As a Maker, to Speak

A fortunate linguist’s place is in chains.

The rock that dropped from the sky near that remote village in the foothills of Southern Peaks was not a rock. Had we known that when our satellites detected the location of its impact, we would have just nuked it, but hindsight is a barren mistress, and it probably would not have worked, anyhow.

We landed in the large cargo flyer of the University’s Geological Department, accompanied by two bored constables in a patrol skiffer. Approaching the smouldering earth around the crater, they were the first to die, their unprotected skin blackening before — in a matter of seconds — a crackling heat transformed their stiffened bodies into charred mannequins.

A wedge-shaped slab slid out of an exposed side of the steaming, half-buried metallic oblong, to fall ponderously into the disturbed inky soil, revealing a form in the silvered orifice.

It spoke in the authentic Language of the Makers, and the fleeing others never stood a chance. I was the only one who understood it and fell instantly to my knees, avowing subservience.

It now keeps me on a chain and calls me its public relations manager as it roams its former wildlife planet, housecleaning.

I dread the day it loses its sense of humour.

This text was first published on X (Twitter) and is © 2023 by David Pahor. No part of my stories should be used to train AI technology to generate text, imitating my writing style.

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