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It's as quiet as it ever gets on the Hail Mary. The eternal hum of machinery is broken by a counter-rhythm of click-clacking from two directions. Rocky's tinkering; I'm typing. I love our conversations, our deep dives into sharing cultures, our hours in the Don't Go Crazy room with natural soundscapes filling the air – but I love this too, maybe most of all. It reminds me of all the best roommates I've ever had but better. What's it called... parallel play? I've never been able to focus better than when someone else is near me, focusing just as hard on something completely different.
Rocky says it's very Eridian of me.
My fingers fly over the laptop keyboard. I'm not really writing a paper, just collating some thoughts and outlining some experiments for the future. Brainstorming. About anything other than astrophage, finally. Now that I'm committed to traveling to Erid (and still years away from facing the immediate reality of starvation), I feel like I'm on top of the world. Worlds? I've never had so much speculative biology to write about, or so much free time to do it. I feel great!
Rocky's clitter-clattering pauses, then shifts tone. I've gotten used to his sounds and know without looking that he's put down his project and started walking around his tunnels. He wanders for a bit. Then his clattering moves closer to where I'm kicked back on a lab stool, leaning my back on his tunnel wall with my socked feet propped up on the table edge. (I can't lean the stool back on two legs because it's bolted to the floor rail, unfortunately.)
I hear the soft beginnings of his voice before the translator program catches up and layers over it. Rocky says, “Need word.”
I'm only half paying attention. “Hm? Yeah bud, what word?”
“Need word, stupid.”
I pause my typing and blink as my brain switches gears. “What? For – why am I stupid now?”
“No.” Rocky clicks and does that faint venting sound he's picked up from me, the imitation of a sigh. “Need different word. Not stupid. Word to replace. More...” A whistle-groan, untranslatable. “More meaning.”
“More... like emphasis? More stupid?” Generally he just repeats for emphasis, so that can't be it.
“Nooo. Variations.”
“Umm... connotation? Nuance? Many words that mean almost the same thing but not quite. Small variations inside a large concept.”
“Yes, this.”
I chew at an annoying bit of skin on the inside of my lip. My fingers key-command to save my file without my conscious input. Long habit (and a hard habit to break after you lose one or two really important papers the hard way). I say, “You need more ways to call me stupid.”
“Yes!” Rocky clatters around in a single spin, pleased.
I huff a laugh, thumping my head back against the xenonite. “Bud, I'm not sure I want to give you that much ammunition. My ego can barely survive the level of name-calling we're already at.” I pitch my tone to indicate humor but realize Rocky might not get it, and open my mouth to clarify that I don't have any hard feelings.
Rocky doesn't give me the chance.
“Word after much -? No, distract. You give me word stupid when I say stupid.” Rocky hesitates, then bonks his fist against the xenonite in the direction of the translator. “Thinking machine be quiet! No translate when I say stupid.” Bonk bonk bonk.
I laugh and lift my laptop off my knees back to the lab table, dropping my feet to the floor and sitting up. My ideas about the effects of ammonia atmosphere on evolutionary development can wait. “Okay, no, I understand what you mean. You said a word and I gave a translation for it, but it isn't quite one-to-one. Right?”
“Correct yes,” Rocky says. I swivel my stool to face him. He's swaying gently back and forth. “I say stupid. Not mean exactly human stupid. Probably. Think this is miscommunication.”
One of their longer words, but an important one in the early stages of getting their shared vocabulary together.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “So... what makes you think the meaning is off?”
Rocky lowers his carapace and tucks his legs closer to his body. Not quite a loaf, but a position I've come to associate with stubbornness. When he sings, his pitch shifts down. “Word upset Grace.” After a moment's pause he taps a claw twice on the floor. He doesn't sing the word “question,” though. It's just uncertainty.
“Word upset me?” I start to deny it offhand, but Rocky seems so earnest, so I stop myself and try to give it some real consideration. “No, I don't think so?” I say at last. “You're usually correct, I am stupid. When I'm tired, or can't do math fast in my head -”
Rocky whistles. His claws scrape the floor in agitation. “No no no, this when word is wrong. Grace tired yes, tired make stupid. Go to sleep, easy fix.” A hard vent puff. “When you resist easy fix, stupid like child. You adult human, no reason to act like child.”
I lower my head and accept the chastisement with a grin. Rocky is correct, but in fairness, I do a lot of that on purpose. I enjoy the griping banter we've developed around me resisting sleep and meals and following Rocky's orders. It gives Rocky a chance to roll into my legs, to chatter and hoot like a nanny, to feel like Grace need help and Rocky fix. Even though Rocky can't physically make me do any of these things, stuck in the ball... well, I'm no psychologist but I'm pretty sure it's good for Rocky to be able to command me to take care of myself and then hear me do it. The last 22 times he told someone to 'please be okay,' they very much weren't.
