Chapter Text
I am not a linguist. I've learned very, very recently that high school Spanish was my worst subject of all time, with English coming in at a close second. So, seven hours ago, when I realized that Rocky and I would need to break our language barrier, I did the only thing that made sense: looked up what to do on the 'internet.'
Thankfully, it didn't take a lot of digging before I found something called the natural semantic metalanguage.
"Alright," I say aloud to an empty tunnel. I sit down on the floor and put my laptop on a glassy ledge. I have my cobbled-together translation program up and running. I hope it works—most of those previous seven hours were a lot of hair pulling and watching semi-outdated tutorials. Next to the computer, I put a small spiral notebook and pencil. I've written out all the words we'll need to set up a base for a complete dictionary plus some extras I feel like won't be too difficult to understand. I have a few other supplies that I hope we can get to, but only after the basics of the basics. "Time for English-slash-rock-language lessons. Sure." I knock on the glass. It isn't long before I hear sharp skitters that grow louder at an alarming rate.
I know—I hope—I'm safe around Rocky. He was the one that reached out peacefully. If it had been up to me, the two of us would never have met. It's fine. That being said, I'm still human, and he still looks like a giant spider made of stone; I jump when he emerges from the darkness.
He makes a whistling noise and leans side to side. I have no idea what it means, so I wave 'hello,' because it's the politest non-verbal thing I can think to do. And then I realize what just happened. "Oh!" I'm an idiot. I should've been ready to record. I make a rolling motion with my hand and keep the other hovering over the keyboard. "Say something else. Talk. Talk talk talk talk."
I know he can't understand me. I'm not that stupid. I just hope he gets the message of my meaningless babbling and continued gesturing.
Thankfully, he starts to sing. I get a good, clean snippet, but he keeps doing it. My fault. Maybe the continuous motion seemed a bit too infinite. I put a finger in the air, and he stops. I paste the waveform of whatever he said into the program without assigning a word. I press play. At the sound of his own voice, he jolts and starts trilling in the highest pitch I've heard from him so far. I can't help the grin that overtakes my face at the sight of him prancing around his side of the tunnel.
"Okay! Okay," I say, repositioning myself to sit up straighter. Rocky stops where he is and veers towards me without turning his body. It's a little unsettling. I suppose I can't hold it against him. I'm sure I'm just as freaky in his eyes. Ears. Whatever he uses. Anyways.
There's a fifty percent chance that he'll pick up what I'm putting down; the other fifty percent chance will have him thinking that 'Grace' means 'I' and 'Rocky' means 'you.' It's an easy fix. Still, my nerves don't get the message. I take a deep breath and point at myself. "Grace." I point at him. ". . . Rocky." I repeat the motions. "Grace, Rocky."
Rocky honks. He lifts a claw towards himself, and my heart thumps in my chest so hard I can hear it. I press the 'R' key. "♫♪♩♫♩♩♫♪♬." I assign this series of chords an actual word. I repeat the process for "♩♩♩."
After I'm done typing, he points at himself again. I inhale unsteadily.
"♫♪♩♫♩♩♫♪♬."
[Rocky,] the computer says in a nondescript monotone. My breath escapes in a rush.
He points at me. "♩♩♩."
[Grace.]
My hands tremble. I bark out a "yes!" Rocky warbles and does jazz hands; I do them back with tears in my eyes. We've done it—we're the first aliens to exchange words with each other. The first for humanity, at least. I swallow against the lump in my throat and lift a still-trembling hand and point at myself. "I Grace," I say, making sure to leave plenty of room between the two words. I point at him. "You Rocky."
He trills and stamps his feet where he stands, like he's dancing. I think he approves of where this is going.
✦ ────────── ∙
After a few more easy words (we, numbers one-through-ten, yes, no, and wait), Rocky utilizes our newest addition to tell me to hold on and scampers into the darkness. I use this time to plan out what I'm going to do for the rest of the list. I should, at least. Instead, my mind wanders.
Will he come back with other aliens? Now that I'm thinking about it, it's weird that he's the only one participating so far. First contact isn't that uninteresting, right? Then again, maybe this is business as usual. Maybe he's the resident alien welcoming committee of one, and we humans are just super behind the rest of space when it comes to inter-galactic communication.
I hear footsteps. I think it's just the one five-foot-group. Turns out, I'm right; thankfully, it's Rocky. Now, though, he's got a bandolier strapped on and a small wagon full of xenonite chunks in tow.
