Page 3 of Secretly Abducted
"To thank them."
I sink onto the platform, legs suddenly unable to support me.
"I don't understand."
"Neither do I, fully. But the human—Alex Park—claims that his time in your custody saved his life. He's been very persistent about expressing gratitude."
The boy has a name now. Alex Park. Alive. Here. Wanting to thank me.
"Councilor, I—"
"Come immediately," Kav'eth interrupts. "We'll discuss how to handle this situation in person. And Vel'aan? Discretion would be appreciated."
The connection ends, leaving me staring at my reflection in the dark screen. Ten years of guilt, of carefully constructed isolation, of nightmares about a boy I thought I'd tortured—and he's alive. More than alive. He's here, on our planet, asking about me.
I stand on shaking legs and dive back into the water, swimming hard toward shore, toward the transport platform, toward answers I'm not sure I'm ready to hear. The zhik'ra forest waves behind me in the current, and for the first time in ten years, I leave before finishing my daily inspection.
Some things, it seems, can't be outswum forever.
The transport platform is crowded with midday travelers, but I barely notice them. My mind is spinning, replaying those three days over and over. What could I havepossibly done that he would consider worth thanking me for? I kept him contained. I watched him suffer. I failed to help when he begged for relief.
The transport arrives, and I find a seat in the back, avoiding eye contact with the other passengers. My wet work clothes mark me as agricultural district, and no one expects conversation from a zhik'ra farmer anyway.
The journey to the Council complex takes twenty minutes. Twenty minutes to catastrophize, to imagine every possible scenario. What if it's a trap? What if the human is furious and "thanking" me is code for something else? What if—
"Council Complex, Central Platform," the transport announces.
I exit on unsteady legs, forcing myself to walk normally past the security checkpoints. A maintenance assistant directs me to the standard drying station near the entrance—mandatory for anyone arriving from aquatic work. I step through the warm air currents that strip away moisture and accept the standard-issue coveralls, trading my mineral-stained work clothes for the generic gray uniform that marks me as a temporary visitor.
Through the gleaming corridors where I once strode with purpose and ambition, a few people glance at me. The agricultural district coveralls are immediately recognizable, marking my current status as clearly as if I wore a sign. But no one recognizes me personally. Why would they? The promising young researcher vanished a decade ago. All that's left is a zhik'ra farmer in borrowed clothes with shadows under his eyes.
Kav'eth's office hasn't changed. Same imposing door, same subtle display of power in its central location. I announce myself to his assistant, who barely glances up before waving me through.
"Vel'aan." Kav'eth rises as I enter, his patterns shifting to formal acknowledgment with undertones of something I can't quite read. "Thank you for coming so quickly."
"Councilor." I bow appropriately, though my muscles feel like water. "You said the human is here?"
He gestures for me to sit, but remains standing himself—never a good sign. The formal distance feels deliberate, calculated.
"Alex Park. Yes. He's quite remarkable, actually. Integrated well, contributing to our understanding of human physiology and psychology. Particularly something called 'addiction recovery.'"
"I don't understand."
Kav'eth moves to the viewport behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back as he stares out at the cultivation zones below. When he speaks again, his voice carries a weight I've never heard from him before.
"What would you say if I told you the human's distress wasn't caused by the transport?"
I look up sharply. "What?"
"Alex Park was experiencing something called 'withdrawal.' His body was purging toxic substances he'd been voluntarily consuming. The symptoms you observed—the fever, the trembling, the apparent hallucinations—were his body healing itself."
The room spins. I grip the chair arms to steady myself, my knuckles white against the dark material. The air feels too thin, like I'm drowning on dry land.
"You're saying..."
"I'm saying you accidentally provided exactly what he needed—a controlled environment where he couldn't access more toxins, basic medical support, and time for his body to cleanse itself."
The words don't make sense. Can't make sense. Ten years of self-imposed exile, ten years of believing I tortured an innocent child, and it was... healing?
