Late that night, when the only sounds were Tiphani’s soft snores and the gentle whisper of wind through the Bel Air Hotel’s gardens, Jimson Ogilvy slipped out of bed. First just to go to his own, because you never knew when a Chief might remember they were a Chief, and the old pen-and-company-ink thing wasn’t a great idea.
The Shrill’s cage, sketched in shades of charcoal and black, changed his plans.
They’re probably monitoring every word, he thought.
But hey, points for initiative.
But hey, fired for unauthorized contact.
The Shrill scratched aimlessly at the diamondoid cage, seemingly unaware of him. Jimson cleared his throat and said, “Hello, Shrill Ambassador.”
“Hello human life (entity). It is time for viewing of failed competitors?”
“No. It’s still night. I just thought you might be bored.”
“Have not been compromised.”
Jimson frowned. What did that mean? “I thought you might want to talk.”
“Communication with other nodes (mind-components) continues. Limited by defects in transmission.”
“Talk with me.”
“Have communicated with humans.”
“I mean, something less formal. You could tell me what it’s like to be a Shrill and I can tell you what it’s like to be human.”
“In process of discovering human capabilities (limits).”
“But you don’t really know us. And we don’t really know you. What do you do for fun?”
“Garbled term.”
“Fun?”
“Garbled term.”
“Entertainment?”
“Garbled term.”
“You mentioned songs. Stories, theater? What do you do?”
The Shrill went silent and still. Slow seconds ticked past on the antique mantel-clock. Humphrey Bogart stared down from a pop-art print above.
“We compile songs of other races (times). Other terms garbled.”
“But what do you do?” Jimson said. How could an entire race have no concept of entertainment or fun, even if they were some kind of distributed mind? Even the Floaters sang, and some claimed they had something like stories of the far past.
“Humanity flaw in design (universe),” the Shrill said, bumping the transparent cage. “Humanity seeking contact, forever separate (not networked). Other life (floaters) connected. We connected. Your datanet (WOW) connected.”
“What does that mean?”
“Definition of previous unnecessary.”
Jimson frowned again. It was almost as if the translation itself was being garbled. And with algorithms – probably rushed for this auspicious trip – it might just be. Sudden thought struck:
“Suspect translations imperfect,” Jimson said.
“Possible hypothesis.”
“Test with me by repeating phrases exactly?”
“Test by repeating phrases (songs).”
“Good.”
“Good.”
“I’d like to talk with you.”
“Conquer (ingest) you following understanding.”
“Wow. That’s bad.”
“Garbled amazement imperfection.”
“I would like to see records of your defunct competitors.”
“Request songs of life (entities) assimilated or destroyed by current dominant life.”
Jimson shrugged. “That’s close.”
“It is nearby.”
“Ok, that’s enough. There are big problems with the translation, I can see. Maybe I can get some new algorithms, that would clear up a lot.”
“Sufficient quantity. Problems in translation can be perceived (heard). New formulas will make clear.”
Jimson shook his head. “The test is over.”
“Test ended.”
“Will you stop?”
“Please stop (continue).”
Jimson chuckled, despite himself. “Ok, Shrill. Good night.”
“Victor pure darkness.”
Jimson stifled a louder laugh and went to his room. As he lay down on top of the sheets, a terrible thought hit him: what if the Shrill was still repeating phrases tomorrow morning?
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February 6th, 2009 / Comments Off