Cyro #2
“You wonderful alien genius,” she murmured against my neck, her warm breath causing localized temperature increases that spread rapidly throughout my form. “You just saved my farm.”
Tammy practically floated beside me as we made our way back to the cottage, her steps light and bouncing in a manner I’d never observed before.
Her biochemical signature had shifted dramatically—endorphins and dopamine flooding her system at levels that registered clearly even to my muted terrestrial sensory organs.
She talked rapidly, words spilling out about breeding schedules, foal preparations, and market values that would mean little to most humans but represented something profound: hope.
The achievement of facilitating equine reproduction paled in comparison to my satisfaction at witnessing her transformation from despair to elation.
“We have to celebrate,” she declared as we entered her dwelling. “This calls for the good stuff.”
I followed her into the kitchen, a space I’d come to find oddly comforting despite its primitive cooking technology. The afternoon sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, creating patterns across the worn wooden floor that reminded me of light refractions in our oceanic cities.
“I’ve been saving this for exactly this moment,” Tammy announced, pulling open the refrigeration unit and reaching far into its recesses. She emerged triumphant with a green bottle covered in a thin layer of dust. “Champagne. The real deal, not the cheap stuff.”
I examined the object curiously. “This contains the fermented fruit beverage that causes mild neurological impairment in humans?”
She laughed—a sound I’d begun cataloguing in different categories based on pitch and duration. This was her genuine amusement laugh, the one that made the corners of her eyes crinkle in a manner I found inexplicably fascinating.
“That’s one way of describing it. But mostly, it’s for special occasions.
” She stretched upward toward a high cabinet, her form elongating in a way that drew my attention to the anatomical proportions I’d been studying with increasing interest. Her fingertips barely brushed the glass vessels she sought.
Dust particles danced in the slanting sunbeams as she struggled.
I could have assisted—should have offered assistance—but found myself momentarily transfixed by the way the light caught in her red hair, creating variations in hue from copper to deep crimson that no synthetic pigment on my world could replicate.
“Almost... got... them,” she muttered, finally managing to grasp two long-stemmed glasses. She turned toward me with a victorious smile; the transparent vessels held aloft like trophies.
Just as she moved toward the counter where the bottle waited, a sharp electronic tone cut through the moment. Her communication device, which she called a “rotary phone,” emitted its demanding summons from where it melded with the wall.
“Hold these,” she said, transferring the delicate glasses to my hands. I accepted them carefully, aware of how easily human craftsmanship could be damaged by my superior strength.
Tammy walked over to the phone and lifted the receiver. She pressed the device to her ear. “Hello, this is Tammy Tucker.”
I observed a remarkable transformation occur over the next seventy-four seconds.
The jubilant, confident woman who had stood before me moments ago seemed to physically diminish.
Her shoulders curved inward, her spine losing its proud posture.
The blood vessels in her face constricted, draining color from her cheeks and leaving her freckles in stark relief against suddenly pale skin.
“But that’s not what the last notice said,” she said, her voice tightening. “Three more weeks... Yes, I understand market rates have changed, but...” Her fingers whitened around the device, knuckles protruding sharply. “I see.”
I set down the glasses, calculating the optimal position for maximum stability on the uneven surface, while maintaining auditory focus on Tammy’s conversation.
“What about the agricultural extension program? Someone mentioned that last month,” she asked, a hollow quality entering her voice.
“Right. Yes. I understand.” She paced in a small circle, her free hand moving to her hair, tugging at strands in what I recognized as a stress response.
“I can bring the mortgage mostly up to date, but I’ll need to use the money I’d set aside for veterinary expenses. ”
The conversation continued for another two minutes and seventeen seconds, filled with financial terminology I made note of for later research. Throughout, Tammy’s vital signs indicated increasing distress—elevated heart rate, shallow breathing, perspiration at her temples.
When she finally pushed the phone back onto the wall, her entire demeanor had transformed. The celebration that had propelled us from the stables had evaporated completely, replaced by a heavy and desperate aura. It seemed to pull her physically toward Earth’s gravity.
“What has occurred?” I inquired, modulating my voice to what my research indicated was an appropriate tone for expressing concern.
Tammy stared at the champagne bottle, no longer reaching for it. “They’re moving up the timeline. They spoke some bullshit Latin about risk assessment and current market values.” She inhaled shakily. “They want their money now, or they start foreclosure next week.”
The unfamiliar term required clarification. “Foreclosure?”
“They take my ranch,” she translated, her voice breaking on the final word. “Everything. The horses, the house, the land. All of it.”
I processed this information, analyzing its implications against what I knew of Tammy’s psychological attachment to this place. “But the breeding success—does this not resolve the financial distress?”
“Not fast enough.” She slumped against the counter; eyes fixed on some distant point outside the window. “A foal takes eleven months to develop. The bank wants their money way before that.”
A sensation spread through my chest cavity; it was strange, yet similar to the pressure changes experienced during rapid deep-sea descents. I identified it, after brief analysis, as protectiveness mingled with distress on her behalf.
“I really hope you’ve fixed my horses, Cyro,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “If I lose everything, if Derek wins and I’m a waste of oxygen, then I don’t know what I’ll do.”
The despair in her voice activated involuntary responses in my physiology.
Without conscious decision, I moved toward her, extending my arms in the human comfort gesture I’d observed.
She didn’t resist as I enfolded her against my chest, her smaller frame fitting against my constructed human form with surprising complementarity.
“Do not call yourself a waste of oxygen, Tammy,” I said firmly, feeling my control over my human disguise waver as emotion disrupted my concentration.
Two tentacles emerged from beneath my shirt, wrapping gently around her back in an instinctive protective gesture.
“You deserve every life-supporting inhalation you take. And your ex-mate is the one who deserves deprivation of air.”
She didn’t recoil from the revealed appendages, instead leaning further into my embrace. I felt moisture against my chest—saline secretions from her lacrimal ducts that indicated extreme emotional distress. The dampness triggered protective urges that seemed to bypass my rational thought processes.
Our moment of connection was abruptly severed by an aggressive, rhythmic sound from outside—short, sharp blasts of audio disturbance that my sensors identified as a vehicle’s signaling system.
Tammy stiffened in my arms, her respiratory pattern shifting instantly from distress to alert fear. “That’s Derek’s truck,” she whispered, her hands clutching at my shirt. “He always honks three times, then waits ten seconds, then honks again.”
As if summoned by her description, another series of honks pierced the afternoon quiet.
My tentacles tightened around her instinctively, the protective suckers extending slightly against the fabric of her shirt. I felt a surge of unfamiliar hostility toward this unseen human male who had caused Tammy such distress.
“Do not worry, Tammy,” I assured her, my voice dropping to a lower register as my specialized vocal apparatus prepared for potential confrontation signals. “We will ensure he does not distress you again.”
The honking came once more, more insistent this time. Tammy pulled back slightly, looking up at me with those remarkable blue eyes now reddened from her tears.
“He’s not going to go away,” she said, resignation heavy in her voice. “He never does.”
“Then perhaps,” I replied, allowing my tentacles to become fully visible as they unfurled to their impressive length, “it is time he learned about persistence from a species that has perfected it across seventeen star systems.”