Page 62 of Secretly Abducted
The hairy stuff turns out to be some kind of seaweed that's actually quite pleasant—salty and crisp despite its appearance. But then Sar'na pulls out her pièce de résistance.
"Fresh cultivated slime pods," she announces proudly. "Very rare. Very expensive."
It looks like someone filled a translucent sack with green snot. When she puts one on my plate, it wobbles disgustingly.
"You bite the whole thing," Tav'ik explains. "The exterior pops and the inside flows out."
I'm going to die. This is how I die. Not in space, not from drowning, but from eating alien snot sacks in front of my boyfriend's parents while hiding an erection.
I put the whole thing in my mouth and bite.
It explodes. Warm, viscous liquid floods my mouth, salty and vegetal and with the exact texture of a terrible head cold. My body wants to reject it immediately, but four pairs of Nereidan eyes are watching me.
I swallow.
"Incredible," I wheeze.
"You like it?" Sar'na seems genuinely surprised.
"It's unlike anything I've ever had on Earth," I say truthfully.
"Have another!"
God help me, I eat two more.
By the time the breakfast torture is over, my erection is completely dead, murdered by slime pods and fermented horrors. The silver lining is we can now exit the water without scandal.
"I should get back to work," I say, moving toward Section G. "Thank you for breakfast. It was... educational."
"We'll stay and observe," Tav'ik announces.
Great. An audience.
But as I start working, something shifts. Without the distraction of trying to impress them, I fall into the rhythm Vel'aan taught me. Dive, assess, cut, surface. My movements are confident now, efficient. I know which tools to use, how to read the zhik'ra's health, where to make cuts that will encourage regrowth.
"You've learned quickly," Tav'ik observes after watching me for a while.
"Vel'aan's a good teacher," I say, sorting salvageable pieces from waste. "And the work makes sense once you understand the patterns."
A farmer passes in the distance, raising a hand in greeting. I wave back, recognizing them as one of the morning shift regulars.
"You know the other farmers," Kar'on observes.
"We wave. Exchange storm warnings sometimes. That's about it." I dive again, coming up with an armful of dead growth. "They think it's funny that a human is farming zhik'ra, but no one's been hostile."
I work steadily for the next two hours while Vel'aan talks with his family on the platform. I can feel his emotions through the bond—frustration at their questions, embarrassment at their protectiveness, but also a warm affection for them despite everything.
When I surface from a particularly deep dive, I find all four of them watching me.
"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
"You work hard," Tav'ik says. It sounds like it costs him something to admit it.
"The zhik'ra needs tending."
"You could have chosen easier work."
"I could have," I agree, swimming over to them. "But this is what Vel'aan does. This is his life. I want to share it, not just visit it."