So, my English “stupid” is very close to what Rocky means in those moments, huh? Maybe his Eridian word is more like “childish.”
Rocky keeps talking, weaving carefully through our limited shared vocabulary. It grows all the time, but a few hundred words is still not sufficient for total clarity.
“When you limited by human biology, is not stupid,” Rocky says. I mentally replace this with “childish,” and think I see where Rocky is going. “Not like child. You do your best.”
“But my best isn't good enough,” I say, thinking I'm completing Rocky's thought.
Instead, Rocky hoots a short, sharp noise that makes me startle backward. Didn't need the translator for that one.
“Your best is best,” Rocky says, raising up from the floor. I would say he's getting heated, but... haha. “Best is is is good enough. Grace not stupid[childish], Grace limited. Rocky also limited. Not stupid[childish] for can't hear light. Not stupid[childish] for brain matter structure not hold information forever. Grace Rocky together better. Make each other better. Fill each other empty places.”
Oh, this freaking rock is going to make me cry again, and I was doing so good at having a leak-free day. I rub the bridge of my nose and sniff back the thickness trying to form in my throat.
“No leak,” Rocky orders.
“Working on it,” I croak.
We sit in the quiet for a few seconds, Rocky clicking gently (anxiously?) while I get myself under control and process what Rocky's telling me.
“Okay, so,” I say at last. “I agree, and I think the English word you want to replace stupid is childish.”
“Child[??], modifier on word child to mean 'like child'?”
“Yeah, -ish is a modifier for pretty much any noun that means 'like that thing.'”
“Oh. Easy. Human language not the worst this time.”
I poke the end of my tongue out at him. We agreed a while ago that the full tongue sticking out had to be reserved for major mockery because it is so egregious to hear. So now I've started flicking just the tip out fast, like a snake. It gets the point across with less auditory nightmare.
Rocky vents at me in return. He says, “Still need word for biology limits.”
“What would you call me in Eridian, in moments like those?”
Rocky leans his carapace back and sings a short chord with a trill at the end.
“And can you explain the difference between that and stupid?”
Rocky's vents flutter for a moment. “When Eridian hatch with difference,” he says finally, “like less leg or less air bladder. Or bad balance. Can't change who they are. Some things they can't do, a limit. Is not word to hurt. State fact only. Limit not fault of any person or behavior. Limit sometimes can be accounted for with fix from outside, like you use face device to see light better.”
I let out a heavy breath, leaning forward to put my elbows on my knees. “You're calling me disabled?”
Rocky's claw-clacking goes slower, hands lowering. “You hurt by this word also,” he says.
“No, no,” I try. “I... I mean, I understand what you're saying. I can't store information with perfect recall in my brain, and if I were an Eridian, that would be a disability. And if you were a human, your blindness – your inability to see light would be a disability. A pretty severe one both ways.”
Rocky spins slowly around by a couple of facets, thinking. “In human, word is bad? Person like this, with difference, is bad?”
“No,” I say louder than I mean to. Rocky stops moving. In a more normal tone, I say, “No, disability is not bad. But humans with disabilities have been... treated very badly by other humans, in different ways, for a long time.”
Rocky gives a faint hum. He sways again for a moment. “Eridian long long long ago history, period of time when – need word? - send away forever those Eridian born with less legs. Four legs bad luck. But four legs occur often in same clan lines. We discover genes, understand why four legs happen. Now we know better, do not think bad luck or send away.”
“Exile?” I offer. I don't bother to pull over the translator and enter it right now. “Yeah, humans also started to understand a lot of disabilities after we discovered genes. There are still humans who are cruel, though. Um, cruel – rude, but more. Rude rude bad bad.”
“Bad like astrophage,” Rocky says.
“Well... astrophage doesn't intend to hurt us,” I say with a grimace. “It doesn't think, it's just carrying out a life cycle. Cruelty is about hurting others on purpose.”
Rocky settles lower. Almost on the floor. Almost grudgingly, he finally says, “There are Eridian like this.”
I sigh. I suppose it was too much to hope for there to be an alien species out there without even the concept of cruelty. But still, it makes me love Rocky even more, knowing that he does come from a society that harbors some of the same worst instincts that humanity has, but that he's honest and loyal and kind anyway.
In fact, back to where this started, Rocky's realized that the word stupid can have a negative connotation and he's so kind he doesn't want to call me stupid for things I can't change. Putting off sleep is stupid, but having a wet organic brain that calculates slowly and can't retain infinite digits of pi is not stupid.
“Rock, I think the best word to use is just limited,” I say, after a long pause. “If you're annoyed that I forgot something, but you don't want to blame me or make me feel bad about forgetting it... just call the human brain a limited piece of garbage. I call it that all the time. I mean, I know my limitations and I'm annoyed by them too.”