He chirps and digs through the bandolier. He pulls out a couple of tools I've never seen anything like before. One of them looks like a curling iron if the rod was removed and the clamp was replaced with a thin, curving piece of metal that could've been taken out of a wood carving kit and stretched out to be three times as long. (See, Linda? I was paying attention to your things. Sometimes.) The other looks like a pair of knitting needles; one of the needles has an opening at the top, wider than the pointy end but narrower than my fist. The funnel-needle has a wire coming out of the middle, which connects to a small battery-looking-thing.
He takes the carving iron and touches it to a lump of xenonite. The metal hisses and pops while smoke drifts up from where the tool carves out a small hunk. He then picks up the hunk and puts it into the funnel-needle. He flicks a lever on the battery, and smoke starts floating up from the funnel. He pulls his legs underneath him and sits like a cat. It's honestly really cute.
Soon enough, shining liquid seeps from the thin end of the funnel-needle. There must be a way he's controlling the output, because, while he uses the plain-needle with the funnel-needle to shape the xenonite as it solidifies, the liquid stops dripping out.
He burrs. I realize I've been staring at his work with my mouth slightly open. I look up at him as he uses one of his free hands to make rolling motion. He makes an array of complicated chords interspersed with [You]s. I huff when I understand that he's copying my earlier display to tell me to stop gawking and continue expanding our vocabulary. I can't tell if it's sass or not. I'll give him the benefit of the doubt.
Still, I want to tell him no. I can't help it—this is fascinating! Besides, I feel like this is the kind of thing you'd want to give your full attention to. Who am I to refuse the alien with superior everything, though? I sigh and get up. I look at my list again. It's marginally less intimidating with nine words double-checked (eighteen if you don't count every number as one bullet point), emphasis on 'marginally'. 'Wait' wasn't even on the list I got from Wikipedia, it was just one we had precedent for.
Alright. Okay. I'm getting some ideas. I put checkmarks next to two words.
I clear my throat. Rocky doesn't stop working. Fine. I start walking in circles. "Go." I come to a standstill in front of him. "Stop." I do the now-obligatory repetition.
[Yes. Yes Rocky.] A series of repetitive chords followed by [Grace.] Another rolling motion.
He doesn't need to make any notes to remember the words. Even with what limited choices we have, even though I'm only guessing that he wants me to keep giving him new words, I'm pretty sure he's correctly using the words he means to say. I suppose he's got an eidetic memory. His brain probably operates on levels far above mine. I feel better about his multitasking now. So, I oblige and checkmark a new word. Time to up the complexity.
I walk in circles again. "I. Is. Go."
Rocky actually pauses. He rumbles.
I smile. I know what I said about my confidence in his mental abilities. Still—a small, vindictive part of me preens over the fact that I've gotten his full attention, at least for now. "I. Is. Stop."
The rumble turns into a low whir. [Yes.]
I find that I trust his judgement, but I sit down at the computer anyways. I want to be certain we've gotten this right before going any further. I get his input for each of the new words. In the time it takes me to input our new words in the laptop and double-check them in my notebook, Rocky has resumed his project. I really, really want to see what he's doing. I might take a longer pause than necessary after I'm done to take a peek. I think it's . . . a mini-Rocky?
[I is Rocky.]
I start. "Y-yeah! Yes!" Laughter punctuates my words. "Exactly!"
He only knows one of the words I've used. That doesn't stop him from shaking where he sits and using that same free claw to do a jazz hand. He chitters before saying, [You is Grace.] The computer's voice is emotionless, but this is the most energized I've heard his song be as of yet. [You go go go.]
I jump to my feet. I go go go. I rummage through my backpack and pull out one of the containers Rocky sent over, the one with the model of Tau Ceti and the surrounding stars. I slide the model out and only jump a little when it expands with a loud snap. A little when compared to how bad it startled me the first time, that is. It still leaves my chest twinging and the hairs on my nape prickling. I mentally add 'jumpy' to my list of characteristics.
I get control of my breath and sit back down at the computer, but closer to Rocky this time. "Okay. Star. Star. Star." I point at various models. "Star. Star." I then point back and forth between Earth and Erid. "Planet. Planet. Planet."
