There are translation programs for every single language and dialect on Earth, and though I didn’t expect them to figure out how to translate the orcs’ language overnight, it didn’t occur to me that no existing program would work. Turns out only a few of us in the UDL have the brain chemistry that can pair with a program to decode the orc language at all. We watched news feeds, paying close attention to the words the orcs shouted to one another; we watched their mouths move; we observed their body language. All this information was surveyed, diced up into 1s and 0s, and before long a relatively crude translation program was developed.
Santos says, “We’re complicit.”
“Nothing in the UDL Code of Conduct about torturing orcs from space.” Santos looks tortured herself, so I soften my tone. “Look, you don’t want to call them orcs, fine. But in case you missed it, the only conversation they’ve ever tried to have with any of us is one that comes out the laser end of their guns.”
“You willing to sell your soul?”
“To save my uncle Junior?” I lean back. “In a heartbeat.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
In my second year in UDL, when I was stationed in Atlanta, I got a call from Uncle June. He sounded beaten down and slow and I knew before he told me it must be really, really bad. And it was: the orcs had made it down to Baltimore and laid waste to the whole area. He’d been traveling with Judith, the last surviving member of the elderly prayer circle; they had just the clothes on their backs, but she’d been injured and didn’t make it. But he was still trying to help anyone he could as he made his way over the crumbled I-95 highway, sometimes pulling burnt bodies out of cars to sleep. He had nowhere to go, and we both knew that him roaming the countryside meant it was just a matter of time before he was killed—by orcs or by the humans who’d turned to anarchy now that the battle seemed to be a losing one.
Then there was news about a mission that was going to save us all. They’d found the orcs’ home planet, and were going to bring the fight to their backyard. They needed fighters, doctors, pilots . . .
And translators, I told Uncle June the next time he managed to get a call through to base. Anyone who volunteers for Mission Savior has a chance to win themselves and their families a spot in Sanctum. We don’t do hardcore interrogation. Just translating.
But Uncle June sucked his teeth. I can’t sit in that place knowing everyone else is left out in the cold.
Only people like politicians, top scientists, and their families had refuge in Sanctum, an underground facility in the Rockies, but now I had a chance to secure a place for Uncle June and me. That’s how it is for most people on this mission. Almost all of us have people at home, loved-one-shaped reasons why we signed up for what could be a one-way trip through a wormhole to an orc planet.
I told Uncle June I was doing it, and after a few moments he told me, You do what you gotta do, and that he loved me, but his disappointment was clear. And then he added, But I’m not steppin’ foot in that place, like it was hell and not the haven it was.
And then his voice sort of drifted and he asked me, You think those aliens sing? and Do they make music? Dance? Create art? I was like, Why does that even matter? Uncle June was silent for a few seconds. Because, he said, if they take the time to translate their world into sound and color, that means they know love. That means we have a chance.
I said, Whatever, and didn’t mention Sanctum again, figuring I’d convince him another time, after I secured him the spot.
It was our last conversation.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
I am my uncle’s niece, so I don’t quit easily.
Since Orc #176 has yet to respond to standard questions, I’ve decided to try a less orthodox approach.
All right, Uncle June. I’ve got nothing to lose. “You know how to sing?” Sonari goan yan owla?
It isn’t really a direct translation because we don’t know their word for sing or singing, so the closest I get is something like You know how to make good noise with mouth?
A slight movement in that slimy neck. It’s a curveball, no doubt, and I’ve got its attention, despite the terrible translation.
“You draw? Paint?”
Still blank-faced.
“You like music? You like dancing?” I do a slight shimmy with my shoulders because the translation is more like I’m asking if it likes noise in the air and moving to the sound.
At first I’m thinking all that may have gone over its head but then it sits up a little.
Still, it doesn’t speak. We stare at each other for what must be ten minutes.
“Sonari ahn anya.”
I jump, and I realize I never expected it to answer. Its voice is so much gentler than what I thought would come from something so muscular. The translation program’s speech-to-speech voice imitates but can’t quite manage the orc’s tone.
When I recover, I say, “OK, you don’t sing. That makes two of us.”
“Your questions are wasted on me,” it says.
“We’re just getting started.”
“You do not seek conversation. You want only information. You are all alike.”
“So you like music?” I force a subject change because this thing has wasted enough of my time. “You dance?”
“I enjoy music.”
“So you have music down there.”
A pause. “Down there?”
“We already figured your cities are underground. We’ve seen the state of this planet. It’s dying.”
A low grunt is its only response.
“Your lot went to Earth, laser guns blazing, in search of a new home, isn’t that right?”
“And if we did not arrive wielding weapons?” Its voice is controlled but tight. “Would you share your planet with us?”
I stare at its eyes. It’s almost as if they don’t belong. They’re too . . . full. “A friend of mine thinks you all are basically the same as people. Santos is soft like that.”
It tilts its head sharply. If Santos had spoken to my orc, she would’ve mentioned it, but it’s clear her name has sparked recognition, and I get a bad feeling. Not only did I give up information it didn’t need to know, it also seems to know yet another thing I don’t.
A red light begins to pulse in the left field of my vision. My alarm. Time’s up.
I pick up the speaker and head for the door, but before I leave, I glance back, wondering if maybe I imagined the look in its eye when I said Santos’ name.