20. Cyreus
Cyreus
TWENTY
I detect the vibrations before Meri does—propellers cutting through water, still distant but approaching. After a century in Earth's oceans, I recognize the distinct signature: Coast Guard.
Meri doesn't question. She's learned to trust my senses. "How long?"
"Fifteen minutes before visual range." I help load artifacts onto the dive platform, my tentacles making quick work of what would take her several trips. "Enough time if we hurry."
She climbs aboard with practiced efficiency, stowing our valuable finds in the hidden compartment beneath the deck. I remain in the water, watching the horizon where a white shape appears .
"You should go," she says, glancing in the same direction. "I'll lead them away, make it look like a pleasure cruise."
"I'll follow beneath you." The thought of leaving her unprotected, even though she handled these encounters for years before me, feels wrong.
Her smile mixes exasperation with affection. "Fine, but stay deep. Their sonar might pick you up if you're too close."
I prepare to descend, but she leans over the rail. "Meet me at the cove tonight?"
"Of course." I note the hesitation in her voice, sensing something specific on her mind. "The usual time?"
"Eight o'clock." She glances at the approaching vessel. "Now go."
I slip beneath the surface as Meri starts her engine, watching her steer away at casual speed—not fleeing, just a boater enjoying the afternoon. The patrol boat adjusts course to intercept, but it's clearly routine.
Still, I follow at a distance. The thought is almost laughable—what would I do? Rise up like some sea monster to frighten them away? Reveal myself after a century of careful concealment?
The patrol boat catches up about a mile from our site. I rise close enough to hear standard questions about destination and purpose, which she answers with practiced ease. They check her documentation, warn about weather, then continue their route .
When they're beyond visual range, I surface to find Meri waiting, amused.
"You didn't need to follow me," she says. "I've been handling the Coast Guard for years."
"I know." I shift partially to human form, arms resting on the platform while my lower half remains tentacled. "Consider it a personality flaw."
"I find it endearing, if unnecessary." She touches my face casually, an intimacy that still amazes me. "Good finds today. The silver service alone covers my slip fees for three months."
"Your business is improving?"
"Thanks to you." She checks her navigation display. "I should head back. Fergus expects me by five."
We part ways—Meri toward harbor, myself toward deeper waters. My mind drifts back across decades to memories carefully submerged beneath time and solitude.
The crash. Desperate months searching for survivors. Years attempting to repair unsalvageable communication systems. The gradual, agonizing acceptance that no rescue would come.
***
By the time I reach our meeting cove, twilight casts indigo and gold across the water. Deep Pockets is already anchored, cabin lights glowing. Meri emerges at my approach, descending to the swim platform with two steaming mugs .
"Thought you might like tea," she says, setting them down and sitting on the platform. She's dressed warmly, because winter is approaching fast.
"Thank you." I shift to human form and join her on the platform, accepting the drink. "How was Fergus?"
"Profitable." She leans against my shoulder. "And interesting. He's asking questions about how I'm finding such high-quality artifacts lately."
"What did you tell him?"
"That I've developed new techniques." She sips her tea, watching me. "Not even a lie, really. Partnership with you is definitely a new technique."
I smile, appreciating her ability to navigate our complex situation without compromising her integrity or my security—practical wisdom complementing her adventurous spirit.
We sit in comfortable silence, watching stars emerge. I find my gaze drawn upward more than usual, thoughts drifting to the vast distances between worlds.
"There's something I've been wanting to ask you," Meri says quietly. "Why hasn't anyone come looking for you? Your people, I mean. It's been almost a century."
The question I've asked myself countless times. I feel a familiar weight settle in my chest—not surprise at her inquiry, but the eternal ache of knowing the answer.
"The simplest explanation is distance," I begin, gathering thoughts I've turned over endlessly during solitude. "Agual V orbits a star system you haven't discovered yet, roughly eight hundred light-years from Earth. Even with our most advanced vessels, the journey takes twenty-two Earth years."
"Twenty-two years?" Her eyes widen. "That's how long it took you to get here?"
"Yes. I left as a young explorer." I remember the excitement of departure, the honor of being chosen for first contact. "Our vessel carried twelve crew, the minimum necessary, with life support as needed."
"If something went wrong, like a crash—"
"Our protocols were clear. The departure window allowed for a maximum round-trip of sixty years, including observation and contact. If a mission failed to return or communicate within that timeframe, it was classified as lost."
"And no rescue attempt?"
I shake my head. "Interstellar travel requires enormous resources. Rescue missions launch only when there's reasonable certainty of finding survivors and knowing the vessel's location."
"But surely they received some signal before the crash?"
"We sent confirmation of our approach to the solar system, but our next transmission would have been after establishing Earth orbit." I remember those final journey days, excitement growing as the blue planet appeared on sensors. "When that never came..."
"They knew something went wrong," she concludes.
"Yes, but not what or where. Space is vast. Finding a crashed vessel on a water-covered planet without beacons or distress signals..." I spread my hands. "The mathematics make it nearly impossible."
She's quiet, absorbing this. "So they just wrote you off? Classified the mission as lost and moved on?"
Her indignation on my behalf warms me despite the painful subject. "It's not as cold as it sounds. My people mourn deeply. But they're practical. Interstellar missions require difficult resource decisions."
"Still," she insists, "technology advances. Couldn't they send another mission with better chances of finding you?"
This requires cultural context she doesn't have. I choose my words carefully.
"My people evolved in deep ocean environments where resources are scattered and precious.
Our civilization developed around conservation and careful allocation.
" I look upward, thinking of home. "Space exploration represented our greatest collective expenditure.
Each mission required decades of preparation, diverting materials from other needs. "
"So it's economic?"
"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 Earth as 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 her eyes, 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 .
But here, on a planet I never intended to call home, I've found something unexpected—connection, purpose, and a strange new belonging that transcends the vast distances between worlds.
My people may never come looking for me. But for the first time since the crash, I'm no longer waiting to be found.