Rocky buzzes (I'm amazed by the array of noises he can make) and puts down his mini-me. He switches his needles out for his carving iron and slices into the xenonite. [Yes. Go.] He points at the computer with the closest free hand.
After I put the words in, I tap on my own planet repeatedly. "Earth." With this system, we get each other's names for Sol, 40 Eridani, Erid, Tau Ceti, and Petrova line. I also go on and get the words for 'thing', 'open', 'close', and, using my pencil as an example, 'in,' 'out,' 'above,' 'below,' 'on,' and 'off.' By then, Rocky's finished his newer sculpture and then some, but I'm totally engrossed in my own project by then, too engrossed to try and see all that he's made.
[You stop.]
Oh. My head slumps forward a little. I thought we were getting into a groove.
[I go.]
Oh! I sit back up. "Yes! Yes, you go!"
He gets to his feet. He barely comes up to the top of my head. [I is Rocky.] He makes a high-pitched tone and hits the floor with a back foot, twice. [I is Rocky.] He sings the same tone. Tap-tap.
I don't know what he means. "Yyyyes?"
He hums. [Yes,] he says after a pause, [I is Rocky.] He can't stare at me, obviously, but I get the feeling I'm being studied. Whatever thread he was following, he drops it in favor of holding up his mini-me. [Thing is.] "♩♩♩." [I is.] "♩♩♩."
It takes me a moment before I realize what he's getting at. "Oh! Alien! Or, uh—Erid . . . ian."
He burrs. I said way too many words for him to have any confidence in my abilities, here.
I nod. "Yes. Thing is Eridian. You is Eridian."
The burr lilts upward into a warble. His carapace sways from side to side and he gives me double jazz hands. He puts the Eridian down and holds up another small model—a human, rounded and lacking detail, but not what I'd describe as crude. The new word is a series of chords this time, and it starts with 'Eridian.'
Huh. "Human." His language must not differentiate between 'person' and 'Eridian' the way English does for 'person' and 'human.' Does the English difference imply that some humans aren't people? Or does it imply that beings outside of humans can be people, too? Or am I just overthinking it? I'm probably just overthinking it. Either way, I need to change 'Eridian' to 'person.' We'll definitely need a specific term later on, but for now, I think we'd both agree it's fine.
He clicks his claws together and gently shakes the human model, recapturing my attention. [Thing.] He holds up the Eridian. [Thing.] He holds them side by side. [Thing.] "♪."
It takes two more repetitions before I recognize that he's telling me how to make a word into a plural version. Gosh—he doesn't even have access to my list, but he's crossing off words left and right. I think he's a genius. At the very least, he's the most impressive person I've ever met.
There's one more model with an obvious meaning. It's the Hail Mary, which is 'ship' in general. I'm thankful that he's deferring to what's easier for my puny human mind to comprehend.
After that, he starts holding up models that are more concepts than things. A small, thin rod gives us 'long' when compared to the version of the model that gives us 'short.' They're repurposed into 'same' and 'different' when Rocky pulls out an identical short rod. Two differently-sized cubes are 'big' and 'small'—the big one is the size of a Rubik's cube, and the small one is the size of a ones cube from a base-ten block set.
Rocky pats the block, holds it, gestures with his tools, and settles down to begin another model; it gives us 'touch,' 'have,' (or hold? It doesn't matter, I don't think, not yet) 'tool,' and 'make.' I didn't get everything first try; 'touch' was 'make' at first, and then 'tool' was 'make,' but I realized my mistakes pretty quickly. I get the feeling I'm being laughed at when he chitters as I correct myself.
To make up for my ineptitude—which, really, this situation is kind of unprecedented—I point at Rocky and say, "You do make."
Rocky makes a new movement: rocking his carapace in a way where the side facing me leans forwards and backwards. [Yes.] I stop myself from laughing out of pure glee. It's his version of a nod.
I take the reins back from him and grab my modified clock. Phase one. "Okay. Thing is clock."
[Yes.]
"Clock is time thing. Clock have time."
Rocky warbles. [Yes yes.]
Phase two. I put the clock on the ground and slide it away from me with my foot. I make a show of looking away and humming like I'm lost in thought before turning back to the clock and going, "Oh!" I point at the clock and make grabby hands. "I want clock. I want have clock." I scootch across the floor until I can pick it up again. I jostle it around in the air like it's a WWE belt. "Yes! I have clock! Is Grace clock!"
