36. Vantor, Cyro, & Kalith #2
“It’s ridiculous how they have both adopted pet creatures on this planet, as if we can stay,” I murmured, the words escaping before I could analyze their true source.
Kalith had his feline companion “Manji 2,” an Earth cat with striped fur and remarkable climbing abilities that had somehow migrated from a neighboring farm directly into our youngest crew mate’s affections.
And now Vantor with his raccoon, a creature that should be classified as a nuisance according to multiple human ecological management texts I’d studied in our database.
They were forming attachments to a world we would soon leave behind.
A world we were never meant to inhabit in the first place.
Our mission parameters had been clear: collect water samples from Earth’s deepest oceans, analyze their chemical composition, and return with data that might help our scientists reverse the catastrophic evaporation plaguing our home world.
Nowhere in those parameters had there been instructions to crash-land in the middle of a rural area called “Kansas,” to integrate with the local fauna, or to form pair-bonds with native sentient life forms.
A soft nickering sound drew my attention away from the window.
I turned to find myself observed by gentle, dark eyes set in a mottled gray face.
Artie, the elderly Appaloosa, watched me from his stall with the placid patience that seemed his defining characteristic.
Unlike the younger horses—the temperamental Mystery with his mahogany coat or the spirited Sassafras with her chestnut coloring—Artie never demanded attention.
He simply waited, as if time were an infinite resource available for his casual consumption.
I moved toward him, my steps measured and deliberate as I maintained my human form.
The disguise had become almost second nature now, requiring minimal conscious effort to sustain.
Only when my emotions ran particularly high did the camouflage falter, revealing patches of my true skin beneath the human facade.
“Good morning, ancient equine specimen,” I greeted him.
Artie’s ears flicked forward at the sound of my voice, his gaze remaining fixed on me.
I might be deluding myself, but I liked to imagine there was genuine affection in his eyes, that this horse had accepted me fully—in all my forms—just as Tammy had.
My relationship with the older equine differed greatly from my interactions with the other two.
Mystery and Sassafras represented challenges—their breeding difficulties had provided an opportunity to apply xenobiological principles to Earth fauna, resulting in what looked like a successful mating.
Their genetic recombination, if it produced viable offspring, would serve Tammy’s financial needs while simultaneously satisfying my intellectual curiosity.
But Artie... Artie served no scientific purpose. His advanced age made him reproductively irrelevant. His docile temperament offered limited insights into equine behavioral patterns. By all objective metrics, he was the least valuable horse on the property.
Yet I found myself drawn to his stall each morning, seeking those moments of quiet communion that seemed to transcend our biological differences.
Perhaps it was the way he accepted me without question, showing no fear of my alien scent or occasionally slipping disguise.
Perhaps it was the gentle rhythm of his breathing that reminded me of the tidal patterns of my home world’s shallow coastal regions.
Perhaps it was simply that he asked nothing of me beyond my presence.
I moved to the airtight container where Tammy stored sugar cubes—a crystallized carbohydrate that seemed to function as a universal reward system for her equine charges.
The container’s seal had been enhanced with materials from our ship, ensuring that moisture couldn’t deteriorate the contents.
Another small way I had integrated our technology into her world, leaving invisible traces of our presence that would remain long after we departed.
The thought sent an unexpected ripple of color across my neck, a momentary lapse in my human disguise that reflected emotional disturbance I couldn’t quite suppress. I extracted two white cubes and returned to Artie’s stall, extending my palm flat as Tammy had taught me.
“Your supplement, elder equine,” I offered.
Artie’s lips, soft and surprisingly dexterous, tickled against my palm as he delicately collected the treats.
The sensation triggered a cascade of sensory data that my analytical mind automatically cataloged.
At the same time a deeper part of me simply wanted to experience the moment for what it was: connection.
I raised my other hand to stroke his forehead, fingers tracing the irregular pattern of darker spots that gave his breed its name.
