Chapter 12: Lost in translation

The peaceful moment was interrupted by a deep rumble from somewhere in the structure. At'chii's eye widened in what looked like concern, and they quickly pulled up a holographic display filled with alien script and diagrams. Their tentacles moved rapidly through the information while their bioluminescence pulsed in what seemed to be diagnostic patterns.

They turned to Mike and made a series of gestures that clearly asked about measurements. Using the light display, they indicated what appeared to be some kind of maintenance tunnel, then pointed at Mike, and then back at the tunnel dimensions.

"Oh, you need to know if I'll fit?" Mike guessed. "I'm about... five foot ten."

At'chii went still. Their beak clicked in confusion as they looked at Mike's feet, then held up all four fingers on one tentacle, apparently trying to do conversion math.

"No, no, not actual feet anymore. It's standardized now. One foot is..." Mike paused, realizing he didn't actually know the exact conversion. "About this long?" He held his hands apart.

The creature's bioluminescence flickered dimly. Their tentacle pointed to Mike's hands, then made a "continue" motion.

"Right, so that's a foot. And there are twelve inches in a foot..."

At'chii's eye narrowed. Their tentacle beckoned for him to explain "inches."

"An inch was originally based on..." Mike held up his thumb. "This."

The creature's eye slowly closed. When it reopened, their bioluminescence had dimmed to barely a flicker. With movements that seemed to carry the weight of the entire galaxy's scientific progress, At'chii turned and dragged themselves toward the fruit bowl. Their eye had taken on a slightly glazed look as they popped a fruit into their beak, bioluminescence producing what appeared to be the alien equivalent of a "please wait, rebooting" message.

They lifted a piece of fruit to their beak with the slow deliberation of someone who had seen too much. Their eye had taken on a thousand-yard stare, as if gazing into the depths of human measurement history and finding only chaos.

"Are you... okay?" Mike asked.

At'chii picked up a glowing fruit, held it before their beak for a long moment, and then ate it with deliberate slowness. Their eye fixed on Mike. Reached for another fruit. Ate it. Stared at Mike again, eye focused on him with infinite weariness. They offered him fruit as well, their tentacle pat on his head impossibly gentle, like comforting a child who just proudly announced that numbers go "one, two, many."

The rumble sounded again. At'chii's tentacles drooped even further, and they began the seemingly insurmountable task of converting alien engineering specifications into units based on human body parts.

They turned back to their anatomical display, and with one final, deeply meaningful look at Mike, began the apparently overwhelming task of converting their precise scientific measurements into units based on ancient human appendages.

Mike trailed off in his explanation of measuring recipe ingredients when he noticed something different in At'chii's demeanor. The creature's eye had that same crinkled look from when they'd first found him on the beach - a mix of amusement and... something else. Their tentacles moved with an almost tender precision as they added his measurements to their holographic database, treating even his illogical "feet" and "inches" with careful documentation.

The way they kept smoothing down his hair felt less like their earlier medical examination and more like... well, like how his grandmother used to fuss over him before school. Even their bioluminescence had shifted to softer, almost affectionate patterns, though it flickered with what seemed like suppressed laughter every time he tried to explain another human measurement quirk.

Something about their body language reminded him of how people looked at their pets when they did something ridiculous but endearing. The thought made him pause mid-sentence about cup measurements. At'chii's eye fixed on him with that particular twinkle that seemed to say "Yes? Go on with your charming primitive explanations."

Oh.

*Oh.*

He was their space hillbilly. Their cosmic country bumpkin. Some bizarre alien creature they'd found wandering the beach, measuring things with his appendages and naming galaxies after drinks.

The realization made him flush slightly. At'chii immediately noticed - of course they did - and a tentacle reached out to pat his cheek with what he now recognized as fond indulgence. They probably saw him as some kind of... what? Space puppy? Alien pet? Provincial cosmic curiosity they'd adopted?

He opened his mouth to protest, to explain that humans had proper scientific measurements too, but At'chii was already offering him another piece of fruit, their tentacles arranging themselves in what he was starting to suspect was their version of doting. The fruit was even cut into smaller pieces this time, like you'd do for a child.

Mike accepted the fruit with as much dignity as he could muster, which wasn't much. Especially when At'chii's bioluminescence brightened in obvious approval, and another tentacle reached out to straighten his collar.

He'd been absolutely terrified of those tentacles just hours ago. Now they were basically tucking in his shirt.

