing in her scent—salt, and sun. "And it feels good speaking of these things after keeping them buried so long."
"Sharing your past, your pain. It builds connection." She looks up at me. "Between people. Or between a person and an alien, in our case."
I laugh, appreciating her ability to find humor in our extraordinary circumstances.
"You’ve been here over one-hundred years," she says, settling against me. "You must have seen incredible changes."
"Too many to recount in one evening."
"We have time." She yawns, the day's diving catching up with her. "Maybe not tonight, but... we have time."
The simple statement carries profound meaning. Time has been abundant in my solitude. But time shared, purposeful, connected—that has been my rarest resource.
"Yes," I agree, tightening my arms around her. "We have time."
As night deepens and Meri drifts to sleep against my chest, I look up at distant stars with new perspective. Somewhere lies the world I came from, the people who sent me and eventually accepted my loss as exploration's cost.
