by Kathy Kachelries | Jun 5, 2006 | Story
How are your studies progressing? The liaison asked, once he was within range of the professor. The professor, a hoary man whose moustache seemed to be made of white wire, glanced up before placing his stylus on the desk beside his tablet.
They’re progressing, he answered, taking full advantage of the psychotonal range of telepathy. He seemed frustrated, rushed, annoyed to be interrupted, but ultimately hopeful and satisfied with the development of the project. It was a lie: the professor was not at all satisfied. As someone who had spent decades studying telepathic linguistics, however, he was more than qualified to fake it.
We’re still waiting on your report, the liaison reminded. The Department of Communications is-
The Department of Communications can wait. It took a great deal of skill to interrupt a thought, but fortunately, the professor possessed a great deal of skill. This is a sensitive matter, and I’ve only been given enough funding to test on English speakers and Japanese speakers. If I had more linguistic diversity in my test pool, the research would progress much faster.
Two native languages should be more than enough, the liaison argued. Your language isn’t related to either of them.
It’s not just a matter of language. Come here.
The liaison stepped to the desk, where his eyes followed the professor’s moving stylus across the glowing tablet. A fresh line of symbols made their meaning apparent: language is only the beginning.
You can read that, the professor observed, and the liaison nodded. How?
That’s your field, he replied.
It’s because your concept of beginning and your concept of language fall within the range of understanding. Your lifestyle and experiences contextualize the meaning. What’s a beginning, to you?
The start of something.
The start of what?
I don’t know. A project, maybe.
Like a research project?
Or development. The beginning is the blueprint, the business plan.
To some people, the beginning is the spring in the mountain that feeds their village’s river. In order for those people to read this and find the same meaning that you did, the word “beginning” has to represent both of those concepts.
The liaison nodded. But why would we need to communicate with people like that?
The professor blinked, answering with mental silence.
We have no reason to trade with them.
Language is for more than trade.
You’re being paid to create a written form of telepathy that can be used for international relations. International relations means commerce.
The professor etched a quick note that was immediately swallowed by the tablet.
If you want funding, you have to produce something useful. Talking to jungle tribes is all well and good, but this is applied linguistics, not theory.
I’ll redirect my research, the professor replied without psychoinflection, again scrawling something onto the glowing surface.
What are you writing?
I’m reworking the symbol for language, the professor answered. Apparently, I’ve been misinterpreting it for years.
by B. York | Jun 4, 2006 | Story
The expedition team had watched the aliens closely with devices and kept their bodies far away from any pathogens. Never before had anyone seen something quite like this. Today they’d be getting the special privilege of first contact. With all the alien races out there, however, the team was less than enthused.
“Are they monks?” Ferris joked as he sipped his coffee from behind a flat screen running another routine check. The scan showed up negative for pathogens or viruses almost immediately.
Taylor rolled her eyes and checked her nails with her feet propped up on the back of Ferris’ chair. “Just because they don’t speak doesn’t mean they follow some cult. It could just be genetic.”
“This is your pilot speaking,” Caldwell chimed in from overhead. “We’ll be touching down in thirty seconds next to their camp. Also, Ferris, if you drop any of that filthy fluid onto my deck I will use your blood to get it out. It stinks to high heaven when you do.”
“Ah shut up, Cal, the shit don’t stink that bad.” Ferris took another sip as he sat up and checked the readings one more time. “You ready to go, chica? A whole new race of people that look just like us is waiting.”
“You’re so narrow minded, Ferris. They might have new tech for us to bring back to base.” Taylor had already started gearing up for the land. It was only moments later that they touched down with a light shaking of the room and then the distinct sounds of de-pressurizing all over the main deck.
Ferris smirked as he sipped more of his coffee before downing the rest and tossing the cup. “Ah, yeah, gotta love those hut-dwelling tech-gods. One of them is going to try and mate me, you’ll see.”
“Oh for fucks sake, Ferris. They will get one whiff of you and run away.” Both had begun walking out onto the ramp as it opened up. The air, surprisingly, was quite clean. Both inhaled deeply and then looked at each other as if trying to spot a reaction. Taylor just smirked. “Damn, you’re still alive.”