The question hit Mike suddenly as he watched At'chii meticulously organize his measurements in their holographic display - why were they doing all this? They'd saved him from the storm, fed him, documented his primitive measurements with infinite patience, and treated him with an almost parental level of care.

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He glanced around the room, noticing for the first time that despite its organic, living nature, it felt... sparse. Clinical. Like a research station meant for a team, but with signs of only one occupant. Single fruit bowl. Single sitting area. One set of diagnostics running on the walls.

At'chii moved through the space with the ease of long familiarity, their tentacles knowing exactly where everything was, their bioluminescence providing the only personal touch to the otherwise utilitarian environment. No signs of other creatures like them. No evidence of a crew or team.

Were they some kind of scientist? A researcher? But if so, where was everyone else? The room's gentle humming seemed to emphasize the silence where other voices should be.

The creature must have noticed his wandering attention. They paused in their documentation, eye focusing on him with that now-familiar mix of amusement and something that might have been wistfulness. A tentacle reached out to adjust his hair again - a gesture that seemed less about grooming and more about simple contact.

Mike thought about how quickly they'd shifted from medical examination to protective care. How readily they'd adapted their ultrasonic speech to accommodate his comfort. How they'd spent hours patiently learning to communicate with him, even though he was basically a primitive creature who measured things with his thumbs.

The room could create anything they needed at a moment's notice, yet At'chii kept making small adjustments to his comfort. A slightly softer texture here, a warmer temperature there, minute changes to the lighting - all things their advanced technology could have automated perfectly. But they chose to do it themselves, each tiny adjustment an excuse for interaction.

Even now, as they documented his measurements, they kept pausing to show him interesting patterns in the holographic display, their tentacles gesturing with an enthusiasm that seemed to go beyond simple scientific curiosity. They could have scanned his dimensions instantly with their technology, but instead, they were taking their time, measuring each aspect manually, turning it into an extended conversation through gestures and light patterns.

Maybe that's why they hadn't simply scanned him and been done with it. Maybe the precise measurements weren't really the point at all.

The next time At'chii's tentacle reached out to smooth his perpetually mussed hair, Mike leaned slightly into the contact. Their bioluminescence brightened immediately, and they added that too to their growing collection of human observations, filed away with all the care of someone preserving precious moments rather than scientific data.

Who would have thought his species' terrible measuring system would end up being the bridge to understanding an alien's loneliness?

As the hours passed, they'd developed a surprisingly effective system of communication. At'chii had adjusted their bioluminescent patterns to simpler sequences that Mike could begin to recognize - bright pulses for questions, gentle waves for agreement, quick flickers for amusement. They'd even started coordinating their beak clicks with specific light patterns, creating a kind of basic vocabulary.

Mike found himself automatically looking for these signals now. When At'chii's eye crinkled in that particular way and their lights pulsed twice, he knew they wanted him to explain something. A specific ripple of blue-tinted light followed by a head tilt meant they thought he was amusingly primitive but endearing.

The holographic display had become their shared notebook. Mike would draw rough sketches of Earth objects and concepts, while At'chii added their own annotations and comparative data. They'd created a growing dictionary of gestures and light patterns, each tagged with both human and alien interpretations.

Sometimes At'chii would project images of their own world - strange geometric cities, impossible architecture, weird creatures. Each time Mike showed interest, their bioluminescence would brighten with enthusiasm, and they'd launch into elaborate light-pattern explanations that he was starting to partially understand.

The breakthrough came when Mike successfully interpreted one of At'chii's more complex patterns without prompting. Their eye had widened in surprise and delight, all their tentacles lifting at once in what was clearly celebration. The room's ambient lighting had even shifted to match their joy.

They immediately began teaching him more patterns, their movements becoming more animated. Each time Mike correctly identified a meaning, they'd add it to their shared database, their bioluminescence practically glowing with pride. It was like watching a parent documenting their child's first words - if the parent was a tentacled alien and the words were light-based alien language.

Of course, Mike still couldn't reproduce the patterns himself, and At'chii still found human measurements horrifying, but they were building something new between their two wildly different ways of understanding the universe. Even their shared incomprehension had become its own form of communication - At'chii would make their "existential despair" light pattern whenever Mike mentioned a particularly chaotic human measuring system, and Mike would dramatically sigh whenever At'chii's scientific notations became too complex.

They'd created their own little pidgin language of light, gesture, and mutual bafflement at each other's species' choices.

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