YZAHIRA VALLE GARCÍA
1
I studied languages and software engineering, so I could travel to the great beyond. I wanted to work in a spaceship, leaving Earth behind. Things back home have been in decline for so long. We never recovered from the original hurricane Maria. The Mega Crash of 2030 kept Puerto Rico in stagnation for decades. Mom had gotten and lost jobs over the years. I couldn’t afford my depression medication for months at a time.
As we all know, Earth had communicated with extraterrestrials in 2045. What you may not know is that, when the United Empire found us by intercepting the Arecibo message, the Empire’s First Contact Bureau was confused about how to interpret the translated graphic. That’s why the ambassadors traced the radio waves back to Earth.
The initial interactions between humans and the United Empire can be best described as nearly catastrophic accidents. When the first hail transmission reached Earth, the potency of the frequency nearly overloaded the Deep Space Network (DSN) in Goldstone, California. The data therein was first run through audio equipment, which belted out a series of patterned bellows and groans. The sounds seemed like a language, but they didn’t possess linguistic characteristics comparable to the Earth’s own languages. It took three days and a constant repeat of the damaging transmission in order for the DSN to realize that the data was meant for audiovisual devices. Some TV rigging later and another go at interpretation, the United Nations Secretary-General Ann Kifo formally met the Dainap Commander Kifaru of the Peacekeeper Fleet of the United Empire.
Verbal conversation was very limited, devolving into a high-risk game of charades. They would point to blank paper, say, “Say ‘paper’,” and record Kifaru’s response before repeating the process ad nauseam. Did you know that a thumbs down was regarded as an intergalactic sign of insult? The techies and Secretary-General Kifo learned that the hard way, taking days to build back to a neutral standing.
It was after the two envoys exchanged the NATO phonetic alphabet for the Empire’s own standardized alphabet that the effort to communicate started to be more productive.
Monumental global efforts were made to decipher the galactic federation’s languages. Human linguists managed to crack a few of them in a year, but problems arose. The xenobiology of the United Empire often didn’t match human physiology. Humans couldn’t mimic the beaked Camecian’s staccato chirping or the gilled Sisarua’s drone. We had the written languages down, but holovisual communication was awkward and fraught with errors.
So, the UN Office for Outer Space Affairs (UNOOSA) in collaboration with the Empire’s First Contact Bureau created the Intergalactic Translation Program. I graduated top of my master’s class and was invited to work at the United Nations Headquarters in New York. I jumped at the chance. The move to Manhattan was a step closer to space.
I was assigned to Project Babel. The mission was to create a dynamic translator that could translate Earth languages to United Empire languages and vice versa. Linguists and engineers fed hundreds of video samples from the Empire into the software and translated them to human languages while human informants also provided video samples of communication in Earth languages with the highest number of speakers. The years of non-stop work were murder to the soul.
But, in this last year, we finished our first prototype.
The Earth languages translated included Spanish (Spain and Central America dialects), English (America and the United Kingdom dialects), French, Russian, and Mandarin. Camecian, Dainap, Sisarua, and Jubidio made up the alien languages. That last one was a kicker.
Jubidio (also known as Jester) is the native tongue of Jesterjacks, the third biggest population of the United Empire’s ethnic groups. Background information reports said that the Jacks were incorporated into the United Empire some 500 years ago, shifting their agrarian economy to a manufacturing one. Despite the relative newness of their written language, Jubidios had one of the most complex tonal languages in the galaxy. The pitch and frequency of their cricketing can drastically change the meaning of a word. Even with the large sample pool, the device would often fail to recognize differences in the pitch-dependent phonation. Because of this, I was paired up with a native linguist, a Jubidio named Lonara, to weed out the software glitches.
Still from Sun Ra’s 1974 Space is the Place
Still from Sun Ra’s 1974 Space is the Place
2
It is mid-morning on a hot summer day. Lonara and I are working with the latest model of the Babel prototype. We tune the audio processor by going down a list of words whose morphemes glitched out the device, causing it to shriek at every unknown syllable. I call it the Glitch List.
“Hypo*krrrrraaak*” Lonara frowns, green segmented antennas twitching and shoulder lights glowing in irritation as they turn the bulky prototype around their neck off. “Hypocrisy.”
“Lower frequency. Shoots high. Device confused.” I manage to cricket as I type up another two lines of code into the laptop connected to the translator device. “Repeat. Find fix.”
The Jubidio sighs heavily but switches the device back on. “Hypo*krrrrraaak*… Hypo*kriiik*… Hypo*krrisss*…Hypokrissssi… Hypocrisssi. Hypocrisy… Hypocrisy.”
