Page 46 of Roping Her Alien Ranchers

I glanced through the transparent wall panel at the vast expanse of open land surrounding Tammy’s dwelling. Her assessment seemed accurate—no structures visible for considerable distance, minimal signs of other human activity. A strategic location for our unplanned arrival, though I doubted she had selected it with concealing crash-landed aliens in mind.

“From my perspective,” Tammy added, her finger tapping against the music device, “you’re the only threat around.”

My partially reformed human hand twitched at her words, an uncomfortable sensation spreading through my manufactured nervous system. Did she still view us as dangerous, despite our cooperative behavior? My shorter tentacle curled protectively against my simulated torso. Being perceived as threatening was an unusual experience; on our home world, my malformation had always marked me as the one requiring protection.

“We have told you we are not here to harm you,” Vantor pressed, his tone carrying that familiar note of strategic patience he reserved for difficult mission parameters.

“I know, I know,” Tammy replied quickly. “You guys come in peace. Remember that’s what all the aliens say before they attack in films.”

Cyro stepped forward, his expertly shaped human face contorting with confusion. “Movies are fictional like the sitcoms you forced us to observe, yes?”

“Yes. They’re fiction,” Tammy conceded, setting down the music device. “But they might be based off a real story. All the conspiracy theories about Area-51 exist for a reason.”

I watched this exchange with growing fascination. My specialized engineering focus had meant less time studying Earth culture than Cyro had been allocated during mission preparation. My knowledge centered primarily on Earth’s physical composition, atmospheric conditions, and technological development level—not its entertainment constructs or societal paranoia regarding extraterrestrial contact.

“Area-51?” Cyro’s biped features arranged themselves, somehow carrying the same expression he did in his natural form when his mind was trenching deeply into some new scientific mystery he needed to solve. “Our mission briefing contained no data on this designation. It must not be a water-bound facility.”

Tammy’s mouth curved upward at one corner. “It’s this top-secret government facility in Nevada where they supposedly keep all the alien bodies and spacecraft they’ve recovered. Everyone knows about it even though it’s classified. Hell, a bunch of idiots threatened to storm it years ago.”

“If everyone knows about this location, it hardly seems secure,” Vantor observed with professional disapproval.

“That’s not—” Tammy began, then shook her head— “Never mind. The point is, humans are pretty paranoid about aliens coming to invade. All our movies show you guys harvesting organs, probing butts, or stealing our women.”

Beneath the manufactured skin and bones, my tentacles twitched with confusion. “Why would we need human organs? We do not even know if our biology is compatible for lifesaving transplants.” My technical mind began calculating the possibility of cross-species organ donation. If one of our hearts failed us, would the remaining two sync with a human heart? Not without rhythm modulators and larger arterial pathways, I decided.

“Please stop,” Tammy held up both hands, her facial skin flushing that fascinating shade of pink again. “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m just explaining why humans might freak out if they knew you were here. Also, if you guys exist, I’m sure there are also dolphin aliens and tarantula aliens and elephant aliens.” She ticked off the three wild possibilities.

“Dolphins are aliens,” Cyro said with a shrug. “We know this only because our records tracked their migration from the star grouping Delphinus.”

“Shut up. Dolphins are not aliens.” Her mouth gaped, her eyes threatening to bug from her face.

“I believe you are overwhelming her processors, Cyro. Best to give her information slowly or not at all.” Vantor suggested, but Cyro continued anyways.

“Yes, when their planet, much like our own, began to dry, they were forced to leave. The dolphins, as your world calls them, are able to swim through various mediums, even through the hydrogen and helium composition of deep space.”

“Okay, I’m good. I don’t need to know anything else. I’m sure at some point they’ll thank us for the fish and leave again, but until that time comes, I’m just going to think of them as sweet, playful little sea mammals.”

“Sweet is not how I’d describe a dolphin,” Vantor frowned.

Throughout this conversation, the music had continued its soft pulsations in the background, a tempting rhythm calling to my molecules. The reduced volume hadn’t diminished its appeal—only my ability to fully experience it. While Cyro, Vantor, and Tammy discussed dolphins, I found myself drifting closer to the control mechanism Tammy had adjusted earlier.

My fingers connected with the control, turning it in the direction I’d observed Tammy use earlier. Immediately, the glorious chaos rushed back into the room, though not yet at its former magnificence. The effect was instant—my body responding with joyful molecular vibrations that threatened my carefully maintained human disguise.

I danced toward Tammy, my movements fluid in ways no human skeleton would permit. The arm that had already betrayed me earlier fully surrendered to its natural state, tentacles emerging from the elbow down and reaching exuberantly for the music device. I turned the control further, and the magnificent sound swelled to fill every corner of the room.

“Kalith!” Cyro growled.

“Turn it back down,” Vantor ordered.

I spun, four-tentacles-turned-two-arms raising into the air.

“You know what they say,” I called out over the pulsing beat, my face stretching into what I hoped was a proper human smile. “When on Netpox 7, do as the Netpoxians do!”

The idiom made perfect sense to me—Netpox 7 was infamous for its inhabitants’ elaborate sound wave performances that visitors were expected to participate in regardless of ability. But Tammy’s expression suggested my cultural reference might have missed its mark.

It didn’t matter. The music had reclaimed the space, and my body surrendered to its rhythm, molecular structure flowing in defiance of this planet’s rigid expectations. My companions’ protests became distant background noise, drowned beneath the glorious chaos of what Tammy called “80s music.”

A few moments later, Tammy had moved to my side, and she had bent her arms, alternating them up and down, her fists clenched. She cocked her head from side to side and bounced her shoulders. Her fiery hair floated around her delightful human face. And I had a spark of feeling that maybe crashing here wasn’t a bad thing.