Just then a group from the village wandered near the craft, eyes wide. Noting the presence of the expedition was hard not to do with a two thousand ton skimmer parked in their backyard. Taylor sighed when she saw them close in. “Now, just let me do the talking… assuming they speak at all.”
Taking a deep breath, Taylor began to explain that they had come from a far away place to make contact and that they were happy to see this was a peaceful place to live. It was a very long speech and offered very little gesticulation. Meantime, Ferris just looked confused.
“Well? Going to explain it to them or what!?” His brows pushed together as he just looked insulted that she was standing there looking back at him. Ferris’ nose twitched a bit and he wiped it a second, allowing him to relax before replying to Taylor’s comment.
The discussion lasted no more than five minutes and both had learned all they could have ever wanted from this silent group of alien people. In addition, Ferris found out that Taylor really did have the hots for him this whole time but it was clear from what Taylor communicated that he had a long way to go to get any respect from her. Both said their piece and walked back onto the ship leaving the villagers there. Not a word having been spoken.
by J. Loseth | Jun 3, 2006 | Story
“You’re being irrational.”
“I know.” Sandra’s grey-green eyes matched the sight below her, mesmerized by the crashing of waves against one of the few beaches left in the world. She didn’t look away, not even to meet the irritated gaze of her husband across the restaurant table. “But doesn’t it get to you, too? It’s so… huge.”
Mark rolled his eyes and took his annoyance out on a dinner roll that didn’t really deserve it. “Sandy, do you have any idea how much I paid for this view? The least you could do is try to enjoy it-or tolerate it, for the sake of our anniversary.”
“I told you I was afraid of water.” Sandra didn’t look up. The ocean was far below them, but she could still see the waves, reckless and unconstrained by the neat, sanitary conveniences of human life. Once there had been many oceans, covering the majority of the planet’s surface. Now most of that had dried up, which in Sandra’s eyes made life tolerable-but this one still persisted, and here she was confronted with it. She couldn’t look away.
“I didn’t think you were this serious,” Mark muttered, putting the maligned roll aside on a china plate. “I mean-” He picked up his glass of purified, recycled table-water, the highest quality. “Look at this.” He waved it in her face. “That doesn’t bother you, does it?”
Sandra finally glanced up, then frowned and flinched away from the glass. “No, not as much,” she conceded. “But that’s different. The ocean…” Her eyes strayed to the window again, caught in the billowing waves. “It’s so huge. So… violent. People used to die at sea, you know.”
“Sure, in the dark ages,” Mark scoffed. “And it’s not huge. It’s miniscule; barely a tenth of what it was when our great grandparents were around.” He pulled out his cellphone. “I can punch it up on satellite and prove it.”
“No-Mark, it’s okay.” Sandra sighed and tore her eyes away from the ocean view. “I’m sorry. Let’s just enjoy our meal.” She smiled wanly at her husband, who finally put away the cellphone, though not without much grumbling.
Throughout dinner, Sandra was careful not to look out the window. But she could feel it, crashing silently just outside her vision, a malignant and uncontrollable force-perhaps the last uncontrollable force that the world held. Sandra kept her eyes on her plate, but when she and Mark finally left the restaurant, her expensive glass of water remained untouched.
by J.R. Blackwell | Jun 2, 2006 | Story
Angel was used to doors shutting in his face, the slap of glass sliding doors, the definitive clunk of plastic automatic doors, even the thump of an old fashioned wooden door. On Earth, people live with shut doors and masked faces. Angel went barefaced for his missionary work. He was used to speaking to the masked faces of earth, every imperfection covered by plastic that betrayed no emotion unless the user ordered it. To have his face naked, as unfashionable as it felt, was part of first yearlong mission.
Angel wasn’t any more successful than any of the other missionaries, but speaking the word of God felt right to him. He signed on for another year, to preach the word of the third and final coming of the Christ, who would be all the prophets together, the Buddha, the Kristina, the Jesus, the Renee, the sacred prophets in one body.
The Church of the Final Prophets sent him off world, to preach to non-humans. Popular opinion in the church was that aliens had different Gods than humans, and that they lived under different holy law. Angel didn’t believe that. Angel knew they were all under the same God, and that a Messiah could come from any race. Perhaps the next Messiah would come from an alien race, and if that was so, he wanted to be ready when the prophet came.
