Chapter Text
I excuse myself for an hour to write some software. I’m not a computer expert, but I know some rudimentary programming. I write a program to take the audio-analysis software’s output and look up the words in my table. It’s barely even a program—more of a script. It’s not efficient at all, but computers are fast.
Fortunately, Rocky speaks with musical chords. While it’s very difficult to make a computer turn human speech into text, it’s very easy to make a computer identify musical notes and find them in a table.
From now on, my laptop screen will show me the English translation of what Rocky is saying in real-time. When a new word comes up, I can enter it into my database and the computer knows it from then on.
I bring the computer back into the tunnel, and before I can even finish taping it back to the wall, my code starts working: What is that?
I had been so laser-focused on getting the computer set up, I hadn’t even noticed Rocky said something. I look back at the wall, and he’s pointing at the laptops.
“This is ‘computer.’ It...” I stop mid-sentence, wondering how I’m possibly going to explain it. We haven’t even gotten to division in our math lexicon, how am I supposed to tell him how a computer works? I barely even know how a computer works, and I’ve been using them most of my life!
Then I realize I’m overthinking it. He’s on a spaceship, ten light-years away from his home planet. That wouldn't have been possible without having computers on board. I just need to describe it in basic terms, and he should get the gist.
“It is thinking machine.” That oughta do it.
Another text box appears on my screen: Thinking machine?
I can’t tell if he’s confused or incredulous, and neither makes sense. How could a technologically advanced, spacefaring people not know what a computer was?
“Yes. Remembers things. Does... thinking,” I give up and shake my head. “Hard to explain. Sorry, Rocky.”
“Understood,” Rocky says, though I’m not sure I believe it. “What was last word?”
“Oh,” I suddenly realized that I was still calling Rocky by the random nickname I came up with when I first saw him. We’d spent so many hours learning each other’s language, and still haven’t even introduced each other by name!
“‘Rocky’ is word for you,” I decide to give it to him straight. Maybe I made a mistake, but if I did then I have to take responsibility.
“Word for me species?”
“No. Species word is ‘Eridians.’ Word for you is ‘Rocky.’”
Rocky wiggles his carapace.
“Understand,” he says, though I’m not sure I believe it. “Why that word?”
Ugh, this is so humiliating. First, I need to tell this guy that I gave him a name without asking. And now I need to tell him that I named him after a rock.
“Need word. My planet is made of soft part and hard part. Need word for hard part.”
Rocky sat there for a moment, thinking. Then he raised a finger, then scuttled back into the darkness. I didn’t quite understand. Why would he need to go into his ship to define a rock? But before I could speculate, he came back out, and in his hand was... a rock!
“Yes!” I said. “That!”
“This is ♪♫♫”
I enter the word for “rock” into the spreadsheet.
Why does he just have a rock on his ship? That seems like an odd thing to bring on a space mission. It’s not like he was expecting to meet anyone who would want a stone sample. In the light, I could faintly make out something engraved on the rock. Writing, maybe? Was that rock some kind of writing medium? No, that didn’t seem likely. Sure, carving would make sense as a writing method for a blind species, but you’d think they’d use a large tablet for something like that, not a small rock you might find on a hillside.
But that’s a mystery for another time. For now, we’re just trying to figure out what a rock is.
“That is ‘rock.’ You are ‘Rocky.’”
Rocky tilts his carapace. He must be processing the fact that I gave him the dumbest name any human could’ve thought of for him. I feel a little guilty. I tap on the glass to get his attention again.
“What is... word for you?”
Rocky makes a trilling noise, which I take as a positive expression.
“♩♪” he says. “Word for person is ♩♪. ♩♪ for me is ♪♫♫♪.”
“‘Name,’” I reply. “Word for person is ‘name.’”
I type “name” into the spreadsheet. I start to type “Rocky” in for the second word, but hesitate. It really would not be fair of me to keep using my own name for him after he just told me his real name. But how am I supposed to call him by his real name if it’s physically impossible for me to pronounce?
“Does you name mean something?” It’s the best solution I can think of. “I can call you something... same?”
He sits still for a moment. He starts to sway, and I think I can faintly hear him... singing? It’s hard to be sure when his entire language is singing, but I can almost make out a rhythm and structure to it. It seems more like music than speech.
He drags his finger across the rock. I notice that part of it seems a lot rougher than the rest, and the engraving seems to stop abruptly near the cutoff. Had it been damaged somehow? It had layer lines like a sedimentary rock, so it probably wasn’t the toughest stone out there. Maybe it got banged up in transit or something. I hope it wasn’t too sentimental, that would suck if it was.
“No,” he says finally. “Name you use is good.”