Page 2 of Secretly Abducted
I never even learned his name. He was supposed to be a routine assessment—a stray Earth animal, catalogued and returned. Instead I found myself responsible for a human child, watching him suffer through something I couldn't understand or fix.
Ten years of wondering. Ten years of guilt over a nameless boy whose agony I witnessed but couldn't prevent.
I return to the water, diving back into my zhik'ra forest where the currents are predictable and nothing depends on me understanding complex biological systems I was never trained for. The work is simple—check for parasites, adjust nutrientlevels, ensure proper spacing for optimal growth. No stakes beyond this season's harvest. No lives hanging in the balance.
The morning passes in comfortable routine. I remove some aggressive algae from Section B, thin out an overcrowded area in Section D, add supplemental nutrients to the newest plantings. My hands move automatically, muscle memory guiding me through tasks I've performed thousands of times.
By midday, I've covered most of my assigned area. Tomorrow I'll start harvesting the mature sections—honest, physical work that leaves me too exhausted to dream. The processing facilities are always eager for my harvests; the genetic modifications I've developed produce a higher protein content than standard zhik'ra. Another success I don't publicize.
I surface again near my platform, planning to eat the simple meal I packed this morning. But my communication device is blinking—a priority message indicator I haven't seen in years.
My stomach drops. Priority messages only come from two sources: family emergencies or the Council.
I check the sender. Council Member Kav'eth.
My hands shake as I open the message:
Report to Council Member Kav'eth immediately. Time-sensitive matter regarding previous research assignment.
Previous research assignment. The words blur as I read them again. And again.
They're bringing it up. After ten years of silence, of letting me disappear into agriculture, they're finally addressing what happened.
I pull myself onto the platform, water streaming from my body as I stare at the message. Time-sensitive. Immediate response required.
What's changed? The Council buried the incident, classified it as routine biological survey work, let me fade intoobscurity rather than deal with the complications. Why drag it back to the surface now?
My mind races through possibilities, each worse than the last. What if the human died and they're finally being forced to address it? What if Earth authorities have made inquiries? What if the program needs a scapegoat for past mistakes?
The end of even this simple life I've built looms ahead of me.
But running would be worse. Would confirm guilt. Would destroy any chance of explaining, of making them understand that I tried, I tried so hard to keep him safe.
I activate the return call, my finger hovering over the connect button for several breaths before I find the courage to press it.
"Vel'aan." Kav'eth's face appears on the screen, his expression carefully neutral. "Thank you for responding quickly."
"Councilor." My voice sounds steadier than I feel. "Your message mentioned my previous research?"
"Yes. I need you to come to my office immediately."
"Has something happened?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
"Something has happened, yes." He pauses, studying me through the screen. "The human you transported ten years ago is here."
The platform seems to tilt. The cultivation zone, the zhik'ra forest, everything I've built—it all feels suddenly insubstantial.
"His remains were discovered?" I manage to ask.
"No, Vel'aan." Something shifts in his expression—is that amusement? "He's here. Alive. On our planet. Part of the program, actually. He's asking questions about his experience."
Alive. The word doesn't make sense. Can't make sense.
"That's not possible."
"Very much possible. He arrived yesterday with another human—Finn Sullivan, who is partnered with Systems Specialist Tev'ra. He's quite insistent about finding the researcher who transported him a decade ago."
"To file charges?" My voice is barely a whisper.
