by Lyn Gala
Rick tilted his head to the side. “I question your use of language.”
“So did my English teacher,” Max admitted. “So, where is the back door on this place?”
“Suggestion. We return to the ship.” Rick tugged at Max’s wrist.
The rainbow of aliens walking past them represented every color and a huge range of sizes, but all of them were united in being assholes to Rick’s people. And here he had believed Roddenberry’s promise that space and the future would be better. At least he didn’t have to battle any Borg. “Would Darth Vader return to the ship?” Max asked. When all else failed, he found Rick reacted well when Max appealed to Rick’s favorite sith. And Vader never retreated.
“He would hire for compensation to build poorly engineered war machine,” Rick said. “I lack funds of compensation and would avoid Death Star death.” He tightened his hold on Max’s wrist.
“Right.” Max couldn’t fault the logic. “Suggestion. We find the back entrance and sell your program.”
Rick’s tentacles twitched, but he started walking away. “Darth Vader failed in quality-checking death machines.”
“I agree. One really good engineer could have fixed most of his problems.”
“One good engineer created problems. The Hidden People welcome Galen Erso as good at hiding.” Rick waved a couple of smaller tentacles.
Max wasn’t sure how one person could have both Galen Erso and Darth Vader as personal heroes, but then no one was perfect. If that was Rick’s worst trait, Max would survive. Rick led them through an arched opening into some sort of covered walk or alley. Grates ran along the sides of the walk.
Rick turned down another alley, this one larger. Almost no one was around and vehicles glided along rails without any drivers. So this was for deliveries.
“Current action causes distress.”
Max stopped. “I don’t want to push you to do something you don’t want to.”
Rick moved closer. “You do not exert force or pressure on me.”
“If you want to go back to the ship, you should go back.”
Rick rotated a quarter turn. “Query. Do you wish to return to ship?”
Max sighed. He felt like he was reliving the same fight he’d had with every boyfriend he’d ever dated. What do you want to do? I don’t know; what do you want to do? One of the levels of hell was full of people refusing to express an opinion. But at the same time, Max was tempted to start that circle jerk of uncertainty. He wanted to give Rick room to make his own mind up. “I want to sell your program for fair compensation. I can request compensation without you coming with me.”
“Clarify. You cannot. You fail providing required information regarding technical specifications.”
That was probably true. Max sighed. “We can go back to the ship.”
“Query. Do you wish to return to ship?” Rick traced lines on Max’s arm.
“No,” Max admitted, even though he felt guilty about saying it. He was an asshole for pushing Rick. Max had avoided marching for gay rights, so it felt hypocritical to metaphorically shove Rick out of the asymmetrical closet.
“As you tell offspring, I reserve right to call you polonium-headed poopy face.” Rick walked down the alley, his largest arm tentacle still around Max’s wrist.
“I am not a poop face,” Max protested.
“Potentiality of poopy face exists,” Rick said. Once again, his logic was on point. Rick stopped in front of a door. “Entrance to back for delivering of supplies.”
“Clarify. Service entrance.” Max stepped in front of the door and waited. The trader probably had surveillance, so now they could only wait; hope that he was curious enough about the program to open the door; pray that this scheme wasn’t illegal or if it was, that they didn’t get caught. Max was starting to regret his decision to avoid the criminal database.
After several minutes, the service door was flung open and the short trader stood in the opening. He sang loudly, and once again, his translator barked out, “Demand information.”
“I want to sell you a computer program for navigation.” Max took a deep breath and tried to ignore the flush of adrenaline that made his heart pound. Rick’s tentacle tightened around his wrist.
The trader frowned at Max and then Rick and back again. “Species of you is inferior in navigation.”
Once again, Max had found a logical alien. “The program is superior.”
The trader made a shrill whistle that ended in a three-note trill that repeated several times. Max got the feeling he’d been cursed out by a flute. “Superior but ugly not traded.”
“You can profit from trade without seeing ugly,” Max said. That was a generality, but he didn’t trust the translation computer with any sort of nuanced suggestion.
Rick spoke up, but the translator only caught about every third word. “Husband.... Computer program.... Others peoples.... Compensation.... Others peoples.” The nouns were separated by burps and rumbles that made the trader stand taller with each passing second. Apparently Max had not done a good job of programming the translation computer with vocabulary related to conning people. However, the trader’s gaze was darting back and forth like a spectator at a tennis match where both competitors had been dipping into the meth stash.
When Rick finished, the trader said, “Come,” and retreated into his shop. Max traded looks with Rick and then they both followed.
“What did you tell him?” Max asked.
“Max lacks sense that moron species would possess.”
Max snorted. That was probably true, but he still doubted Rick had said it, at least not to someone outside the family. When the offspring and Max ganged up to declare a water war on Rick, he said that and worse.
They followed the trader through shelving lined with numbered boxes into a room that resembled Rick’s computer room.
“Business communication facilitator.” The trader poked a long, boned finger toward a bright blue control unit.
