This is a story I wrote. I'm not sure how long it will be, but if you like and want to see more of Mel and company, leave a comment!
Daniel
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The office is full of Skymall products, the kind of thing no human should spend money on. There is a shelf full of torso-length undergarments in the corner (They were still in the package: apparently underwear that reaches from your armpits to your thighs is a classic case of buyer’s remorse). On top of the underwear shelf perches a bouncy ball with a smiley face sporting a racially-inappropriate Mexican mustache. There is a segway scooter, a quesadilla maker and a cake decorating kit strewn about the room. To my knowledge, Melchizedek Martin has never made a cake in his life.
In between the airline paraphernalia, there are grammar books galore. On the table in front of me, there is A Guide to Ancient Sanskrit. Stacked to the right of my chair, there is a six volume overview of the intricacies of the Attic Greek verb. On the shelf behind Mel’s head rests such chestnuts as Classical Chinese for Dopes and Gersenius’ Concise Guide to Hebrew Grammar. The concise grammar is sixteen volumes.
In Melcizedek’s self-proclaimed dungeon, there are no windows. Besides a small cot in the corner, the only places to sit are a small chair where Mr. Martin and I sit. My interviewer is wearing a suit from a thrift shop. It has holes in the elbow and a stain above the forearm. Despite the fact the Melchizedek Martin literally wrote the book on the first known extraterrestrial language (Martin’s Field Guide to Passengerian--a measly two volumes), despite the pools of money this feat has rewarded him with, despite all the that, it has been before the Arrival since Melchizedek Martin has bought a new shirt, and longer still since he has washed the one he now wears.
“Thanks for agreeing to this interview, Mr. Martin,” I say.
“Please, call me Melchizedek,” he says, as if he was cutting me a break, as if Martin was much harder to pronounce than Melchizedek.
I am unsure where to begin. Interviews are hard to start in general. So, tell me about your life and everything that matters to you. Talk about a broad question. Melchizedek Martin is even worse: So, the Aliens say anything cool lately? I clear my throat, telegraphing my intent to begin. “You have been called the ‘the father of xenolinguistics.’ What exactly is ‘xenolinguistics?’
“Xenolinguistics is the study of systems of formalized meaning by entities of extraterrestrial origin.”
“So, it’s the study of extraterrestrial languages?”
“Not exactly. If one human society meets another, we think about language in much the same way. One person points at a dog and says their word for it in English. Another person says the word in Chinese. Masang Voilà, we learned a word.” He sniffles as he speaks, as if he has a cold, as if his congestion makes his point for him.
“However, there are all sorts of presuppositions about words that aliens might not share.” He gets up from his chair and paces around the room, dancing around the random ecclectica of meaningless objects: trivia made manifest in things. “Humans have a rough word-to-word correspondence for each thing. Passengiarian is very different. Different equipment. Different hardware.”
I look down at my notes. “You made that distinction in your book, didn’t you? Oral and Phernomonal Passengerian?”
He looks at me then, as if his eyes are taking a long drag of optical cigarette smoke. He sighs then--like an old man blowing a smoke ring. It’s long enough to make me uncomfortable, and I begin to wonder if I have something in my teeth.
“Have you ever considered becoming one of them, Daniel?”
“Mr. Martin, I think my Passengerian status is hardly relevant to this interview…”
“I was… indisposed during the Arrival, but I went back and watched to news clips. It’s all online now anyway. The Youtube is a wonderful thing.”
“Mr. Martin, back to Passengerian…”
“They thought it was a fungal infection at first. The fungus would take over the face, and then the extremities, crawling like a neon squirrel down the body.”
Of course I knew this, although I wouldn’t have put it quite so colorfully: alien fungus landed on Earth and arranged a timeshare in the brains of a quarter of the human population. This was hard to miss.
“They say it’s voluntary, that no Passenger bonds with a human against their will, that each colony is a symbiote, not a parasite. Unfortunately, that is incorrect.”
Melchizedek Martin, a Body Snatcher! I’m not a Passenger yet, though not through lack of trying. Getting a Passenger these days is difficult. That said, any cursory reader of my blog would know how I felt about the aliens. My last entry equated the Body Snatcher sect with “climate change deniers and those who believe the earth is flat.”
“Mr. Martin, I… I…. that’s quite a claim. In order to print that on my blog, I’m going to need some proof. Passengers have eliminated disease. The average lifespan--Humans and Passengers--is thirty years longer since the Arrival. Some would say that our entry into intergalactic society ushered in a golden age.”
“Daniel, my boy, let me tell you a story...”
As he speaks, I grab my pen again and begin to write. What follows is the account of Melchizedek Martin’s translation of the Passengerian language. Everything below are Mr. Martin’s words, as exactly quoted as my poor note-taking skills allow. I have tried to let Mr. Martin’s words speak for themselves, even when they offend my sensibilities or intergalactic norms of political correctness.
My only request, as I begin this narrative, is that you consider this tale as a whole before you judge Melchizedek Martin. His contributions to Earth’s understanding of its place in the universe are unparalleled, even if Mr. Martin himself would have difficulty seeing what they are.
Masang Ii’llio Arnor’erai
“Peace between Passengers and Men for All Time”
Daniel
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