c. 2024 Rod Ice
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(9-24)
Centurion Valda Prell had been at his post on the Sontor Prime for a dozen days, without receiving a rest period. The trip from his homeworld to Planet Earth had been a long and tedious journey. One undertaken as a research mission, to explore and document life forms that his civilization had detected in faraway galaxies. At first, such work seemed thrilling. He boasted to friends about having been chosen to spearhead this effort. Yet after weeks and months of crossing the vast distance between his own star cluster, and the next, he was sour. Fatigue humbled him, with the effect of turning everything pale. He had lost interest in being a pioneer. Now, his clawlike hands were knobby and withered, as they gestured over the control panel of their vessel.
He barked an order to his navigator, as they neared the charted destination.
“GTEB FROKAE? NANA FALANOUR OLAN BEFUKEH! NO FANA KREB!”
His subordinate officer nodded obediently, and steered the interstellar craft toward a rendezvous with the giant blue rock, spinning in space.
“Ya folde kodana! Frokae gteb!”
The Sontor was equipped with a quad array of engines at its tail, that were powered by a rare element found on their twin moons. When bombarded with radio waves, these crystals glowed white-hot, and emitted a stream of useful energy. They made it possible to leap over great distances in a relatively short period of time. Something that their civilization had never been able to accomplish before.
Prell brightened a bit as the golden glow of Sol came into view. He pointed at Mercury, Venus, and then Earth, all traversing their orbital positions.
“Hana vek! Goldan gib frekanae! So pree! So Pree!”
The navigator signified his agreement. Their primary stop in the unfamiliar solar system was awe-inspiring. Proof that some great engineer had created a universe filled with diverse delights. He felt privileged to be the first to behold such beauty, directly.
The centurion switched on a universal translator, and opened a frequency range that was thought to be most conducive for making diplomatic contact with alien inhabitants.
“Attention! Attention! I am the commander of this ship. Allow me to welcome you, in the name of my people, who live on a rocky globe many light years from your own. We are voyagers in the cosmos, studying and mapping the regions that surround our system. We ask for your permission to linger here, and if possible, document our discoveries to help us plan future missions to the Earth and its neighbors...”
T.C. Lincoln was already drunk, despite his clock indicating that they had only reached the hour of noon at his community of mobile homes, in Ohio. His face burned in the summer heat. He felt slightly dizzy, but continued to imbibe shots of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey, while sitting on his wooden bench.
As he streamed vintage Country & Western music through an app on his cell phone, suddenly, static and electronic fuzz took over. When he closed the program and restarted it, this din of hi-tech noise continued. Finally, he heard a squawk of vocalization that shocked his senses.
“GTEB FROKAE! GTEB FROKAE!”
The alcoholic hermit shook his head and cursed.
“What the hell? Is this a Pink Floyd track I never heard before? I had the feed set on gawdamm hillbilly music! Not pot-smoking, hippie bullshit!”
Centurion Prell fiddled with his console. Something in the link that connected his transmitter to the planetary grid was malfunctioning. He cleared his throat, and reengaged the translator.
“Attention! Attention! I am the commander of this ship...”
Lincoln shuddered while hearing the dry rasp of this strange communication.
“Ship? What freaking ship? Are you coming across Lake Erie, from Canada?”
The foreign commander widened his eyes as the reply echoed inside of their nexus room.
“HELLO! HELLO! I CAN HEAR YOU, EARTHER! I CAN HEAR YOU LOUD AND CLEAR!”
The graybeard iconoclast peered down the neck of his liquor bottle, with disbelief.
“Earther? What is that supposed to mean, do I look like the hired help that does landscaping around here? Damn, I don’t think my clothes are that dirty. I swear they were fresh out of the washing machine two or three days ago. Well, maybe two or three weeks ago, to be honest.”
Prell waved his palm over blocks of illuminated squares on the control board.
“Do you comprehend my language, sir? I have set the parameters for English as it is commonly spoken across North America. We have been monitoring your audio and video broadcasts for several years...”
Lincoln started to feel nauseous. He belched and passed wind at the same time, a natural spew which caused the storm door to rattle in its frame. And puzzled the centurion with its raw intonations.
“This wordless salute you offer, is it a custom of your people? Does this signify welcome? Are we being honored as guests?”
The reclusive drunk laughed out loud. Then belched again, with foamy drool dripping from his facial hair.
“Nah man, I drank my beer too fast. Now I’m about to hurl, I think...”
Prell checked the levels on his contact array. He could not figure out why the translator was providing him with gibberish.
“Say again? You drank... beer? What is this fluid refreshment of which you speak?”
The cranky oldster tapped his phone against the wall. He thought that some sort of sci-fi podcast must have come up in his Spotify menu.
“Is this Joe Rogan, taking about a new movie release? What the fugg? Don’t bill me for this shit, if I subscribed, it was by mistake!”
The Sontor Prime commander pounded his claw on the illuminated panel. Frustration caused his yellow skin to turn slick and glossy.
“FALANOUR OLAN NOBECKI! WHAT IS THE CAUSE OF THIS DEFICIENCY? WHAT FAILURE HAVE WE CREATED WITH OUR TRANSLATION PROGRAMMING? WE COME ALL THIS WAY TO CONNECT WITH ALIEN PEOPLE, AND IT ENDS UP LIKE THIS?”
The navigator shrugged and tapped at his own board.
“Nanda fole. Sorenda pyre, fole. Fole! Fole!”
Prell nearly threw his optical stylus across the crew cabin. He was still connected to the transmitter and its language interpreter.
“NO MORE EXCUSES! I CAN’T REPORT THIS BACK TO OUR HOMEWORLD, THEY’LL SACK ME FOR CERTAIN! MY CAREER WILL BE FINISHED! TAKE US OUT OF ORBIT, IMMEDIATELY! WE’RE GOING HOME TO FIGURE OUT WHAT WENT WRONG!”
His junior officer crouched low, and obeyed submissively.
“Nanda fole! Yo krebeda ton da mechee!”
A trail of crystal remnants crossed the horizon as T.C. Lincoln sat on his porch, reeking of strong drink and Cheetos. His fingers were orange. And his throat had gone numb from the wash of high-proof spirits. He was near the point of passing out, and soaking his overalls with piss. But his thirst had not yet been quenched.
He took one more pull from the square-shouldered, glass container. Then slipped into a daze of inebriation, and seedy bliss.
“Rogan has some messed up people on his show! That’s why I keep the channel on old redneck tunes!”
Sounds about right!
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