Rocky waves a free claw in the air and trills. [Grace have Grace.] He sings a set of chords—clock! [Yes yes yes.] I'm glad to know he's as enthused as I am about this. That, or he's humoring me.
Time for the final phase. I stand up and put the clock next to my feet. "I is at clock." I take a step away from it. "I is near clock." I take five more steps backwards. "I is far clock." Rocky picks it up quickly. A new set of motions later, we have 'place,' 'here,' and 'there.'
[You stop. I go.]
I sit down and nod in deference. I'm relieved—I was running out of ideas. "You go."
He lays out twelve triangular prisms, shiny little D4s. [I have thing plural.] "♫♩." He scoops seven of them out of my sight. [I have thing plural.] "♩♫." He hides the rest of them. [I have thing plural.] "♬♪." [I no have thing plural.]
'All,' 'some,' and 'none'—he's not done yet, though. Nine D4 are 'many,' and three D4 are 'few.' Here's where I can come in: I point at a D4 and say, trying to emulate his word order for clarity, "Thing one is kind thing plural same."
Rocky taps his two front claws on the floor, back and forth. [Yes yes yes. We have.] "♩♩♩." [Plural many.]
Aw, man. I'm stuck again. It's not embarrassing to be wrong, as I tell my kids all the time. It's just a little awkward when I'm the only one struggling. I shake my head. "I no . . ." We'll need 'know' soon. "I no have."
The one thing that somewhat eases my discomfort is the way that Rocky doesn't seem to get frustrated when I'm stuck. I mean, amusement doesn't feel great—he wouldn't be a good educator or anything—but it's better than anger. To his credit, he doesn't laugh this time. [We is.] "♩♩♩," he says. [Have is.] "♩♩♩." [Many is—]
"Oh! Word! Yes!"
Rocky trills while I add the word. [I.] "♩♩♩." [Word plural. You.] "♩♩♩." [Word plural.]
"Yes. Say. We say word plural." And into the computer it goes.
Rocky hums, and it's a fuller sound than the hums he's made before. It sounds like an ambient track. Then, a chirp. He arranges the D4s so that there are five in front of him. [Is thing plural three.] "♪." Tap-tap.
Great. This again. I squint my eyes and lean towards the display. Obviously there aren't three D4. "No?"
He hums again, but it's one of the simpler ones. [Yes. No is thing plural three. Is thing plural five.] When I don't react, he slides two more D4 between us. [Is thing plural five.] "♪." Tap-tap.
I'm still lost. I'm beginning to feel downright ashamed. Whoever came up with that phrase was full of it. I understand, now, those of my kids who'd rolled their eyes whenever I said it. "Yes." I sigh and hook my glasses under my chin so I can rub my eyes. "I no have. Sorry."
Rocky taps the floor. I peek out from behind my fingers. He holds up two D4, shakes them in the air, knocks them together. [One thing one thing is.] "♪." Tap-tap. Click. He repeats himself at my silence. [Thing plural is.] "♪." Tap-tap. Click.
Okay. Every time he's done the high-note-tap-tap combo, he's expecting a response. An answer. An answer! Oh my god! I make a guttural noise in the back of my throat and flop onto my back. "Two! Question! Yes! You're asking me questions! Question plural!" I crane my neck to look at him as I give him jazz hands.
Rocky coos and drops the dice to the floor to give me a triple-jazz-hand back. I'm also pretty sure he's laughing at me again—I hear a soft chitter behind the excitement. I don't even care. I'm just happy we have one of the most important words crossed off the list, now. [You is.] He pauses. [You is yes yes yes make word plural. You is.] "♩♩♩."
I prop myself up on my elbows. Again, I don't know what he's getting at. "I is yes yes yes, question?"
[Yes. You make word plural. You is.] He taps the floor continuously. I sit up as he thinks. Then he drags his claws across the ground, as if wiping away the words he was trying to find. [I make word plural. You have Rocky word plural. You is yes yes yes have Rocky word plural. You make word plural many. You is yes yes yes make Grace word plural.]
". . . Good? I think." I mumble that last part to myself. "So . . . You is yes yes yes make thing plural? You is good? Question," I add belatedly. And then I give him a thumbs up.
[Yes.] His notes are emphatic. He hops in place with alternating feet. [Yes yes yes.] "♩♩♩." While I'm inputting the word, he goes on to say, [No no no.] "♩♩♩." I give him another thumbs up and put in 'bad,' too.