“Brain not garbage,” Rocky grumbles.
“But brain is limited,” I say.
“Yes.”
“And it's annoying.”
“... Yes.”
“It's okay for you to be annoyed by it, bud, I really don't mind. It's kind of annoying to me that you can't see my screens, even though I know that's out of your control.”
Rocky sways.
I also don't want Rocky to start getting the idea that he can never criticize me again, especially since I came back to save him. The vibe has been a little different since that, for sure. It's only been a couple of weeks since we left the Blip-A behind so hopefully I'm in plenty of time to address this before it becomes a problem.
I say, “On Earth we have this saying about putting someone up on a pedestal. Placing them high above other people. Not literally, just... it's about refusing to admit someone is flawed because you like them. It's a bad thing because if you think of someone as perfect all the time, when it turns out they aren't, you'll get disappointed. And no one's perfect. You with me?”
Rocky makes the abrupt note that is his version of “uh-huh.” The translator doesn't pick it up as a full “yes” and pops up the < unknown > placeholder, but I've never bothered to fill it in. I'm getting to the point where a few phrases are easier to interpret in Rocky's real speech than having the translator getting in the way.
I keep going. “So even though there's all this good stuff we've done for each other, it's still okay to see my flaws.”
“Easy to see Grace flaws,” Rocky says at once. “Have so many.”
I laugh. “There's the Rock I wanna hear,” I say, reaching over to slap my hand on the barrier like a high-five. Rocky startles backwards.
“Why hit Rocky, what Rocky do?”
“Sorry, sorry,” I say, switching to a fist and pressing my knuckles against the xenonite. “It's another gesture that kind of means the same thing as fist bump.”
“Too many things mean same,” Rocky grumbles, but he fists my bump. (Oh nooo, don't start thinking the phrase that way! My brain is ruined.)
“You know dictionary? Humans have an entire other thing called a thesaurus that's just for matching up words that mean almost the same thing.”
“Humans make so many words cannot even remember them all,” Rocky chastises. “Why do this when you know you have leaky brains.”
I shrug, grinning. “I don't know, man, above my pay grade.”
“No have this anymore. All things your pay grade.”
(No, I haven't actually explained to him what salaries are yet. I just happened to say “above my pay grade” once way back during our Adrian adventure and gave him a vague explanation that it was about hierarchies within specialties. He pointed out that I'm technically now the top representative of every human specialty. I'm so sorry, humanities majors.)
“Well, we should take another pass at the dictionary, get some more words down,” I say. “We've got plenty of time.”
Rocky raises two legs and jazz hands at me. “Yes yes yes, want to talk better. Find more words same same but different.” He adds a warble, untranslatable, but I get it. More synonyms, more nuance.
“We should really work on tenses too, huh,” I say. Most of the time, once we'd gotten a noun or verb down, I never returned to it to add grammatical variations. Plurals were pretty easy because it's a single note-marker attached to a noun and the software can catch it, but tenses... oof.
Rocky spins and jazz-waves. “Give more words, all human words for Rocky, give give give.”
That's right. He only has the words I give him. I know Rocky is an adult and a genius, and it's a disservice to him that I haven't given him every scrap of language I can, so that he can have the capacity to make himself understood like the adult he is. I've withheld dignity from him and that sucks. I let it slide during the mission because we were busy, and we're both science guys and this is really a language-guy problem... but there aren't any language-people here, so we're going to need to get serious about getting interdisciplinary. And by we, I mostly mean me.
Oh boy. English class was not my strong suit. I don't think I remember how to diagram a sentence.
Rocky's still talking. “And when give new word, be precise precise precise with meaning so Rocky can insult Grace maximum accurate.” He chitter-hisses from his vents, his invented version of mischievous laughter that is somewhere between a real Eridian vocalization and an imitation of me.
“Maybe we don't need to insult Grace any more!” I say. “Maybe only give Rocky nice words from now on.”
Rocky chitters more. “If not give accurate words, you are bad science human. Must give Rocky best insult human have.”
“I will do no such thing!”
“Give Rocky swear.”
“No!”
“Let Rocky say < unknown > < unknown > < unknown >"
“We're going to clean up your language, young man!”
Rocky chuffs and hoots and climbs all the way around the inside of his tunnel in a flip. He starts to scurry off to get his own laptop in its protective atmosphere case, then pauses and scurries back. With his body language of absolute authority, he declares, “Grace not not not stupid.” He thumps his claws on the floor with every repetition for emphasis.
My chest fills with warmth. I've never loved anyone like I love this alien and I don't think that's ever going to change.
“Except when Grace maximum stupid,” Rocky adds, and then runs off.
“Hey, you-!”