Tastes of the Cosmos

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Slzylzlczryst emitted red oud-labdanum-osmanthus and removed her tentacle from the interface.  “Krislslyzzt, take a taste of this.”

Krislslyzzt undulated over and inserted her tentacle.  Her expression copied Slzylzlczryst’s aroma.  “It tastes modulated!”  She tasted again.  “Very faint, but definitely there.  Where did we receive this from?”

Slzylzlczryst consulted the array telemetry.  “Smells like it pinged elements theta-twelve through sixty-five by phi-ninety-eight through one-forty-three.  Range estimate three hundred forty lightyears.  Too far for a resolved trace vector.”

Guaiac wood-benzoin from Krislslyzzt.  “Well, it doesn’t match Xoxxadaxzik signatures.  It’s probably some weird pulsar group or something.  Flag it for the analysts.”

“You’re probably right.”  Slzylzlczryst logged the modulation while Krislslyzzt resumed her station.  Computers handled routine monitoring, but listening post operators were required to pay attention.

Like its 193,325 siblings, listening post 330-10-R3 existed to provide warning of a Xoxxadaxzik invasion; researchers discovering occasional interest in their data was a side effect.  Five, two-person crews staffed each listening post for two-year rotations.  Eight months in, eleven hours of tasting the interface’s monotonous, antiseptic, industrial flavor had Slzylzlczryst bored enough to try her own demodulation on the unidentified signal.

She expected at least a complete shift for the computer to output the results, but she floated onto the operations floor for her next shift to taste the summary report awaiting her.  Her scents shifted through vetiver, oude, hawthorn, and landed on tobacco-tannic-opoponax before she finished tasting the generated abstract.

“No way.”  Slzylzlczryst rolled her tentacle to the next page.  “No way.  A key?  But why…?  But what else could it be?”

“What are you muttering about over there?”  Krislslyzzt drifted from her workstation.  “You smell like a startled stinidye.”

Slzylzlczryst withdrew her tentacle and offered the port to Krislslyzzt.  “Remember that weird signal from a few shifts back?  The one we flagged for the researchers?  I got bored and had the computer take a taste of it.”

“Putting aside the waste of computing resources…”  Krislslyzzt tasted the abstract; her scent went straight to tobacco-tannic-opoponax.  “Sparks and ozone!  Who would send something like this?”

Slzylzlczryst allowed herself a satisfied scent that wafted from her.  “Permission to finish the translation?”

“Granted.”  Krislslyzzt retreated to her station.  “Oh, and Slzylzlczryst?  Let me know when it’s finished.”

Operating only on spare cycles, two days allowed the computer to translate the entire transmission, which stretched a mere fifty megabytes.  Sifting through it would take researchers decades, but aside from the key, it included a table of contents listing works of art, history, biological and chemical information, physical and mathematical constants, languages, and even maps.  Slzylzlczryst tasted a random sample from something called “Daodejing.”

“This is fantastic.  They’ve shared so much!”

“Idiots!”  Krislslyzzt’s scent was pungent neroli-capsaicin-tonka.  “They’re telling the Xoxxadaxzik exactly where to find them.”

Slzylzlczryst’s amazement turned to match Krislslyzzt’s horror-scent.  “They must not know.  Can we warn them?”

Krislslyzzt grimaced with vinegar-linden-lye.  “I’ll pass a high-priority report up, but even sending a brief message would be risky.  The Xoxxadaxzik could hear it.  And that range, combined with the map…the Xoxxadaxzik could well have been there already.”

“Those poor people.  Maybe we’re not too late.  They could be allies, right?  Like the Presherepheshish and the Vitrickistrix?  Well, hopefully a little less like the Vitrickistrix.”

“That’s the hegemon’s decision to make.”  Krislslyzzt sighed.  “I just don’t want you to grow too attached to these…humans.”

They were strange creatures, the humans, with their rigid bodies, enormous eyes, and inflexible extremities, but they were sufficiently relatable aliens to be fascinating.  News about the humans’ signal spread amongst the colonies enroute to the homeworld.  Improved translations proliferated, and at any cloud junction tastes of Shakespeare, Plato, and Confucious, whomever they were, passed from tentacle to tentacle.

Zickrixzyst, the hegemon, understood.  Last night, she delayed sleep to taste an excerpt from something called “King Lear,” and even in translation could almost smell the character’s depth of passion.  Nonetheless, she repeated her position.  “No.  It’s not worth the risk.”

“This is an opportunity to gain another ally against the Xoxxadaxzik.”  Voiced by Liliziryst, her councilor of foreign affairs, the position summed the argument.  Send a warning message to this “Earth,” with the potential to gain an ally, but the risk of inciting a Xoxxadaxzik attack.

Narshirichfle scented mint-citrus-musk.  “At least allow us to examine the coordinates.  Knowing if the Earth yet survives would make the decision to contact them easier.”

It would make Zickrixzyst’s decision more difficult, but she emitted assent.  “Passive methods only, and no more than five percent resource time.”

Vanilla-linen-strawberry from Liliziryst.  “And perhaps a very brief message?”  At Zickrixzyst’s seaweed-hemlock-burnt sandalwood glower, she hurried on.  “Highly directional, just a warning, with the best seal applied.  We can use the array we already use for communication with the Presherepheshish and the Vitrickistrix, so it shouldn’t occasion much attention as anything unusual.”

“What would it taste of us if we did not at least send warning to these humans of their folly?”  Narshirichfle and Liliziryst received a mist of supporting aromas; only Griglichrack, councilor of conflict, shared Zickrixzyst’s caution and restraint.  “We should smell of rot if we do nothing.”

