Max glanced over to his buddy, but Heetayu was still. Max spoke. “The computer said you have a job.” He had no idea if that idea communicated correctly, but the various tentacles all stilled.
“Query: Care for offspring.”
“Query: Currency,” Max returned. Maybe that was a social faux paus, because both aliens went silent for a few seconds.
Heetayu touched his translator wristband and the new alien retrieved a translator from his weird, floppy tool hat. The two aliens tapped on their devices, and Max stood between them feeling perfectly useless. Normally that brought out his sarcasm, but since this was the only job available for decent pay, he was determined to keep his mouth shut. Eventually Heetayu touched Max’s shoulder. “Mass Human. Currency. Agreed.”
“How do I access currency?” Max asked. Heetayu blinked at him. Great. Heetayu didn’t understand. Okay, he could take this one step at a time. He needed to earn money before he could access it. He turned to the new alien.
“Designation Max,” he said.
The new alien said, “Designation” and then made an obnoxiously loud burping sound.
“Yeah. I can’t make that noise. Do you mind if I designate you Rick?” Max asked. Hopefully he wasn’t jinxing himself because he didn’t plan on playing Morty to any narcissists.
“Designation Max,” the new alien said. Given the whale song nature of the language, Max was pleasantly surprised to get a recognizable version of his name.
“Designation Max. Yes. Designation....” Max hesitated, gathered his breath, and belched as loud as he could. His sound came out nothing like the alien’s, and his mother would have been horrified at Max’s bad manners. “Query. Designation Rick?”
The tentacles all pulled back toward the center leg. “Designation Rick,” the alien agreed. “Firewalled.” He turned and undulated quickly up the ramp. The military term caught Max by surprise. No doubt the aliens had heard any number of pilots calling out that they had their jets firewalled and they still couldn’t keep up with the invaders, but the aliens on the last ship hadn’t misused the term so badly. Max wondered how many of the men and women he knew were dead now, and how many had gotten back to the ground safely.
Dee always pushed her damn jet too hard, even in training. She wouldn’t have bailed out, not unless she found a way to kamikaze right into the enemy. Zip and Piddle were solid pilots, but neither felt their birds the way truly great pilots did. Would they have known when to get out? The emotion caught Max unprepared.
Heetayu touched Max’s shoulder. He was definitely more of a social worker.
Max smiled. “I’m good. I guess I’d better firewall my legs, huh?” he said, mangling the term. He patted Heetayu’s thick forearm in thanks before he hurried after Rick.
The ship inside was much narrower than the military ship that had picked Max up. With his tentacles spread out, Rick took up the entire corridor. “Query. Human feel offspring not human.” Without waiting for an answer, Rick headed deeper into his ship.
Max followed. As the exterior hatch closed, an unfamiliar claustrophobia gripped him, but Max focused on the task at hand, pushing his fears aside. “I think you’re asking me if my species likes the young of other species. The answer is yes. I love dog offspring. I like cat and horse and cow offspring.” Max tried to remember if he’d been around other babies. He’d had fish growing up, but considering how many of those had died, he should probably avoid mentioning that.
“Query. Dogs.”
“Another species. I have raised two dogs. I raised a cow once.” Considering that had been for 4-H, Max planned to avoid any discussion of what had happened to it.
Rick stopped at the junction of two corridors and turned in a circle. Max should have chosen a better name because he was getting a brain cramp thinking of this tentacle creature as “Rick.”
“Query. Military.”
Max stared, not sure what Rick was asking. “I need more words.” When Rick let the silence continue, Max added, “Translation matrix failure.”
Rick rotated the other way. “Human Max military.”
“Yes. I’m an Air Force captain. I fly ships,” Max agreed. If this was a job interview, he wasn’t sure what sort of answer this guy wanted. Maybe he was afraid Max would lose his mind and chop his children into pieces. Who knew what sort of military personnel he knew.
“Query. Fight.”
Max needed to minimize the chance he would lose the only high-paying job he had been offered. “I tried to fight Nish. I didn’t do well. No good fighting.”
Rick stretched upward so several of his largest eyes were on level with Max’s. It meant his huge head and weird hat were pressed against the low ceiling. He must not have had an internal skeleton because his head flattened out. “Translation matrix fail.”
Max sighed. “I feel like I’m going to hear that phrase a lot. Deep conversations are not in our future.”
“Translation matrix fail.”
“Yeah. I got that. It’s a good thing I can amuse myself. On the bright side, you’ve never heard any of the Star Wars stories, so I can tell that story and you’ll think I’m brilliant. At least until I get to the first trilogy, but I’ll change it up. My personal theory is that Jar Jar Binks is a Sith. I’ll tell you that version.”
“Query. Trilogy.”
To hell with shooting someone else. Max might shoot himself. “Query. Offspring.” Maybe if he met the kids and figured out what he was supposed to do to keep them out of trouble, he could get his mind off his troubles. With any luck, the kids would be too young to speak and then the language barrier wouldn’t even matter. Max would need to figure out how to change alien diapers.
Max frowned and studied Rick’s body shape. Unlike most aliens, he didn’t wear clothes—only a saddle-like hat that carried tools. That was pressed up against the ceiling right now. However, Max had no idea how Rick or his kids would eat or where the diaper would go. Maybe underneath where the central leg tentacle came out of the center mass? Max forced his mind away from alien poop and looked Rick in the eye... well, the eye that was pointed toward Max.
Rick said, “Query. Health.”
“Answer. Healthy.”
Rick slid a few inches closer. “Query. Health.”
“You want to check my health, don’t you? Oh, there are so many X-Files episodes I’m flashing back to right now. I truly regret my addiction to television. Deeply regret.” Max knew he was being stupid, but his heart rate was still doing a jittery dance.
Rick said in a voice loud enough that it would have rattled windows if any had been around, “Query. Health. Query. Offspring.” He followed this with a huge blast of untranslated bugle sounds. That was cursing. Weird, but cursing sounded like cursing in every language, apparently even alien ones.
Max nodded. “Yeah, you’re a nervous father. I get it. You don’t want me to give the kiddos smallpox. That’s reasonable.”
One of Rick’s large tentacles shot out and wrapped around Max’s wrist. “Translation matrix fubar!” he shouted, and Max might have agreed—enthusiastically agreed, even—only he had to focus on keeping his feet under him as Rick dragged him through a maze of corridors. For a creature with one tentacle leg, Rick was graceful and fast.