Page 62 of Roping Her Alien Ranchers

The fire retardant’s glow had all but faded, the sticky slime slowly dripping down to the ground to become watery before naturally evaporating and leaving behind a pale blue dust. I positioned the hovering bioluminescent spheres at precisely calculated intervals, their soft glow casting long shadows across the damage.

The fire, though contained before reaching catastrophic levels, had compromised key structural elements. I stretched out a tentacle, dipping the tip into the cavity of my ship toolbox. I pulled a measuring device from its depths. It had been Tammy’s, just a simple extendable measuring tool that I’d enhanced with quantum calibration sensors.

I allowed my left arm to elongate slightly beyond human proportions, the added reach necessary for proper assessment. The shorter tentacle traced across a charred section of wood, sensing how deeply it was compromised. Back home, the differently abled appendage caused me no end of grief. Here, I had discovered an appreciation for it.

Extending another tentacle, I lifted my toolbox onto a makeshift workbench. My gaze landed on its contents, now a curious blend of Earth implements and salvaged ship technology. Hammers and wrenches nestled alongside molecular bonding agents and insta-hard alloy strips. I’d been cautious to keep the most obviously alien components hidden beneath ordinary tools, though at this late hour, discovery by a trespassing human seemed unlikely. The ranch stood isolated in the darkness, Tammy’s dwelling the only other structure showing signs of life—a single lamp glowing in a distant window. We were safe from prying eyes.

I positioned the first alloy strip against the damaged beam, watching with satisfaction as it adhered instantly, molecular bonds forming at contact points. The material glowed briefly, then began spreading along the wood’s surface, strengthening the beam from within rather than merely supporting it externally. Primitive, yes, but effective.

A sudden movement at ground level sent me spinning around, my shorter tentacle extending defensively before I could suppress the reaction. My eyes searched the shadows, threat assessment protocols activating automatically.

Two reflective orbs stared back at me from beneath the workbench, accompanied by a soft vibrating sound my translator struggled to interpret. The creature emerged slowly into the bioluminescent light—small, quadrupedal, covered in fur with elongated whiskers and a twitching tail. Earth classification: domestic feline. “Cat,” my translator supplied, alongside cultural context about human attachment to these creatures as companions rather than food sources.

I smiled as the translator finished reciting information about the creature. When I’d discovered Tammy’s satellite network link, funneled through a folding device called a laptop, I’d tapped into something called the world wide web. Everything that could be known about this planet was now linked to my device. I’d done the same for the other translators too.

“Unauthorized presence detected,” I addressed it formally, uncertain how to interact with the small predator. The cat responded by approaching without apparent fear, rubbing its body against my lower leg in a motion my translator identified as “territorial marking behavior” or “greeting ritual.”

The vibrating sound intensified as the creature circled my legs. Something about the gesture triggered an unexpected emotional response, a memory surfacing from my time before the expedition.

“You remind me of a Tartulus,” I told the cat, cautiously lowering myself to observe it more closely. My pet back home—a six-tentacled coral-dwelling creature with similar fur-like filaments—had displayed comparable affection behaviors. Manji would wrap his feeding tentacles around my arm when I returned from engineering duties, vibrating his central cavity in greeting.

The Earth cat seemed unperturbed by my alien scent, which surprised me. Perhaps my human disguise was more effective than anticipated. Or perhaps this creature possessed greater adaptability than its appearance suggested.

“I wonder if someone is feeding Manji back home,” I murmured, tracing a tentacle down the creature’s back. The cat pushed against my suckers, its vocalizations intensifying.

“Manji 2,” I decided. “That is your name.” It felt right, despite the obvious anatomical and origin differences. The cat responded by leaping onto my repair storage and investigating my tools with apparent curiosity. It nosed a volatile subsonic welding wand. I fished that out quickly, holding it with one curled tentacle tip.

“That contains sensitive equipment,” I warned as Manji 2 circled inside my toolbox, pushing aside devices to create a nest-like depression. The creature settled into the space, curling into a compact form that made it appear far smaller than seemed possible.

I returned to my repair work, careful not to disturb my unexpected companion. The damaged section required intricate reinforcement at a junction point well above my human height. Normally, I would simply extend my tentacles to the necessary elevation, but with Manji 2 observing me...

The cat’s eyes had closed, its respiratory rate indicating sleep onset. I glanced around the darkened landscape—no witnesses, no approaching lights. Only night sounds and distant stars.

I exhaled slowly, then allowed my true nature partial expression. Both arms split into multiple tentacles, my left side moving with less coordination but still functional enough for construction purposes. The appendages stretched upward, carrying alloy strips and bonding agents to the damaged junction. My natural coloration—earthen browns and greens—glowed faintly through my human disguise as I worked, color shifting with the concentration the work required.

“This is too cumbersome. No one is here to observe me,” I mumbled to myself, and began loosening my grip on the human façade.

Four tentacles held the splintered beams in alignment while three others applied the bonding strips. My shorter left tentacle trembled slightly, neural misfires causing uneven pressure distribution, but I compensated with the others. It was liberating, using my true form after hours of confinement within human parameters. My tentacles worked in harmony, each performing its specialized function in the repair process.

A soft shuffling from the toolbox alerted me that Manji 2 had awakened. I froze mid-application; tentacles extended in flagrant violation of our cover protocols. I’d even let my true face show. The cat observed my true form with unblinking eyes, tail twitching slightly. Then, to my astonishment, it simply yawned, circled three times, and resumed its sleeping position, apparently untroubled by my alien appearance.

“Your acceptance parameters are admirably flexible,” I told the sleeping creature, gradually resuming work with my extended appendages. “Perhaps humans could learn from your example.”

As I completed the junction repair, a thought surfaced that I hadn’t fully acknowledged before. My mission priorities had shifted, recalibrated without conscious decision. The ship repair—our primary objective since the crash—had become secondary to reinforcing this structure, to protecting Tammy’s dwelling and resources.

My tentacles paused in their work as the realization crystallized. My concern for this human’s territorial stability exceeded my urgency to return to our world. The admission sent a strange sensation flooding through my three hearts.

22

CYRO

Mission failure was not an option.

What if we do not complete our mission?

It was a question which had rolled through my mind repeatedly over the last Earth hour. For some reason, the fire had set off a cascade of anxiety. I had not been able to right my emotions yet. I gave myself a harsh shake.

Failing our mission wasn’t a possibility. We could not fail.