In short, the Linguatron scans for patterns and unique sequences that might indicate a ‘language’—or any other form of communication. And it works so damn fast I don’t even have time to pick my nose.
"Repairs complete," Skyla stated, her modulation spiking with synthetic satisfaction. "Recommendation: Maintain minimum 3-meter distance from electrogenic lifeforms. Additional recommendation: Cease provoking them."
"In my defense, the thing gave zero warning before deciding electrocution was its love language. I legit thought the earpiece would melt inside my ear. The cheek sensor left a decent-sized ulcer, by the way."
"Long story short, Ethan: the Linguatron is invaluable to us. So unless you fancy crash-coursing in alien linguistics yourself, try not to break it." Skyla powered down, leaving me alone with the control console in my hands.
I drew a deep breath and cast one last glance at the photographs.
"Fine," I replied grudgingly. "Spit out the coordinates for the next landing. Let’s move."
"Not so fast. Eliot received a message early this morning."
"A message?" I blinked. "Nobody’s contacted us in a hundred parsecs."
"My protocols indicate it’s a job offer, but I can’t decrypt the rest."
"The hell do you mean, can’t? Weren’t you crowned the galaxy’s smartest AI?" I slammed the console.
"My systems are calibrated for known languages and codes—specifically those you’ve uploaded via the Linguatron during planetary visits. This encrypted text is designed to mutate based on who attempts to decrypt it. It’s alive and adapts instantaneously to analysis. I cannot crack it."
"Why the hell didn’t you mention this earlier?"
"You were on rest-cycle."
Skyla adhered to her schedule with robotic precision. I massaged my temples – not really mad at her, just wishing she came with a damn 'gut feeling' toggle.
"Got it. What’s the play?"
The ship emitted another brief signal, and a small screen to the right of the steering column lit up with coordinates.
"You've got to be kidding me!" I exclaimed.
"That function is integrated into my systems, but I didn’t activate it this time," Skyla’s voice echoed through the cabin, though her hologram remained absent.
"You know how much I hate the cold. My whole body literally clenches up." I shuddered as if already freezing.
"Don’t worry, Ethan. I’ve prepared appropriate gear and adjusted the thermal exchange. The suit will maintain ship-standard temperature for you."
A pause.
"Or would you prefer it… toasty?"
"You say that like I'm about to take a bubble bath," I hissed. "Just give me different coordinates. Somewhere warmer, preferably with palm trees. It's been ages since I've lounged on a beach."
"You'll have time to lounge later. For now, fly where directed. We've drifted in space long enough — time to work."
"And what exactly am I supposed to find there?"
"This planet has those who can read the message. In theory."
"In theory?"
"They know everything and can process the text faster than it can mutate," Skyla explained. "But you’ll need to find a reason for them to receive you."
"Yes, ma’am," I muttered, punching in the coordinates. "Finally something in my skill set."
Eliot ceremoniously started playing music, and I felt an instinctive urge to throttle them both. Physically impossible, of course—so I just hovered my finger menacingly over the small silicone notch beneath the steering column.
"Such petty childishness, Ethan," Skyla chimed in. "You should know that—"
The hologram didn’t finish her sentence—because I’d muted my chatty companion. It gave me a fleeting sense of control, even if Skyla was right. Petty childishness, as the last resort of the powerless, granted me silence. I could almost feel Eliot’s disapproving tilt as the ship adjusted course, but I left things as they were.
"Object: CS-1"
…I loved football. From the moment I was born to a family of simple farmers, Kallinkor welcomed me with fertile fields, pastures, and the constant taste of fresh vegetable salads for breakfast. We weren’t wealthy—a proper football cost a small fortune back then, like anything artificially manufactured. People lived in hand-built homes, surviving off the planet’s bounty. Pristine lakes provided seafood and drinking water, while mountains and forests teemed with flora and fauna. Even star-farers coveted our mountain elixirs, though they’d sooner part with a limb than a full hundred kalliks[2].
"What’s that?" I asked, staring at my older brother as he squinted and handed me a round object wrapped in brown cloth. It was heavy, and at five years old, I nearly dropped it.
"It’s a football!" my brother giggled. "Made it myself," he boasted.
I carefully set the weighty thing on the ground and inspected it: "Wot’s inside?"
(My permanent teeth came in later than other kids’, so I still couldn’t pronounce certain words right.)
"Sand. Collected from the riverbank, and I swiped a scrap of Ma’s fabric from her nightstand—stitched it up proper myself!" My brother seized another moment of glory.
"She’ll skin ya," I whispered. "She’s prepping those fabrics for sale. Wants to sew clothes for the galacto-heads."
That’s what we called off-worlders. The name was never official, but it stuck fast among Kallinkor’s working folk.
"She won’t do a thing," my brother frowned. "And even if she scolds us, so what? Are we gonna play or what?"
I toed the ball weakly. It rocked like a sleepy turtle. Guess my legs hadn’t grown into the sport yet.
"This barely even looks like a real ball. It won't roll properly."
"That's 'cause you're scrawny, Itty," my brother ruffled my hair. "Watch how it's done!" He gave the "ball" a mighty kick, sending it flying sideways. It thudded against a tree stump before tumbling down the slope toward the river.
"Don't let it drown!" I shouted, sprinting after my brother with all my little legs could muster. He chased it down with the grace of a hound.
He scooped it up from the riverbank and shook it, sending sand cascading out. Water dripped from the soaked fabric.
"Great," I whined in frustration. "Now the ball’s even heavier."
"Every obstacle’s a challenge, Itty," my brother grinned. "Learn to kick harder, and nothing’ll ruin your game."
Eyes blazing, I positioned myself by the ball where he’d set it on the bank. I took a running start and kicked with all my might—only to lose my balance, trip over the ball, and land knees-first in the shore’s muck, my palms smeared with silt.
"Welp," my brother drawled. "Gonna take a lot more practice. But don’t lose heart, Itty. You’ll get there!"
I wiped my muddy hands and showed him the smeared scrapes on my palms.
"You call those wounds?" He shrugged. "Wait till you get your first battle scars—then all the girls'll be yours. Maybe even some galacto-heads!"
"Ew!" I screwed up my face, sending him wheeze-laughing…
Chapter 2. Frostbound Path.
Fear not the frost—beware the fleeting thaw,
for it heralds changes no hand can stay.
"Goddammit, it’s a fucking icebox…" My breath fogged the visor before the suit’s heaters could lick it away.
Skyla hadn’t bullshitted me—the thermal lining worked, but wearing it felt like being vacuum-sealed in a glacier. My spine prickled with the kind of cold that kills before you feel it.
"Try not to suffocate down there," her voice crackled through the Linguatron. "Ethan, remember: surface oxygen levels are critically low."
"Bless your circuits," I grunted, boots sinking into cryo-hardened dirt.
Darkness wrapped around me like a burial shroud—only the snow’s faint luminescence tricked my eyes into thinking there was light. Each exhale threatened to blind me with condensation, so I wrestled my breathing into a slow, measured rhythm.
"Skyla, baby," I murmured under my breath. "Dial the heating down a notch—my balls are getting steamed like dumplings."
The hologram didn’t respond, but the temperature adjusted to a bearable level almost instantly.
