36. Vantor, Cyro, & Kalith #3
The truth was simpler and more complicated: I didn’t want to leave.
I didn’t want to fix the ship. Each repair brought us closer to departure, closer to saying goodbye to Tammy, closer to returning to an ocean world where my tentacular dysfunction would once again mark me as different, deficient, less than optimal.
Here, in this primitive structure housing our advanced technology, my differently abled tentacle was just another part of me that Tammy accepted without question.
She even seemed to find it endearing, often seeking it out specifically for gentle caresses against her cheek or to twine around her smallest finger.
The thought of her sent a deep forest green pulsing across my skin before I could check it, momentarily disrupting my human disguise.
I forced myself back to the task at hand, dipping three primary tentacles into the container of gelatin milk paste.
The substance—a biomechanical polymer with self-regulating properties—coated my appendages in a thin, translucent layer.
With practiced movements, I began applying it to the sensor array, creating the adhesive base that would bond with the soft alloy I’d finally retrieved from storage.
Each stroke of paste felt like sealing away possibility. Each careful application brought us closer to flight capability. Each methodical motion was an act of self-betrayal.
A soft “mrrp” sound drew my attention to the command chair, where Manji had made herself comfortable.
The cat watched me with half-lidded amber eyes, her tail occasionally flicking with what I’d come to recognize as contented interest. She’d appeared at the barn door three weeks ago, immediately claiming me as her human despite my complete lack of qualifications for the role.
“Just finishing the job that I never wanted to complete,” I told her, reaching for Alloy 54—softer than its Alloy 626 counterpart, but far more conductive—with my primary appendages while my shorter tentacle continued applying paste to the delicate sensors.
“Cyro discovered the repair components I’d hidden. He knows I’ve been stalling.”
Manji yawned in response, pink tongue curling in a tiny display of feline unconcern.
Though I’d originally called her Manji 2 to distinguish her from Manji 1 back home, I found myself often abandoning the numeric designation.
The cat was simply Manji. My Manji. An Earth creature who had somehow recognized the alien beneath the human facade and decided to stay anyway.
Besides, she had the same kind of spirit as my pet Tartulus, like they were the same souls split across two planets.
I truly wished I could make a translating device work with the feline and have meaningful conversations with her.
It had surprised me when Vantor approached me with the same desire for his animal coined Hoover.
I rolled the soft alloy within the curl of my tentacle, and it began to warm and soften further.
When Alloy 54 met another substance, assuming that substance was mostly inorganic, it would harden while maintaining the flexibility needed to resist gravitational stresses.
It had taken our scientists years to develop.
The alloy’s silvery surface caught the light filtering through the barn windows.
It gleamed, shifting copper. It reminded me so much of Tammy’s hair when sunlight struck it at certain angles that my breath caught.
I was so distracted by the thought of Tammy—of her laughter, of her resilience, of the way she’d looked at us with wonder instead of fear when she’d discovered our true forms—that I didn’t notice how close I’d positioned myself to the control panel above.
As I sat up to reach for another tool, my head slammed into the unyielding metal with an impact that sent stars exploding across my vision.
“Ghhkkk!” The sound that emerged from my speech orifice was purely cephalopod, my human vocalization temporarily forgotten as pain radiated through my skull.
Two tentacles immediately shot up to press against the injured area, seeking to alleviate the throbbing.
The ridiculousness of the situation wasn’t lost on me—my head had still been in human form, an illusion of vulnerable bone and thin skin, while my true head—which would have been cushioned against such an impact by its natural resilience—remained hidden beneath.
Yet the pain was real enough. My body had adapted so completely to this human disguise that it sometimes forgot its own superior design.
“What a mess,” I mumbled, sinking back onto my work platform. “How can everything I want out of life change so drastically in such a short time, Manji?”
The cat blinked slowly in response; a gesture I’d learned signified affection in feline communication. She rose from her curled position, stretching with elaborate precision before leaping down from the command chair and padding toward me. Her soft paws made no sound on the metal flooring.
I sat up more carefully this time, extending my shorter tentacle to curve beneath Manji’s warm body.
With gentle precision, I lifted her from the floor and brought her to my chest, where she immediately began vibrating with that remarkable Earth adaptation called “purring.” The rhythmic vibration traveled through my skin, resonating with my internal structures in a way that created an unexpected sense of calm.
“There’s so many things to take apart on this planet,” I told her, stroking her fur with the tip of a primary tentacle. The texture fascinated me still. Touching it was addictive. I wondered if that was an evolutionary design, to be so soft that even predators would fall prey to the feel of it.
And then there was Tammy. Tammy with her copper hair and blue eyes. Tammy with her fierce independence and vulnerability that she tried so hard to hide. Tammy with her body that had accepted ours as if we’d been designed for each other, despite the vast evolutionary distances between our species.
“And... she’s here,” I whispered, the words carrying a weight that seemed to reconfigure the molecular structure of the air around us.
In response, Manji purred louder, her small heart beating against my chest in counterpoint to my own triple cardiac rhythm.
“Yeah, I think I should stay too,” I admitted, the words simultaneously liberating and terrifying.
But even as I said it, my tentacles continued working, muscle memory completing the repair process my conscious mind wished to abandon.
The soft alloy molded perfectly against the sensors, the gelatin milk paste creating the seamless bond that would allow for optimal functionality.
My body betrayed my heart’s desires, continuing the work I’d been trained to do—fixing, repairing, making things operational again.
The final component clicked into place with a soft sound that might as well have been a thunderclap.
The ship’s systems recognized the completed circuit immediately, status lights shifting from amber standby to operational green across the console.
A gentle hum rose from the propulsion chamber as dormant systems began their automated testing sequences.
Flight-worthy. The ship was flight-worthy again.
I sat motionless, Manji purring against my chest, as the full implications settled over me like a suffocating weight. We could leave now. We should leave now. Our mission, our people, our dying world—all demanded our immediate departure.
But my gaze fell on the barn door, beyond which lay a small ranch house where Tammy would be making coffee in her chipped blue mug, probably wondering why I hadn’t come in for breakfast yet.
Beyond which lay fields where horses grazed and a raccoon had somehow formed a bond with a security specialist from another world.
Beyond which lay a life I’d never imagined wanting but now couldn’t imagine leaving.
“We’re supposed to save our world,” I told Manji softly. “Not fall in love with this one.”
She had no answer for me beyond her steady purring. Perhaps that was answer enough.