The alien farmer was watching Sarah closely and seemed a bit taken aback by her clear signs of shock.

“Ingan?” he asked again, this time a bit more hesitantly, and Sarah suddenly realized he hadn’t actually asked a proper question; he hadn’t used a full sentence, just a single word. Maybe he couldn’t speak the language after all? Sarah tested her theory by rattling off several sentences in Korean. When the man looked at her in apologetic incomprehension, she had her answer.

So, he wasn’t fluent with the language, which meant he probably didn’t have some version of her own [Polyglot] skill…although one of [Polyglot]’s prerequisites was that the person purchasing the skill be human, which this man obviously wasn’t…so…were there alien versions of [Polyglot]? How would that even work? Would it…wait, no, bad brain! Not the time to get distracted! Focus.

Ok, so, he knew a few words in Korean. How he knew any words in any human language was a puzzle that flashed a great big red and gold question mark in her mind but it was a mystery that would not be solved today; certainly not until she established higher levels of communication than a single word. How to do that? Well, start with figuring out the extent of his knowledge. If he didn’t understand several rapidly spoken sentences, then…

“Naneun ingan-ida,” she said slowly, careful to enunciate every syllable clearly. I am human.

The farmer squinted his bright green eyes at her, clearly recognizing the word for human but not understanding any of the rest. Ok, so he knew single words only; probably none of the grammar or syntax. She tried again.

“Ye. Ingan.” Yes. Human.

It was a guess as to which of the Korean words for “yes” he might know, so she started with the one that was considered most formal and polite. She could try the others if need be, but it seemed appropriate to show respect to the stranger who had, seemingly without question or reservation, saved her life and provided hospitality; A.I.-simulated or not, these people seemed very, very real.

Thankfully, the farmer seemed to understand her first attempt. He broke into a broad grin, the width of which would have been normal on a human face but looked a bit…unnerving on his narrow alien jaw. At least he didn’t have the pointy teeth of a carnivore, Sarah thought; then she stopped her train of thought before it descended into debating the likelihood of these aliens being herbivores versus omnivores. Or was it the other way around? No, stop, nevermind.

Having established at least something of her identity, the farmer started chatting happily in his own tongue, making broad and expansive gestures to illustrate some point of which she had absolutely no understanding. Suddenly, Sarah broke into a cold sweat as she realized what she’d just done by confirming the alien’s suspicion. What if he had considered humans to be the enemy, invaders of some kind, or monsters? Would he have killed her right there in front of his children? Tied her up and delivered her to some kind of military force in the morning? She cleared her throat, fighting through a thick lump of relief that the man had turned out to be friendly.

The sound of her throat-clearing caught the farmer’s attention and he immediately broke off whatever monologue he’d been on. Turning to his son, he shooed the boy towards the far corner of the room and a barrel that – Sarah hoped – held more water.

She still couldn’t understand any of the alien language, so [Polyglot] must not magically download information into her brain, just make it easier for her to absorb the knowledge as she gained it, or easier for her mouth to make sounds for which it wasn’t quite properly shaped, or…or something. That skill was going to take some experimentation to fully understand. For now, it was probably safe to assume she would need to learn alien languages in the same way anyone learned to speak: object association, imitation, repetition, etc, etc, yadda, yadda. She had chosen the skill for its potential utility, especially once the tutorial was over and they all ended up on their new worlds, but she wasn’t exactly excited about slogging through new ways to conjugate verbs.

She had tried to learn a second language when she was a kid; all elementary children in Canada had to take at least some French language classes, what with it being one of the two official languages of the country and all that. As soon as she hit seventh grade and French became optional, however? She dropped it like a mouldy potato, which was really fast because mouldy potatoes are slimy and nasty and…right…not important. Ahem.

The point was that she and French had never really appreciated each other much. The alphabet wasn’t too bad, or the first few numbers, but there was that thing one needed to do with the back of one’s throat to make certain sounds…she never managed to say quatre in a way that satisfied her teachers…and then there was the way that French numbers past twenty started getting…weird. Now that she had [Polyglot] she realized she had maybe been a bit biased. French was, in its own way, a beautiful language (though she still didn’t get that whole ‘language of love’ thing) and if parts of it seemed a bit weird to her English-trained brain, well, she now knew that every single human language in existence had its own, uh…eccentricities; even…ok, ok…especially English (cobbled together from multiple sources and cultures, blah, blah, blah).