And then I realize what he'd been saying. I feel myself flush. "Aw. Thanks, bud." I don't think he knows what I mean. I should thank him when we have the words. What we've currently got isn't a long list, and I'm confident that there are some discrepancies on both of our ends; 'have' and 'hold' mean two different things, after all, and I have no idea which one he meant, if his language distinguishes the two in the first place.
All in all, though, it's most of my list completed. We can absolutely finish it tomorrow. For now, I'm hiding a fifth consecutive yawn in the crook of my elbow. I don't think I've slept in . . . at least twenty-four hours. Between the single-minded focus of programming a translation software and the excitement of meeting an alien, my body wasn't stopping any time soon.
We've long gone past soon. It's very much later, and after all of that vocabulary-building, both my body and brain are exhausted.
"Okay." I wonder what he makes of that word. "I want we stop. Wait some time. Or, uh—wait time some."
Rocky stills. [You want stop question.]
"Yeah. Yes." I look over the list and try to string something together. "I go . . . beloowww?" Crap. We'll need 'down,' too. "No. No, I . . . stop, I . . ." I give up and lay on my back to give him a visual. I close my eyes. I'm about to fake-snore when Rocky shrieks. My heart jumps into my throat at the noise and I jackknife into a sitting position. I'm pretty sure I scream, too.
[No no no no no,] the computer intones. Rocky's actual voice is a haunting whine. [No. Question. Question.] He taps the ground incessantly.
Sweat beads on my forehead. I clutch at my still-aching chest. I think I've just made him angry. I really don't need to antagonize the space alien. I also really don't need to stay up for much longer, though! We can't all be il-urnal aliens with perfect memories!
[Is good you question.] His vents spasm with a growling-huffing noise. [You is good question. Grace is good question. Grace no go below no stop time all all all question.]
Oh. I was being snarky—does his species really not sleep? "No, no," I assure him, "I good. I go below, I stop. I wait time some, no do thing plural. I go above, I go . . . go. I go. We make word plural."
He relaxes with a shudder. [Good. Good good good.] He stands there quietly for a moment before singing a small, ascending tone. [Yes. I have thing same. Word question.]
Oh. Jeez. I'm both touched and worried that me dying is the first thing he jumped to. I move on, though, because he doesn't seem eager to elaborate. "Sleep."
He repeats the word in his language so I can add it to both my list and the program. [Yes. You sleep here question.]
I blink. "I sleep here, question?"
He trills. [Yes. Good.]
"Wh—no, no, I meant—" I cut myself off and take a deep breath before I get frustrated. He probably isn't trying to be difficult. Probably. "You want I sleep here. I want sleep there," I say as I point back to the Mary. "There have, umm." I look at my list. "Have I . . . sleep place. Place sleep? Human plural no want sleep on here." I knock on the floor. It reverberates softly. Pretty, but a pretty sound does not a great bed make.
Two of Rocky's claws, the two nearest me, are wrung together. It fills me with both wonder and a deep sadness that visible nerves aren't human-specific. I'm already halfway to giving in when he says, [All Eridian plural sleep want Eridian no sleep above. Eridian above.] He trails off with a grumble. I think I've got the picture, but I don't interrupt him. [Eridian above want Eridian sleep is good. Eridian above want Eridian sleep no sleep time all all all.]
I sigh. The guy just wants to make sure I get up in the morning. "Yeah, fine." He tilts his carapace slightly. "Yes. I sleep here."
He trills again. [Good good good good good.]
"I want Grace sleep place plural thing, though." I'm pretty sure I'm fudging the word order we've established, but I'm too tired to care. The guy is smart; he'll get it. "I go there." I mime gathering up my pillow and blankets. "Have Grace sleep place plural thing. I go here. Good, question?"
He's much more relaxed, now. [Yes yes. Go have thing plural place sleep. Go go go.]
I huff. Were it coming from anyone else, at any other time, I'd have something to say about being bossed around like this. Maybe it's the exhaustion. Maybe it's the fact that he just had a small breakdown over me dying in my sleep. Maybe it's because he's the first—and only—person I've spoken to since waking up on the Mary. I hate to think it, but maybe it's because he's probably the last person I'll talk to before I die.
Whatever the reason, it doesn't change the fact that I'd like to be friends with Rocky, so I just say, "I go, I go," and make my way back into my ship.