Zickrixzyst limped her tentacles.  “If Griglichrack develops a 1.7-risk mitigation plan, I will permit a succinct, sealed warning message, without waiting for the observation.  The time delay may obviate all this effort, regardless.”

In 1877, Jules Verne wrote an adventure novel called Off on a Comet.  Despite the difficulties the characters found on their travels, it depicted an easy process by which a fragment of the earth could be broken free from the planet and sent flying off into space.  Amber wished it were so easy.  Perhaps more would have escaped.

Atoma and some of the others called it the Ark, but it wasn’t.  It was a lifeboat, adrift in a hostile sea, without provisions enough to see them to a shore they did not know how to find.  The Xoxxadaxzik were no divine retribution for humanity’s sins, and no covenant awaited the straggling survivors after the storm’s passing.

“Commander Dostrivczyck?”

Amber released the resistance bands and floated down to grab a towel.  “What is it?”  She’d given up after a year on convincing Namal to drop the formalities.

“The active camouflage picked up something strange.  Dr. Hagan and Dr. Lu are agitated about it, so I thought you might like to know.”

“Can you be more specific?”

Namal shrugged.  “Not really, ma’am.  Sorry.”

“It’s alright.”  Amber tossed her towel into the hamper.  “I’ll be there once I change.”

No shower for her, or anyone else aboard the lifeboat; they were limited to sponge baths and wipe-downs.  In a clean flight suit, she munched a bland algae cake on her way through the lifeboat to the watch floor.  Lucca and Luis were there, too, cramping the space.  All the spaces were cramped after six years.

“Ah, Amber.  Namal said you’d be by.”  Dr. Hagan was gaunt, but her eyes were bright today.  “Come to watch the show?”

“Show?  I heard there’s an issue with the camo.”

“Not an issue, exactly.”  Somehow, Dr. Lu looked unchanged from when they left, save for new wrinkles about his eyes.  “Here, I’ll replay it for you.”

On a display of the whole lifeboat, Amber watched a riot of colors undulate through the camouflage, all confined to the visible spectrum.  Six years on, her stomach dropped.  “Some kind of scan?”

Dr. Lu shook his head.  “It could be, but I don’t think so.  Not Xoxxadaxzik, I’m almost certain.  I think it’s a transmission.”

“Speculation,” Dr. Hagan snorted.

Amber frowned.  “The camo isn’t an antenna.”

“Well, it sort of is.  I mean, everything’s an antenna, or can be, but specifically the way the camo works is to capture and interpret incoming energy so it can account for it.”  Luis frowned, too.  “Still, that’s a long way from receiving and understanding a coherent, modulated signal.”

Dr. Lu smiled.  “Unless it was sent deliberately to us.”

“No.  There were no other survivors.  And if there were, they wouldn’t risk a signal.”

Dr. Hagan sighed.  “What Dr. Lu is trying to suggest is that an alien intelligence knew enough about us to send a signal in our direction we would be bound to receive even with technology from a century ago.”

“But not the Xoxxadaxzik,” Amber repeated.

“Highly doubtful,” Lucca agreed.  “They wouldn’t bother with something like this.”

“It’s still jumping to conclusions.”  Dr. Hagan swung herself to a console.  “Until Dr. Lu can extract actual information from the signal, it’s just peculiar EM.”

“And the camo is fine?”

“Unaffected.”

“Good.”  Amber pushed away from the watch floor.  “Let me know if you learn anything.”

After a week, Dr. Lu pulled Amber aside into what passed for privacy aboard the lifeboat.  He wore a strange expression undecided between laughter or descent into deep depression.

“I assume this is about your alien message?”

“I was right.”  Lu sounded as conflicted as he appeared, deprived of his positivity.  “Everyone will know soon, but I thought I should let you know first.”

“What’s with all the mystery?”  Amber failed to imagine what kind of message could discomfit the imperturbable scientist.

He sighed.  “It’s a message from an alien civilization which received the Cerro Message of 2062.”

“And they want to start a culture exchange with a culture that no longer exists?”

“Not exactly.  It’s a short message.  They knew how we communicate, though they may have missed some nuances…”

“Spit it out, Lu.”

Instead, Lu pulled the message up on a display and gestured for Amber to read it.

STOP STINKING YOUR FLAVORS EVERYWHERE, NOSELESS ONES!  THERE ARE OZONE-OPOPONAX-ASH-HOSTILE SPECIES WHO COULD TASTE YOU!

She read it again.  She pulled up a calculator, did some quick arithmetic, and she started laughing.  It was more laughing than crying, anyway.

Lu nodded.  “You understand.”

“If they’d sent this a few years earlier…”  Amber wiped her eyes.  “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t’ve mattered.  We couldn’t unsend the message, and what would a year or two’s warning have gained us?”

“Yes.  It changes nothing,” Lu lied.

“Nothing.  Fifty-four lightyears away…”  Amber shook her head.  “Well, let’s let the others know.”

Before she followed Lu to the rec room, though, she sent a message to Namal, who had the watch.  It would take longer than any of them would live, but the lifeboat would probably get there, eventually.  Amber wondered what the aliens would make of it.  She wondered…what it might taste like.

Thank you for reading Lloyd Earickson’s short story, Tastes of the Cosmos, an IGC Publishing original story. If you enjoyed the story, please consider leaving a comment or review in the discussion below the story. Be sure to follow IGCPublishing.com for updates, more information, and other freely available stories.

If you want to know more about the writing process for this story and how it came to be, please read the author’s note and release post.

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