I smirk and cross out the last word from the Glitch List. “And that’s número number 30 fixed. We’ll have to create more conversation samples again.”
Lonara stretches their carapace-covered sets of six limbs before leaning back on their chair. “I leave translator on?”
“Yeah.”
Lonara looks away, their compound eyes inspecting everything but me. “What should we discuss today?”
“Well, you’re in a mood. I want to know why.”
A pause.
Their lights dim. “My Elder, Tisebas, is dead.”
I dig through the Jesterjack Society pamphlet in my head. “…Y-Your grandparent?”
They nod. “Worked in starcraft assembly in Octoneubo. An accident occurred. News was communicated hours ago through holophone.”
I’m stuck.
Lonara and I barely talk about our personal lives. We have an unspoken agreement to maintain a degree of professionalism, restricting our subjects to our workplace and coworkers. I asked the question out of curiosity. I didn’t expect an actual answer, nor one so personal.
“I’m sorry, Lonara. I… can empathize with your pain.”
Their antennas twitch. “How so?”
I hesitate but take a deep breath. “I lost my ‘elder’ when I was entering college. Accidentally shot in a Mega Crash protest.”
Lonara looks up to me with those confused yellow, compound eyes. They are glassy, reflecting back dozens of tiny humans. “Protest?”
“You know… one of those public gatherings where you shout at the government for it to do things. It got out of hand. He was shot in the chaos.”
I wipe a tear away. I always cry at the thought of Grandpa Encarnación García. He introduced me to my love for space. I wanted to reach the stars for him.
Lonara slowly nods. “My…condolences, Travieso. Life can be *BIIEEKKRAAS*”
The translator shrieks, making Lonara’s lights strobe in surprise.
I guffaw. Like that, a new Glitch List is born.
3
A few months (and a second prototype) later, Lonara and I are checking conversation samples again. In a few months, the fruits of the Babel project will be intergalactically revealed to the public. There is an unfinished Glitch List on the docket, but with the drained greeting they give me, I ignore it.
“Are you ok? You seem…sad.”
“Killed.”
I blink. “Wha-”
“It was no accident.” Lonara keeps their eyes down as two sets of arms wrap around them. Their lights are steadily glowing brighter. “The other workers. They told me the truth.”
Twitching upward, the bulbous head bobs at me.
Their compound eyes shine bright, mimicking their bioluminescence. “A Camecian supervisor. Tisebas spoke against him. And the Camecian shot them!”
Gods help me, I don’t know what to say. I default to higher powers, “B-but what about the police? O-or Imperial Guard? Won’t they–”
“They will not. Tisebas provoked it, and Elder paid the price.” They jerk away.
The pair of arms around them tighten. Another pair digs its claws into the armrests. Their mouth parts grind, and the lights start to blind me.
“I cannot–”
They suddenly stop, deadly silent as their lights dim. The tension in their limbs loosens as their eyes travel somewhere distant.
Something about that calm is…
Disturbing.
“Lonara?”
They collect themselves, unusually composed after what just happened. “It will be fine.”
“You…,” I pause. Something has changed. “You sure?”
They nod. “Yes. Let us finish the list of errors.”
4
The big day is here. The translator, version 2.3 under the name Genesis, is going to be presented to the United Intergalactic Council and televised throughout the galaxy. My mother and I are invited as guests of honor. Lonara is the MC, tasked to give a small speech to demonstrate the device’s capabilities. Dignitaries and ambassadors, human and alien, as well as the other teams in the program fill the large audience.
I meet up with Lonara backstage, carrying the Genesis in a protective suitcase. I raise my left leg as high as I can without tumbling over. It’s as close to a Jubidio greeting as a human can make. Lonara raises four of her legs back, the number for colleagues and comrades. Greetings exchanged, I set the case down and open it to reveal the translator.
It looks like a metal ring with small switches and an anti-feedback speaker at the front.
I carefully pick it up and walk behind Lonara. They scoot their limbs away, giving me space to work. I put the collar around their thin neck and clasp the lock. I make sure it’s snug enough to pick up their frequencies, but also loose enough to be comfortable.
“Ok.” I flip the device on. “You ready?”
Lonara nods curtly. Their shoulder lights shine and fade at a lazy pace.
“Remember to speak loudly and clearly for the registry to work.”
Lonara meets my gaze. Her compound eyes are clouded, looking at something past me.
That unnerving calm is back.
“Do not worry. It will be heard.”
I gulp. I don’t ask about Tisebas, but for some reason, they come to mind.
“Good luck.”
5
Mom and I take our seats two rows behind the United Intergalactic Council. My old lady is looking at all the different intergalactic citizens that pack the venue. This is her first time seeing so many in one place.