Few humans ever came to the Singia home world; there wasn’t much there but muddy land and sea, and the terrible smell. The smell was a mix of sulphur, seaweed, rotten eggs and rotten fish. Angel hoped that he would get used to the smell, but what made it terrible was its inconsistency. Sometimes the smell would be strong, and sometimes it would fade only to come back in a nauseating breeze. Angel slept in the warm mud and ate from the silver packages the mission sent to him. He was wet all of the time. These were the sacrifices he had to make to spread the word.
The Singia did not have doors; they had holes that lead to their underwater hunting grounds. The Singia came in green, brown, and brownish green. They had fins, eyes on the sides of their body, and when not swimming they waddled comically on the surface. Short, but wide, they would turn one flank of their scaly bodies toward Angel and look at him through the line of eyes down their scaly sides. For all of these differences, the oddest thing about the Singia was that they listened to him
Angel sat cross-legged when he preached to them. He had never had an audience before, but the Singia came from all over their world to hear him speak. Angel explained to the Singia about saviors, about messiahs, about the spiritual history of humans. The Singia listened, night after night, as he told them about the Law, and God, and how even they could produce a savior. The Singia didn’t really speak, except for low moans underwater, and did not live in any homes or structures of any kind. To speak to their translators, Angel had to stick his head underwater and listen for the drawn out notes to shape themselves into words. They always encouraged him to tell them more about God and his prophets, and Angel felt as if he might convert the entire planet to the truth.
At the end of the year, he felt as if he had spoken to all of the five thousand Singia that inhabited the planet. He had an audience of hundreds daily, and young hatchlings were always being brought to see him and listen to his words. When the ship came to pick him up, he stuck his head in the murky water and hummed a goodbye in the Singia language.
The Singia translator moaned low notes back at Angel. The Singia thanked him for the lovely entertainment his people had provided, and said that if he, or any other Earthers would like to come back and tell the Singia more stories, the Singia would always be glad to listen.
“Storytellers are greatly prized here,” The creature sang ” and you are the greatest we have had in generations.”
by Kathy Kachelries | Jun 1, 2006 | Story
The Terran ambassador arrived in a richly decorated shuttle, bearing several barrels of unfiltered ayula and decked in fabrics that shimmered under the Ryexian sun. The visit was unexpected, so no troops met him at the spaceport to ensure his safety, but he spared no expense and immediately summoned an aristocoach which he paid for with glimmering stones and coins fashioned of yellow metal. When he produced his credentials at the palace gate the guards were appalled: why had he not sent a courier ahead? He had been received as a plebeian, a mere businessman. The ambassador’s reasoning was intact, however. Too much fanfare would have aroused the attention of dissenters, and his three bodyguards were more than enough to ensure his safety. Now, however, in the comfort of the castle, he did not oppose to being treated like the Terran rulers he served.
The ambassador lounged in his luxurious guest room, sampling the Ryexian pleasure women and drinking the finest gallawine. His gifts spoke wonders of his native land: jewels, perfumes, and spices so fine they made the Ryexian seasonings profane by comparison. Little was known of the Terran homeworld, as the Ryexians had not yet developed interstellar technology. Among the most exotic of gifts was a bird with plumage that fanned into a shimmering wall of color. A peacock, the diplomat explained. He had come to negotiate trade arrangements, and was prepared to bring samples of Ryexian production back to be inspected by his ruler.
There was no shortage of businessmen and merchants eager to offer their products, hungry for export profits and desperate for the prestige of being affiliated with such an advanced world. They refused the ambassador’s offer of payment. These were gifts, gestures of goodwill towards the Terran ruler. When the ambassador left, his shuttle loaded with riches and sample products, he was seen off by a crowd of the most important names on Ryexia. He swore to return in three months’ time, bearing contracts and more gifts to show the limitless resources of his homeland.
Three months passed, then four. Five, six, before word from the Terrans. “We have been waiting for your highness’ response to our gifts,” the Ryexian king said with deference.
“Your gifts?” asked the Terran ruler.
“Given to your ambassador.”
“Our ambassador has not yet contacted you,” said the ruler.
And that was how the Ryexians learned the Terran way.