Simultaneously, I allowed a tentacle to emerge discreetly from beneath the back of my shirt, extending it toward the shelf where grooming tools were stored.
The appendage selected a curry brush with the practiced ease of repeated motion, bringing it around to my waiting human hand while maintaining the illusion that I had simply reached for it normally.
These small deceptions had become routine—maintaining human appearance while utilizing my natural appendages for convenience. Another adaptation to this temporary existence on Earth, another sign of how thoroughly we had integrated into a world we must eventually abandon.
As I began brushing Artie’s coat in slow, circular motions, the elderly horse leaned into the pressure with evident pleasure.
His eyes half-closed, his lower lip drooping slightly in what Tammy called his “bliss face.” The repetitive motion soothed us both—my natural bioluminescence dimming to soft pastels beneath my skin as tension I hadn’t realized I was carrying gradually released.
“I have grown inappropriately attached to you,” I informed Artie quietly. “This represents a significant breach of the objectivity that defines an uncompromised scientist.”
The horse snorted softly, as if dismissing the importance of remaining true to my training.
As I continued grooming, dust motes dancing in the sunlight that streamed through the stable windows, a realization crystallized with uncomfortable clarity: I was no different than Vantor with his raccoon or Kalith with his cat.
In fact, I was worse. I had formed attachments not to one Earth creature, but to three—Mystery, Sassafras, and Artie.
Four, if I included Tammy herself, which my biochemistry insisted on doing with increasing urgency since our bonding.
The magnitude of this attachment settled over me like a heavy weight, pressing against my respiratory chambers and making it difficult to maintain optimal oxygen exchange.
My people were suffering on our distant world, their once-vibrant ocean homes evaporating into toxic wastelands while I stood in an Earth stable, brushing an Earth horse and contemplating ways to extend my stay on this planet that was never meant to be my home.
“I have a planet to save, Artie,” I whispered, leaning my forehead against his warm neck. “I couldn’t stay, even if I wanted to.”
The words tasted bitter in my mouth, their truthfulness doing nothing to ease the hollow sensation that expanded within my central cavity.
My mission was clear. My duty was undeniable.
The water samples we had finally collected from Earth’s Mariana Trench could hold the key to saving millions of my species.
Yet as Artie’s steady heartbeat pulsed against my skin, as the scent of hay and horse and Earth filled my specialized respiratory system, as memories of Tammy’s laughter echoed through my consciousness, I found myself calculating—not for the first time—just how long we could delay our departure before mission failure became inevitable.
The answer, like a countdown clock I couldn’t silence, ticked relentlessly forward: not long enough. Never long enough.
KALITH
I couldn’t postpone it any longer. The final repair component sat before me, its molecular structure mocking my reluctance with perfect, efficient design.
For days, I’d invented excuses—calibrations that needed additional refinement, diagnostic sequences that required multiple verifications, hull integrity tests that could be run again and again with marginally different parameters.
But Cyro had grown suspicious, especially after discovering the cache of components I’d salvaged weeks ago from cargo.
Components that would make our ship flight-worthy again.
Components I’d hidden beneath spare parts and tools, as if their very existence was a betrayal of the life I’d begun to imagine for myself here on Earth.
“Just a few more minutes,” I murmured to myself, reaching for the container of gelatin milk paste with my shorter tentacle. The appendage trembled slightly, betraying my emotional state despite my best efforts to maintain a high level of precision.
Cyro had confronted me yesterday, barely masking his accusation.
“The propulsion system diagnostics indicate all functional components are present in storage bay three,” he had said, silver eyes fixing on mine with uncomfortable intensity.
“Yet you reported that the tertiary navigational array still required replacement parts.”
I’d fumbled through an explanation about compatibility issues and recalibration needs—technical jargon designed to confuse rather than clarify. Cyro hadn’t believed me. How could he? We’d been mission partners for too long; he knew when I was creating solutions and when I was creating problems.