“Mijo, this place is so big! Louder than a granja too! Makes your graduation look like misa.”
I laugh. “Ma, it’s just a demonstration.”
“No, no, no. It is an important day for your work. I’m proud of you.”
Mom takes one of my hands, squeezing it with love. “Abuelo would be proud.”
I squeeze back. “Thanks, Ma.”
Mom smiles before scanning the room again. “Where is your Jester friend? I want to meet the other genius who worked with my son.”
“They’re backstage. I’ll introduce you later.”
The overhead lights dim, settling the crowd to silence.
From stage right, Lonara and a brown-haired human in a crisp, blue suit walk into the spotlights.
The council’s Secretary-General, a man called Gurez Antonia, briefly presents the Jubidio to the crowd before sitting down with the rest of the council.
Standing behind a podium for their smaller size, Lonara pauses. They take a deep breath.
They then slam their hands down on the wood, popping the mic.
“YOU ARE WHAT IS *KKKIIIIIIRRREE* WRONG IN THIS GALAXY!!! 500 YEARS!!! RIPPED FROM THE TREES ON OUR PLANET OF OCTONAUDO AND HAULED TO YOUR FACTORIES!!!”
Sounds of confusion ring out across the conference hall.
“EL CONSEJO DEL IMPERIO UNIDO ES UNA *TRRRIAAAKK* PLAGA, ENGORDANDOCE DE LA GALAXIA”!!!
The confusion gets louder. Members of the Council eye each other.
Mom looks at me, eyes wide with shock and disapproval. “Mijo, ¿qué es esto?”
I grip the armrests. The profanity filter does its job terribly, wailing and shrieking. Lonara’s rage roaring can’t be constrained to a single language.
I numbly make a mental note of checking the filter later.
Lonara, shining bright and grinding jaws, raises six arms with clenched tarsal claws.
“ILS *KKKIIIIIIIITRRRR* PARLENT DE LIBERTÉ MAIS ILS NOUS ENTERRENT SOUS LES DETTES ET NOUS LAISSENT DANS LA *PPPRRRIIIIIZZZZ* BOUE !!!!”
Flipping down their tarsal pads, Lonara juts out their thumbs.
Six thumbs down.
Almost every Camecian, Dainap, Sisarua, and Jubidio jumps to their feet. Shrieks, shouts, and howls deafen the auditorium. My mom grabs and shakes my shoulder. My eyes are glued on Lonara, huffing and cricketing with vibrato.
Two Dainap guards bearing Empire emblems walk onto the stage. They spread their four burly arms wide, keeping their horned heads to their chests as they approach the Jubidio.
Lonara meets them head on, maw open wide and hissing. Once the guards reach the five feet mark, something bubbles in Lonara’s jaws before spitting at one of the Dainaps. It’s goopy, green, and sticks to their arms. I vaguely remember the buffet preceding the event.
Salad.
The guards abandon caution and dogpile onto Lonara, swallowing my colleague with Dainap bulk.
I feel claws grab my shoulder. I glance up, meeting the beak and large eyes of two Camecian guards.
“Travieso and Alva Garcia. You will be brought in for questioning.”
I don’t fight. Mom and I are arrested.
The imperial guards stuff us into a transport, taking us to the Galactic Embassy next to the United Nations. The inside of the building is nothing but brutalist straight lines and dark chrome. Long corridors to lose oneself in.
“¡No digas nada, mijo!” Mom shouts as they separate us. “¡Hasta que tengas abogado, no digas nada! ¡¡¡NO TE DEJES COGER!!!”
The Camecians grill me for thirty minutes, threatening that they will take Mom and me up to the Council itself for the trial ritual.
I look down at my hands. They are encased in gravity-enforced tungsten alloy, strong enough to restrain the most dangerous criminals in the galaxy.
Lonara was right.
Life is a *BIIEEKKRAAS*
6
Still from Sun Ra’s 1974 Space is the Place
“COMMANDER! SHIELDS AT 20%!”
This is a stormy day for Commander Mu and his crew. The Rochamo’s first foray to the space at the edges of their system is met with ferocious opposition.
A small swarm of corvettes are circling around the enemy dreadnought. The attackers fly in pointy, black ships that hurl blue missiles into their ship’s hull. Any attempts to escape are cut off by the faster enemy. After sending a transmission to cease the hostilities, a beaked, large-eyed face screeches before the attack intensifies in response.
However, just when the shields are seconds from failing, Comms Chief Bau lets out a sharp hoot.
“COMMANDER! MULTIPLE SHIPS ENTERING RANGE! AN ENTIRE FLEET!”
