Free The Mothership by Stephen Renneberg Page B

you.”
    “How wonderful for you.” She gave him a
bored look. “What’s your question?
    “What do you think they sound like?”
    She hesitated, then shrugged. “I don’t
know.”
    “You were present when they dissected a
Bug-Eye a few years ago. It’d been frozen a long time, but was still intact.
And you’ve studied tapes of other autopsies.” He paused, then added. “You must
have a theory.”
    She hid her surprise. Even Beckman didn’t
know she’d been part of the bioanalysis program. “If I had a theory, it would
only apply to Zetas. They’re the only cadavers we’ve recovered.”
    “Well . . . they’re the only cadavers
you’ve seen.”
    She gave him a curious look, but didn’t
take the bait.
    “Call it a trade,” he said. “You tell me
your theory, and I’ll see what I can do about expanding your access.” Markus
dug into his pocket and pulled out a freeze dried ration pack. He tore it open
and bit into the protein rich substance.
    “You should be saving those.”
    “I’m carrying more food than I need.” He
took another bite, and glanced patiently at her.
    “High pitched,” she said.
    “Is that it?”
    “What did you expect, Pavarotti?”
    “Are we talking dog whistles?” Markus
asked.
    “Not exactly, but they’d need machines to
communicate with us. And our voice box can’t replicate their vocalizations.”
    “So you’re a linguist, but you can’t speak
Bug-Eye?”
    She gave him a reproachful look.
“Technically, I’m a xenologist, not a linguist. Sorry, but I don’t speak any of
the Zeta languages.”
    Markus looked puzzled. He knew she had PhDs
in mathematics and biology, an odd combination that made her a unique talent.
“According to your file, you’re the language expert.”
    “The file’s wrong.” Xeno replied. She was
one of the few scientists in the world who’d studied language data from storage
devices recovered from crashed UFOs, languages as distinct from each other as
English, Chinese and Swahili. “Understanding their languages is more like
cryptography than translation. You have to spot patterns and relationships,
which is best done mathematically. Only then do you move into actual
translation.”
    “Except you’re toting a gun; a strange job
for a mathematician.”
    “Someone’s got to read the labels. That’s
my job. Zeta Label Reader.”
    “Why don’t you call them Grays?”
    “I’m an American, not a white,” she said
simply. “I’m identified by geography, not race. The little guys come from Zeta
Reticuli, a binary star thirty-nine light years from Earth, so I refer to them
by their astronomical origin.”
    “Why not call them Reticulans?”
    “It’s a mouthful.”
    “It makes more sense than using the sixth
letter of the Greek alphabet.”
    “I know. Call me crazy, but Zeta has nice
ring to it. And it’s better than referring to them by their pigmentation.”
    “Sounds like you’re trying to be
respectful, even though those bug-eyed midgets have been peeking through our
bedroom windows for tens of thousands of years.”
    “Composite eyes,” she corrected. “And
they’re small humanoids, not midgets.”
    “That’s political correctness, if ever I’ve
heard it!” Markus exclaimed as he watched Dr McInness stumble over a half
buried rock and fall on his face.
    “I’m trained to overcome my prejudices,”
Xeno said as Vamp dragged Dr McInness to his feet by his backpack straps, then
gave the scientist a reassuring smile as he dusted himself off. Oh my God ,
Xeno thought incredulously, gauging Vamp’s look, she really does think he’s
cute!
    “Really? I rely on my prejudices to
maintain a healthy suspicion.”
    “How primeval of you.”
    “What about Swedish?”
    She smiled. “Swedish? I like that.” The
tall humanoids had been nick named Swedes for their white hair and skin, even
though they had little in common with Homo sapiens. “According to contactee
reports, their language is supposed to sound like a series