Secretly Abducted (Nereidan Compatibility Program #5)

Chapter One

Vel'aan

The morning current is stronger than usual, pushing warm water up from the thermal vents below.

I adjust my position among the zhik'ra strands, letting the flow carry me along the inspection route I've followed for ten years.

The same route. The same zhik'ra. The same peaceful solitude that asks nothing of me except competent agricultural management.

A school of silver-finned swimmers darts past, their bioluminescence flickering in greeting—quick pulses of blue-white that mean "good morning, familiar presence.

" I flicker back absently, just enough to acknowledge without inviting interaction.

They've learned over the years that I'm not particularly social, even by zhik'ra farmer standards.

Ten years. Has it really been that long?

I check the holdfasts on the mature stalks, running my fingers along the thick base where they anchor to the sea floor.

Strong attachment, no signs of decay. The genetic modifications we introduced three seasons ago are holding well—better nutrient absorption, faster growth, more resistance to the seasonal temperature fluctuations.

A success I can't even properly celebrate because it would mean publishing findings, presenting to the Agricultural Council, seeing former colleagues who still wonder why I abandoned a promising research career for common plants.

"Vel'aan has such potential," they used to say. "Youngest researcher ever assigned to the program. His family must be so proud."

My family doesn't mention my career changes anymore.

They've stopped asking when I'll return to "real" research.

My creator-parents call once a month, talk about safe topics—weather patterns, my siblings' achievements, anything but why their formerly ambitious son now tends zhik'ra in self-imposed exile.

I swim deeper, checking the newer growth in Section C.

A juvenile crawler has wrapped itself around one of the younger stalks, probably confused by the unusual warmth of the current.

I gently untangle it, careful not to damage its delicate appendages, and guide it toward the rocky outcropping where the mollusk colonies grow.

Wrong kind of plant for what it needs, little one.

It flashes grateful orange before scuttling away. Such a simple interaction—a creature in the wrong place, gently redirected to where it belongs. No trauma. No lasting damage. Just a small mistake, easily corrected.

Not like other mistakes. Not like the one that haunts me every time I close my eyes.

I shake my head, diving deeper to escape my own thoughts.

The zhik'ra is thickest here, creating an underwater forest that blocks most of the sunlight.

It's peaceful in a way that the research vessels never were—no artificial lights, no beeping monitors, no assessment parameters to meet.

Just the gentle sway of massive fronds and the occasional curious fish.

The agricultural district was the perfect choice for someone who wanted to disappear. No one expects innovation from zhik'ra farmers. No one asks why you're not living up to your potential. You show up, you tend your sections, you meet your harvest quotas, and everyone leaves you alone.

Exactly what I wanted. Exactly what I deserved.

My scanner beeps—a routine reminder that I've been under for thirty minutes. Not that it matters with gills, but the device doesn't know that. It's calibrated for standard agricultural work periods, assuming farmers take regular breaks for equipment checks and data logging.

I surface anyway, more out of habit than necessity.

The suns are higher now, warming the air enough that steam rises from the water's surface.

The cultivation platforms bob gently in the distance, other farmers already starting their morning routines.

I recognize Kar'vel's distinctive green-tinted bioluminescence two sections over.

She waves—a friendly gesture I return without enthusiasm.

She tried, in the beginning. Invited me to social gatherings, asked about my previous work, attempted to draw me into the farming community. But I mastered the art of polite deflection, of being just unfriendly enough that people stopped trying without actually causing offense.

"Vel'aan keeps to himself," they say now. "Excellent farmer, though. His sections always exceed quota."

Of course they do. When you have nothing else in your life, it's easy to be excellent at the one thing you allow yourself.

I pull myself onto my equipment platform—a small floating dock where I keep supplements for the zhik'ra, scanning equipment, and the few personal items I bring to work. My communication device sits where I left it, supposedly waterproof but I've never trusted it enough to test that claim.

No messages. There never are.

I document the morning's observations in my log, noting the strong current, the healthy attachment points, the displaced crawler. Mundane details that no one will ever read, but the routine is soothing. Data entry without stakes. Research without risk.

The memory surfaces without warning, the way it always does when I let my guard down.

A human boy, barely grown, writhing in the containment field. Sweat pouring down his face despite optimal temperature controls. His voice, broken and desperate: "Please, I need... Molly, please, Molly..."

My hands shaking over the medical controls, seeing readings I didn't understand, watching systems fail and recover and fail again. The way he curled into himself, arms wrapped around his stomach, sobbing.

Hours and hours of hell. Of checking his vitals every few minutes, certain each time that I'd find him dead. Of playing every piece of Earth music in the database, hoping something might comfort him. Of singing Nereidan lullabies when nothing else worked, my voice cracking with exhaustion and fear.

The relief when he finally slept. Real sleep, not the fitful unconsciousness of the first two days. The way his breathing evened out, his temperature stabilized.

Returning him to Earth and filing a report so vague it barely qualified as documentation until the council pressed me for information. They hadn't understood. No one could.

I close my eyes, letting the sun warm my face while guilt churns in my stomach.

Ten years, and the memory hasn't faded. If anything, it's gotten sharper, more detailed.

I remember the exact shade of his skin when the fever spiked.

The way his hands trembled. The moment his eyes focused on me, really saw me, before closing again in exhaustion.

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 nutrient levels, 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 into obscurity 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.