In a blue flash, three cruisers and an innumerable number of corvettes appear behind the black ships. But, as the holovisuals flash up, Mu notices something peculiar.
Unlike the attackers, the new ships are varied and different. Some are boxy and beige. Others are bulbous and blue. And others are curved and stamped with a blue and green orb.
Not a second later, the attack stops.
“Commander! The hostiles are retreating!”
Eyes wide, the Rochamo commander watches the spiky ships turn and flash away.
A breath escapes from the crew. But Mu and his team know better than to rest on the boughs during a storm. These newcomers could be even worse than the beaked ones…
“Commander, incoming transmission from the fleet,” Bau lows.
“All screens. Prepare emergency flash.”
The caller who appears on the holovisuals is bizarre. It stands erect on two long hindlegs. It has no tail, and one pair of featherless forelimbs sit at the top of the torso. The only fur it has, brown like tifi wood, grows on top of its flat face.
The fur face starts to move his mouth parts, but recognizable chirps come out. Commander Mu’s pairs of wings puff out. It speaks Rochamon.
“Hail! This is Commander Balbino García of the U.S.A. Brave, representing the United Space Assembly. Are you and your crew ok?”
After a second of pause, Mu tucks his wings back against his flanks.
“Commander Mu of The Reach, of the Rochamo people of Muaglipp. We…are unharmed. Are you familiar with the black ships that attacked us?”
The caller’s face tilts downwards.
“Yes. They are the Camecians, an imperialistic empire known for enslaving less powerful planets. Good thing we scared them off.”
The USA Brave commander glances to his left, as if listening to someone off visuals, before looking back.
“We would like to send envoys to open diplomatic relations on behalf of the Union. If not, we will back out of the system.”
Bau glances at his superior. “Commander, the flash is ready.”
Mu traces one of his horns with a clawed thumb, a tic from his youth.
This could be a trap. The ‘Camecians’ were brutish in their assault, but this ‘Union’ could just as easily decimate them. But the cordial nature and restraint of the commander on the screen speaks of a more honorable disposition…
“One ship,” Mu finally lows. “The rest of the fleet must stay back.”
Commander García nods. “Of course. We will send a corvette with five banogs. Standby.”
Commander Mu blinks as the transmission cuts.
Banog? Why did this stranger use the Rochamon word for ‘companion’?
How did it know Rochamon to begin with?
From a curved, orb stamped cruiser, one smaller vessel goes forward as the rest of the convoy pulls back a few klicks.
A few minutes later, Commander Mu, Lieutenant Lou and a handful of privates stand in front of an opening airlock.
The first one to enter is Commander García, the wingless alien. He is flanked by two different banogs. One has a green carapace, many limbs, and spots that glow like fire. The other is grey-skinned, with four strong forelimbs and a line of horns down its face.
The Rochamo notice that each of the three diplomats has a silver band on one of their forelimbs.
García steps up.
“Commander Mu, it is an honor to meet you in person. I apologize that your first contact with alien life was unpleasant.”
Again, that perfect Rochamon. The deep lowing. The consistent drone of the groan. As if García had been raised in Muaglipp despite never once hanging from its canopies.
“Apologies, Commander, but how are you able to speak our tongue despite our never having met?” Mu croons.
The alien’s mouth parts pull upwards as he raises the forelimb with the silver band.
“Our translator devices are called Links. Not only can it translate from over 700,000 languages, but it can predict phonetic and semantic elements in a new language and translate them in real time. Without it…”
García pulls the band off his limb.
“Dnatsednu uoy mi tnac gniyas tahw.”
Mu’s feathers puff up again. He can hear his crew’s amazement, even Lou’s hoarse croak.
This technology is unthinkable! His people have taken millennia to develop their society, and more millennia yet to develop space travel. Understanding at this level is revolutionary!”
“INCREDIBLE!” Mu bellows as García puts his Link back on. “Who created this wonder?!”
Commander García puffs out his torso as he bares his blunt teeth. It reminds Mu of young Rochamos preening over tree-dodging prowess, a rite of passage in his flock.
“It was created by us humans. Thanks to my grandfather, Travieso García, who followed his dream of space from Puerto Rico to New York, and his Jubidio partner, Lonara. They were charged with treason for speaking out against the Camecian empire. But their speech on the day the Link debuted showed that the device worked. The phonation detection was so keen, in fact, that the AI could perceive intention. If it detected any deception or intent to conquer, the Link only squawked and shrieked and crackled. My grandfather never made it to space, but he and Lonara knew what they wanted from the Link. So, I would like to share this device and other technologies with you to form new bonds of amity and camaraderie. With it, we will know the true histories of our galaxies and clear up the smallest misunderstandings and avoid ruining our worlds.”