Rick set his computer down on a ledge clearly built for it and tiny wires rose from the surface. Dozens slid into the cracks in the sides of the tablet. Hopefully that was normal. Rick didn’t seem bothered, and he was very protective of it.
Rick reached a tentacle toward Max. “We can communicate more easily now.”
Gone was the broken English, the almost right word choices, the awkward phrasing.
“What the hell happened with the translation computer?”
“Official translator functions as a business communication facilitator,” the trader said. “Database is right that you are from species of morons who cannot leave their planet. You didn’t make current navigation program.” Max heard the anger in the computer-generated voice.
Ignoring the trader, Rick answered Max’s question. “Every linguistic database in the known universe is entered, so the computer has a large enough sample to compare a new language against linguistically similar samples. Every species donates to one system. No one can tamper with one system. Only buy a license to use it.”
Rick’s voice still sounded like Rick—like the tones Max had assigned him on the translation computer. However, now the emotional content of the words was clear. Rick had a softness to his voice that his loud belches and rumbles hid and the computer voice had—up until this point—been missing. Max smiled. “It's impressive. I’m surprised no one has stolen the programming.” Max was already wondering if he could scam someone out of a copy.
The trader interrupted, and the computer translated his impatient tone. “Programming can't be accessed or reproduced by examining externally various systems and their functions.”
With one last smile for Rick, Max turned his attention back to the trader. “We call that reverse engineering. We look at the function and attempt to recreate the process. However, I don’t know how you would stop someone from trying to create their own version.”
“People try to create one, but they don’t have access to facilitator’s linguistic database,” the trader sa
id. He stepped up onto a platform so he was as tall as Rick, but he was still several inches shorter than Max. “If your people know to reverse engineer, then you have more technical sophistication than database suggests.” He sounded suspicious.
“And what does the database suggest?” Max gave the trader his most charming smile.
The trader made another flute whistle. “It says you are simple, non-spacefaring race with limited intellectual capacity and almost no skills. It says the larger of the two known humans in civilized territory took job doing surrogate work for Ugly People.”
Max’s stomach knotted. Two. Who the hell else was running around the universe? Max wanted to ask, but he had an obligation to Rick first, and he would look for the other humans as soon as he taught these assholes a little respect. “Not Ugly People,” he said firmly. “The Hidden People. And my people have a great respect for surrogates and an emotional attachment to children that should not be underestimated.”
“Clarify,” the trader demanded.
“If someone touches the children I surrogate for, the children I have helped raise, I am very likely to take a sharp object and remove one or two tentacles,” Max warned.
“He killed pirates who were Hunters,” Rick added.
The trader touched his computer. “I should add violent to database.”
Max stepped forward quickly enough that the trader flinched away and fell off his stupid little platform. “I wouldn't say my people are violent by nature, but we certainly have an ability to defend what's ours. That’s why I will not allow someone to cheat us on the price of this navigation program.”
“The program is not yours.”
“It is mine,” Rick said. “We are husbands, so we share resources. It is, therefore, his.”
“Demonstrate worth of this program,” the trader demanded.
Rick manipulated his tablet’s screen and code flashed on the main screen on the facilitator. The trader moved closer. He had tentacles that ended in long, boned fingers that he ran along the screen as he read the code. “This is exceptional level of sophistication.”
Rick shrank as his leg tentacle curved. It wasn’t a curl, but it was close. Max moved to his side, although he wasn’t sure why the compliment would upset Rick.
“You could make excellent profit from that,” Max said.
“I cannot buy work of one Ugly, Hidden People.”
Rick straightened. “I have not registered my work.”
“So I can be the seller of record,” Max said. They needed a desperate trader for this step. Apparently the universe took copyright very seriously, so they needed someone to buy the program and help register the program to Max.
The trader moved around Max, giving him a wide berth. He stopped in front of Rick. “What would inspire you to offer without registering your work on program?”
Rick rose to his full height. “My faith in my husband. If you were to take what is mine, he would do great harm. He has killed.”
Max cringed. That was not where he had wanted the conversation to go. However, Max had to back his play. The only way to get this guy to help was to convince him that he could make a good profit and that Max and Rick would take his secret to the grave. That required a united front. “If you try to steal Rick’s program, I will take a very sharp object and shove it into a very tender body part. But, we have a proposition for you. One that might make us both wealthy.”
“My continued ability to earn compensation requires that I not trade with Ugly, Hidden People. They have angered most of universe by claiming territories behind their world, territories they don't have right to.”
“We do not claim,” Rick protested. “We wish you not to fly through our space. We only prevent you from doing that.”
“And that prevents people from reaching space behind your world. To navigate around requires extraordinary time. You know this.” The trader turned to Max. “Do you understand how his people anger other peoples?”
