[The aliens have spent the last month trying to learn how to speak Earth-ish from a pack of trafficked prostitutes they rescued; one of them is language geek Melina, a polyglot who instead learns the aliens’ language, Vlaximi. After landing on Earth and meeting up with a pack of alien fans collected on the internet, one of the aliens gives a welcoming speech.]
Veebry’s address made me want to cringe. I’m not even going to repeat it because even typing it out is embarrassing. I’ll give you the gist of it – Ofelia loves old school hip hop. I think her dad actually performed it, although he wasn’t very big. Seems like she played a lot of it for Veebry, since his speech was laced with dated slang from decades ago. I could also hear the influence of lots of superhero movies, which was something else Ofelia liked.
The content of his speech was very basic. Something like, “we traveled a long way to meet you and we look forward to getting to know you better, thanks for your welcome.” Something that could be encompassed in less than a minute. Instead he went on for several, complete with thanks to “our bitches,” which he seemed to think was a polite form of address, with special mention to his shorty, Ofelia. He went on to mention her skill at giving oral. Sometimes he spoke in a Blaccent that sounded more than a little racist, and sometimes he used gutter Spanish, like “cabron” with an exaggerated trill.
The spectators stared at him, their faces frozen as they tried to make sense of what they were hearing. Veebry’s look was perfect. Tall, powerful man in sunglasses and an outfit somewhere between a formal suit and something from a futuristic music video. Shaved head, skin a little greyish but nothing too far from the ordinary range. Unusual features, definitely distinctive, but nothing you could file away as resembling some particular entertainer, or belonging to a specific ethnic group.
A man who should’ve been speaking like a newscaster. Authoritative, sticking to one language, without all the dated slang and tough guy cliches. Vlaximi were terrible at being tough. They were friendly, sentimental, open about their emotions. The kind of people who can spend a few years in space together without constantly getting into pissing matches. They were more likely to vaporize their opponents than fight, if it came to that. When a Vlaximi starts boasting about his dick or his fists it sounds like parody. Like a dad joke. Like a space alien who doesn’t understand Earth culture at all, making fun of it.
The spectators were polite. They clapped, and then they got to their real agenda of asking questions, all at the same time. I gradually realized that they’d been rounded up on the internet. A squad of Vlaximi techies must have built a web presence and collected a bunch of early-adopting suckers eager to get in on the hottest new conspiracy theory.
I had an elderly math teacher once, who told me that in his day, schoolkids were forced to memorize times tables, because they didn’t have calculators yet. Then when they first got calculators, students were forbidden from using them in class, because the teachers wanted them to learn how to calculate with their own brain instead of relying on machines as a crutch. My generation all has calculators on our phones and cash registers that calculate the tip for you, so we’re crutching around all the time. Especially if you’re me and happen to be terrible at math. At least I can translate numbers into a bunch of languages to spread out my chances of finding someone good enough at math to help me with my math homework, so that’s something.
After hearing Veebry, though, I understood my math teacher’s point. A computer would have translated Veebry’s speech into its basic concepts, but in order to figure out whether you were translating a teenager word, a dad-joke word, an authoritative word, a word spoken in a racist accent, a word that didn’t really communicate precisely what the speaker intended – you’d need to filter everything through a human brain. Maybe even several.
The spectators just wanted to know things like whether they were bringing us advanced technology, and whether we could ride on their spaceships, and whether their arrival meant the conspiracy theories were true. The Vlaximi stumbled through a brief question and answer period, but after a few minutes Morvain put an end to it. He dispensed some nice formal platitudes that made him look positively statesmanlike compared to Veebry.
[Later, Morvain’s partner, Stella, summons all the other ex-prostitutes to a meeting.]
Stella was doing her very best to act like an officer’s wife. She served all of us cold drinks, and passed around a platter of cookies. The branded, corporate kind. After a long stretch of Vlaximi food they tasted super sweet to me, but they also tasted like some of the better moments of my childhood, so I ate three.
Once we all had refreshments, Stella stepped onto the seat of her chair and said, “If I could have everyone’s attention.”
Once we were watching, she blushed shyly, taking a few seconds to work up her public speaking nerve. Morvain nodded at her encouragingly. She continued, in English with each sentence followed by a Spanish translation. “Morvain has noticed discrepancies in the translation. Some of the spectators have reported they were confused by Veebry’s speech. When they posted a version online, Morvain and his men read it, and they don’t think it was entirely accurate.”
“It say he describe you as dogs,” Morvain said, in slow, heavily accented English. “Perros,” he repeated in Spanish, followed by an impersonation of a lap dog going “yip yip yip.”
When an Earth person says “dog” it’s understood they’re talking about anything from an Irish Wolfhound to a Chihuahua. The Vlaximi have a similar animal (although it does have six legs), but they don’t have a separate name for female dogs. To them, a dog is small and yappy, and if it’s bigger, with a booming bark, it’s a completely different animal. I’d probably come up with something like “bigdog” if I were translating it, or maybe “hound.” In their culture, little dogs are lovable scamps and tricksters, always thinking of ways to steal treats. Constantly yapping, whining, and making other doggy-type sounds. If you call someone a dog, according to what I’d seen in sitcoms anyway, it means you think they’re a blabbermouth trying to distract you from your sandwich. The connection with irritable women, or women in general, or subordinates of either gender, isn’t even there. There is, however, an implication that a doglike person is bullshitting you so they can get your sandwich, or whatever else they want, and I’m sure that was the reason Morvain was concerned. He wanted to find out if we were bullshitting his men about Earth languages.
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