Dark Mirror - Diane Duane [6]
In front of the subtly glittering curtains or tapestries sat—if that was the word for it—the Laihe. She was a Huraen, one of a species whose homeworld had been destroyed by some natural calamity some centuries before, but since all the Huraen had been traveling as one of the Lalairu peoples since well before that time, none of them particularly cared. By virtue of that ancient association, and because of some unspecified sacrifice that the Huraen had made for the other Lalairu peoples, the Laihe, head of the whole race, was always a Huraen. Huraenti were tall, slender, insectile people, compound-eyed, many-limbed, mostly blue or green in color, their chitin-covered bodies inlaid or figured with complicated patterns in malleable metals or textured plastics: as if someone had taken a praying mantis, given it a slightly mournful, understanding look, and more legs than even a mantis would need. Huraenti were skilled artisans and craftsmen, engineers of extraordinary talent, and had a reputation for being able to understand anything mechanical within seconds. In terms of personality, they tended to be affable, subtle, and fond of the interpersonal arts: chief among them, language. They were loquacious and liked it that way. That was all right in the Huraenti language, which was structured and straightforward. But the Laihe was much more Lalairu than Huraenti, and her language showed it.
“Graciously greeted is the noblissimus entr’acte Picard chief in command subjective warning,” said the Laihe, ratcheting her top set of forelegs together.
That sounds like hello, Picard thought, and Will was right, she is in a hurry. “I greet you graciously as well, Laihe.”
“Urgently spatial coordinate-status misfound illfound illfounded distortion in nithwaeld on merest dysfunction hereditary disastrous propulsion!” said the Laihe, or at least, that was all the universal translator could make of it.
Picard nodded and tried to look gravely concerned, which wasn’t difficult under the circumstances. “Laihe, forgive us, but our translator lost several words in that last passage. What is nithwaeld, please?”
“Ingwe. Or filamentary.”
“Hyperstrings?”
“Affirmative response.”
Picard let out a breath of relief at having gotten that far. “Laihe, you must forgive me when I say that I am as yet only slightly educated in hyperstring studies. Am I to understand that something unexpected, or distressing, is going on in space hereabouts?”
“Affirmative, qualifier variancy-area room-space-location nonlocating alteration-aversion-shift loss. Loss! Shift!”
Picard found himself wishing that James Joyce had had some input into the universal translator’s programming, or possibly Anthony Burgess. Both of them, by preference. The Lalairsa pleniphrasis, “scatter,” and borrowings would have sounded familiar to both of them. Picard glanced over at Troi: she shook her head. Worf said, “The translator is at full function, Captain. This is the best it’s able to do.”
“Understood. … Laihe, we will of course be saving your statement for later analysis and transmission to the Federation, but for the moment, what do you see as the effect of this local “shift”? And can you describe the nature of it in more detail?”
“Qualified affirmation, technical …” And it was, too, as the Laihe went off in a blizzard of verbiage that mixed familiar and relatively familiar physics and astrophysics terminology with words and phrases that Picard had never heard before, and that the translator flatly refused to render. All the while the Laihe sat hunched forward, her forelegs knitting frantically, and her mandibles working hard. “Longterm effect,” she said finally, “unknown, dangerous though, emmfozing, ending.”
Picard looked over at Troi. Emmfozing? he mouthed. Wide-eyed, Troi shook her head, helpless.
“Laihe,” Picard said, “our thanks.