This asshole was trying to drive a wedge between them. He was playing a con of his own. At least, that was what Max would have assumed if a human was trying to split a partnership. Max leaned against the computer and rested his hand on his weapon. “My people would congratulate him. In fact, we do tend to claim territory preemptively, sometimes when someone else is already standing on it. Don't look for me to get upset because the rest of the universe can't figure out how to get around their security system.”
The trader whistled, and the computer translated with a whispered, “Fuck you.” He then spoke louder. “I will not trade with Hidden, Ugly People. If I do, I will not have any customers. I need compensation beyond one trade.”
“But what if your customers didn't know that a product came from one of the Hidden People? What if they believe the product came from a previously underestimated species that had been grossly misunderstood?” Max smiled and tapped the screen on Rick’s tablet.
“You are not genius to create this.”
“We could tell people I was.”
“That would be untruthful.”
“I’m okay telling a lie, especially when the people I’m lying to have mistreated my husband.” Max held his breath. This was it. Either this trader helped him or he threw them out. Or he reported them, and what they were attempting to do was illegal. That was a possibility.
The trader looked at each of them, but his gaze settled on Max. “You wish to lie to entire universe.”
“Yep.”
Another fluting curse followed, but this time the computer didn’t translate it. Max waited as the trader seemed to debate with himself. Rick slid to Max’s side and wrapped a tentacle around Max’s waist. “You have a square head,” Rick said softly. It took Max a second to realize Rick had called him polonium-headed, although he had been nice enough to leave out the poop reference.
“Other traders will not believe moron species can write this,” the trader said.
He wanted to do this. Max gave a verbal push. “I bet you could convince them.”
“No.” The trader curled his fingers into a fist. “I desire the power to lie to others, but there will be too many questions. I cannot answer questions.”
“I can,” Max said. “With Rick’s help at least. If you work with me, I can convince your customers that I created this, and then you can pay me full price.”
The room went silent. Rick didn’t give a single burp, but his tentacles were drawn up into curled balls. That sent arrows of guilt straight to Max’s gut, but he was doing this for Rick, so he ignored the feeling. Instead, he focused on the trader. They needed the man’s connections, and they needed help setting up this scheme; however, whether he would help was up in the air. Max prayed that greed was as strong of a motivation for aliens as it was for humans, and he added a second prayer that the program was as valuable as Rick thought. There was something perverse about praying for help with lying and cheating the law, but if that was what it took, Max would do it.
After a long silence, the trader said, “How good are your people at lying?”
Max grinned. “We’re champions. No one lies better.” Rick’s tentacles balled up tighter, and the trader whistled, but Max could already tell this con was a go.
Chapter Five
The trader escorted them up a long ramp into what looked like either a living space or a more posh office. Wide windows overlooked the docks, and their ship squatted in the distance. Despite the fact that the five of them rattled around in the huge space, the ship was one of the smaller ones lined up along the boardwalk. A swarm of small ground vehicles was pulling another vessel back to the launch pad, and it dwarfed theirs.
“Reasoning moron people,” the trader said once the door closed behind the three of them. Rick’s tentacles tightened around Max’s wrist.
“Are we back to the poor translations?” Max asked.
Rick spoke. “Computer of human matrix lacks connection.”
Ah. That was the problem. The trader touched a table and a familiar co
nsole rose out of the center. “There!” The trader said.
Rick slowly released Max’s arm and carried the computer over to the console to reconnect the human translation matrix Max had worked on so many hours to the fancy-dancy business communication facilitator. Max triggered a personal recording device he kept on him for those times when he needed to record language and work on the translation later.
“The computer is attached,” Rick said. With the improved translator, Max heard the worry in his voice. He took Rick’s nearest tentacle in his hand.
“So let’s talk about how to get a fair price for the best piece of navigation software you’re ever going to see.” At least Max assumed that description fit. Rick said it was remarkable programming, and Rick’s insecurities did not lend themselves to empty bragging.
The trader sat on a curved bench and pulled all his tentacles up onto the seat. “If I were willing to conspire with such a lie, I could not make others believe that you are programmer.” Now that the translation machine was turned on, the trader sounded snotty again.
“You couldn't now, no,” Max admitted. He looked around, but he didn’t see another bench. Aliens were really shitty hosts. If Max ever got independently wealthy, he was going to fly back to Earth, hire a whole ship full of southern grandmothers and Russian grandmothers and Greek grandmothers and turn the whole army of old women loose on the universe. They could shame and lecture aliens into having manners. Max gave up finding a comfortable spot and sat on the floor cross-legged. “But anyone who is good at lying knows that you have to put a lot of true words around the lie to make it all smell good.” Rick moved to Max’s back and leaned into his back.
“Most people do not use scent to identify accuracy of information. Smell is irrelevant.”
Apparently the universe was full of Mr. Spocks. “I suggest we begin with something more believable.” Max pulled his weapon out and put it on the floor in front of him.
The trader fell off the back of the bench and scrambled to get his tentacles under him. “No violence. People from world with no space travel have far too much violence.”