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

The real point was, even though [Polyglot] gave her the ability to speak every human language with near effortless ease, she still found herself mentally translating everything to English. When her mouth said “ingan”, her mind said “human”. If she was going to learn the various alien languages – and she was going to learn them – then she should make it as easy on herself as possible…which meant cutting out the middle step, which probably meant replacing this farmer’s meagre knowledge of Korean with a meagre knowledge of English…

Fortunately for Sarah, her whirling thoughts were cut off when the boy came back with the clay cup, once again filled with water. She drained it in one go, to which the boy responded by grinning and running back to the barrel with the cup for a refill.

Her stomach accepted the offering of water and gurgled angrily at the lack of calories, demanding higher quality sacrifices be laid upon the altar of…okay, even Sarah thought she was getting a bit silly with that one. Thankfully, the farmer jumped up at the sound of her hunger and hurried away, so she didn’t have to imagine what he might make of the embarrassed look that surely flashed across her face as she corralled her thoughts.

The boy brought her a third cup of water and she smiled her thanks. He smiled in return then grabbed his sister’s hand and led her back to the fireside rug, where they returned to their play from earlier, though now with many a shy glance directed at their guest.

Sarah sipped her water and watched as the farmer bustled about between cupboards, table, and fire. From the renewed scent of cooking onions, and the lack of any chopping of ingredients, Sarah guessed he was reheating a serving of whatever the three had eaten for their evening meal.

It was just the three of them, Sarah was beginning to realize. Above the mantle hung a hand-painted portrait, about the size of one of those china serving trays Sarah’s mom had inherited from Great-Grandma Crawford.

The painting was exquisitely done; the people in it were incredibly lifelike, and the colours were somehow both subtle and stunning at the same time. The artwork had cost – if Sarah had to guess – quite the pretty penny…or whatever the local coin was called.

None of the other decorations she could see about the room came even close to matching the craftsmanship and finely honed talent evident in the portrait. The other accents, wall hangings, and floor coverings appeared to be the work of a talented amateur, at best, while the portrait had clearly come from the hand of a master.

Sarah wondered how many years’ worth of savings the farmer had doled out to commission the artwork. It was probably this family’s most valuable treasure, and not just in monetary terms. She doubted any amount of currency could convince the farmer to part with that precious bit of canvas and paint, for – if she was right – it could never be replaced.

The portrait showed a family of four. The farmer she recognized, and the children, though the two in the painting looked a mite younger than the two now sitting upon the fireside rug, so some time had passed since the portrait was made. The woman, however; the smiling woman who leaned happily against the farmer’s arm and hugged the tiny girl-child to her chest, must have been the wife and mother of this little family.

Her eyes were the same colour as those of all the others, but her feather-hair was a more blue-green than the forest-green of her mate, and her red-brown skin had a distinctly ashen cast; if it weren’t for the clear quality of the painting, Sarah might have thought the artist made a mistake. Instead, Sarah looked at the colour of the painted woman’s skin, at the thinness of her arms wrapped so lovingly around her daughter, at the hints of exhaustion hovering beneath her happy, cheerful smile, so carefully rendered as if in memorial…and she knew. She compared the portrait to the other decorations in the cozy room and she knew why this one was so much higher quality, so much more expensive…if you knew you would never have another chance to capture something precious, if this one thing was to be the only one of its kind…well, in that case, cost probably didn’t matter so much.

A soft step startled Sarah out of her thoughts – for once not a mess of whirling weirdness – and she looked up to see the farmer holding out a pottery bowl with a steaming serving of a thick, savoury smelling stew. She took the dish and accompanying spoon gratefully, too hungry to pause and ponder if the alien food was compatible with human biology. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, she thought.

She burned her tongue on the first bite so she took the time to blow on the second spoonful, ignoring her stomach’s outrage at being forced to wait even a second longer. Looking up as she poured the slightly cooler spoonful into her mouth, Sarah realized the farmer was still standing beside the bench. She followed the line of his gaze and realized he was staring at the same family portrait that had caught her eye and her heart.

His face was full of tenderness, sadness, love, and remembered joy. He looked down at her and she saw that his jade green eyes were wet. He spoke a word then, a single word, spoken softly and quietly lest the children be disturbed. It was a beautiful sound, like the song of a meadowlark and the most vibrant sunset came together and made a word that spoke to their combined essence.

The farmer thrust his chin at the painting then looked back down at Sarah and spoke the word again, his gaze willing her to understand. And finally, she did. It wasn’t a word, that delicate, beautiful sound…it was a name; her name.

Sarah pointed her own chin at the painting, then looked back up at the farmer and did her best to speak the name of the woman this family had lost. Her human tongue tripped and twisted and generally mangled the beautiful sound but the farmer grinned in gratified delight as she made the attempt.

In that moment, as she sipped at her stew and returned her new friend’s smile, Sarah realized that this A.I.-simulated alien seemed very human. Very ingan.