But the automatic translator clearly understands its language. At least that’s something.
“Hello. Josué, human ship Antoni Gaudí, Nu Barsa. We wish to negotiate trajectory coordinates of extragalactics,” I say, trying to be as concise as possible to make it easier on the translation software, which turns my words into a cacophonous series of squeaks and chirps, like a cricket making sweet love to a high-tension wire.
The tentacular creature gently moves its multiple eye-encrusted arms with a certain ethereal grace that sort of reminds me of a patch of seaweed stirred by a slight current.
And here comes the second storm of click-squeaks: “Valaurgh-Alesh-23, worldship Margall-Kwaleshu, Qhigarian. Barter-deal, offer, what?” The sentences come over my earphones in the usual twisted and mutilated syntax. This is the best the automatic translator can do: plain verbs, no prepositions, no conjunctions. And in an incongruent soprano pitch.
I’ll have to remind Nuria, who programmed the translator, that dubbing a purple octopus with a porn star’s voice doesn’t sweeten the bitter draft of making Contact with it.
At least this isn’t the same octostar as last time, or it might think I like playing this game.
“Deuterium 180 tons and tritium 120 tons,” I toss back to Valaurgh-Alesh-23, in order to impress it with how much fusion fuel we are offering, and to maintain my advantage I immediately follow with, “Do we proceed?”
“Material no-proceed.” The “no” sounds worse in this voice. “Deal no-interest.”
Amaya makes no comment, but her clenched teeth and furrowed brow show more clearly than a thousand words that she wasn’t expecting such a clean refusal, either.
Material no-proceed? Deal no-interest? What do these guys want, the philosopher’s stone? Those three hundred tons of heavy hydrogen isotopes are practically all of Nu Barsa’s reserves, enough fusion fuel to last any worldship a whole year. And this nasty… Valaurgh rejected it like I was offering a pile of sand.
Think quick. We can’t let them leave the Milky Way without telling us where the extragalactics are. We could allow Rómulo and Jordi to test the strength of our weaponry against this peaceful cluster of worldships until they reveal the secret to us. That would amount to a sleazy protection racket trick, especially since they don’t have any way to respond in kind, as everyone knows. But big problems call for big solutions.
And if they still refuse to negotiate and insist on leaving, then what? Wipe out twenty thousand worldships? With trillions of sentient beings on board? That would be genocide, and the entire Galactic Community would come after us.
No, violence is the last refuge of the incompetent. There’s got to be something else they really want. Some offer they can’t refuse, even if they’re leaving the galaxy.
That’s it. I know what can do it.
Should I consult Captain Berenguer? No time for that. Anyway, a Specialist is the only one capable of assessing a Contact. I’ll risk it, then. Miquel said at any price, after all.
I swallow hard and present a new proposal, excited.
“Current human translator, with data of 11,568 Alien languages.”
“Qué cojons, tío? What the fuck are you up to? You can’t give them our software!” Amaya cries out, stunned. But a second later she calms down and I can almost see her shrugging, though the holocamera only captures her face. “All right, okay. It’s an idiotic trade, but you’re the condomnaut, you’re the negotiator. If this helps us locate the extragalactics, it’ll have been worth the price. Those Unworthy Pupils had better take it, for their sake. Otherwise we’ll have to fire on them with everything we’ve got.”
Damn, so it’s not just me thinking that way! I feel slightly relieved to find I’m not the only potential genocidal maniac in the crew.
Now the asterocephelopoid freak is flailing about, almost hysterical with greed, telepathically hashing it out with its fellow creatures, I suppose (since Qhigarians, as colonial telepaths, don’t have anything like leaders or bosses). Finally, after another concert of chirps and clicks and squeaks, it extends a tentacle toward me with a shower of sparks coming out at the end.
I got you, you ambitious thing. When I have unlimited funds to negotiate with…
I recognize what it’s holding, of course. It’s a universal computer compatibility device, made by the Arctians, that can read or transfer data between any two systems without connecting them by cables. Used throughout the galaxy to avoid computer incompatibility problems.
Everybody has a price, and it seems that an offer of 11,568 computer-coded languages is too tempting for Valaurgh-Alesh-23 and its people to keep pretending they’re not interested.
It’s an impressive total, but I wonder if they realize it includes about six hundred of their own dialects.
I imagine they do. And if not, well, caveat emptor, as the Romans used to say. Not telling the whole truth might look like lying, but it isn’t quite the same thing. All’s fair in love and trade.
Concealing my self-satisfaction, I let the enchanting Valaurgh caress my neck and twine its tentacle around my earpieces. I try to stay still, though the sparks from the Arctian device are tickling me, or maybe it’s the sucker-eyes on the mucus-coated tentacle. I don’t know and don’t want to know.
“Translator assimilate here-now,” a squawking voice surprises me. It seems to emerge from within the thicket of waving tentacles. What kind of vocal organ does this star-octopus have, that it can enunciate so clearly in addition to making clicks, chirps, and squeaking noises? “Two informations interest humans, negotiate-trade proceed. One: Qhigarians-all leave galaxy now-future, destiny-future no-negotiate. Two: Qhigarians no-here-future, hyperjump no-work here-future. Taraplin hyperengine no-true before-here-future. Taraplins no-true. Qhigarian mind teleporter, hyperengine yes-true.”
Shit. I hope I got that wrong. It can’t be…
“Holy cojons,” Amaya mumbles, jaw on the floor, eyes popping out. It seems that, in spite of the messed-up semantics produced by the translation software, I understood correctly. “Josué, I need confirmation. First, they’re all leaving, and there’s no way they’re going to tell us where to.”
“Correct,” I say in a thin, strangled whisper. “Captain Berenguer figured it out. He’s good. They’re going, and they don’t want us to know where. They’re playing it safe. Maybe they’re scared of the extragalactics. Or of us.”
“Scared of us? Why? And what was the second point? I don’t think I quite got it.” The sensor tech’s normally self-assured contralto voice shakes, full of anxiety, and her left cheek has a slight tic. “The Taraplins never existed? Then how did they make those hyperengines?”
“They didn’t make them,” I snort. “The Taraplins didn’t exist, never existed, and they have nothing to do with the black hole at the center of the Milky Way. The so-called hyperengines are just metal cans with self-destruct mechanisms, that’s all. The Qhigarians, the Unworthy Pupils themselves—and I still don’t see why they made up the whole story about the ‘Wise Creators’—are the ones who created the fake hyperengines. It was them all along, making all our jumps through hyperspace possible with their minds. They’re teleporters! The only ones in the Milky Way! Shit, Jaume Verdaguer and his crazy friends were right.”
Amaya looks at me for a long time in silence, then finally dares ask, gently and almost in a whisper, as if she really wants to know, “Josué, who is Jaume Verdaguer?”