Word: Pitapat

pitapat

[pit-uh-pat]

adverb

1. with a quick succession of beats or taps.

   Her heart beat pitapat with excitement.

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                “So, what do we have so far?” Dr. Levare asked. She had not yet seen the subject, since there was so much security around it that the president himself would not be able to enter freely.

                “Not much doctor.” The officer escorting her said.

She did not know his rank. He was not a general, which is what mattered. Probably of colonial or a lieutenant or something. She did remember his name was Burke though.

The man continued to speak as they went through the sterile halls. “It obviously doesn’t speak our language. We knew that going in. But the language it does speak is...odd. In fact, it doesn’t even speak at all. It uses a series of taps and beats on whatever it can get. The team working on communicating with it only realized those taps were a language after the same patterns kept repeating. They’re working on translating it, but progress is slow.”

“Has it shown any aggression?”

“Not as far as we can tell. But it could be tapping out a series of highly imaginative death threats and we wouldn’t know it.”

                Dr. Levare let out a sharp breath through her nose. It was likely as close to a laugh as she was going to get. The two made their way to the observation room, where the current team was working furiously. They barely even slowed down when she and Burke entered.

She looked at the large windows looking over the holding room. And there she saw it. The first ever confirmed extraterrestrial being to ever walk the Earth. It was amazing how wrong sci-fi stories could be. There was nothing even remotely humanoid about this thing. It was almost arachnoid in makeup, but even that did not do it justice. It had a four segmented body that sported a metallic-blue carapace, with eight limbs. Although only four of them seemed to be used for walking, with the other four acting more like hands. Each limb was long and thin, with two joints on the legs and three on the arms. The head sported several eye-like sections, each with a different color.  And it did not seem to have a mouth. Or at least, not one that she could recognize.

The alien was using one of its limbs, capped in four stubby “fingers,” to rapidly tap out something on a metal table. It was looking at a monitor on the table with it. There were no input devices, but that did not seem to deter the alien from responding to whatever it was seeing. The scientists in the room with her were furiously doing whatever they could to figure out what was being said.

“What’s going on?” Dr. Levare asked, loud enough that the men and women in the room paused.

“We’ve presented it was various mathematical constructs. We’ve started at basic arithmetic and are now up to advanced calculus. We’re using that as a basis to really begin translation.” One of the team members said.

“Let me see what you have so far.” She said without even bothering to introduce herself. There was no need to waste time on something so frivolous. They knew who she was and why she was there.

She sat down at the first open workstation she found and used her credentials to activate it. Then she pulled up as many files as she could read quickly while some of the other team members started going through the data verbally. It would take some time to get up to speed, but after that it would be time to really get to work. They had a alien to communicate with. 

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Okay, I doubt this is what the word is really meaning, but oh well. This is where my mind went, so this is what I wrote. 

Word: Trafficator

 

trafficator

[ traf-i-key-ter ]

noun

British.

1. a directional signal on a vehicle for indicating which way it is going to turn.

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                “What in the world is wrong with this guy?” Jim asked. “He hasn’t signaled once since we’ve been behind him.”

                “He’s probably just nothing thinking about it.” Leslie said. “It’s a long drive. He’s probably zoned out and not worried about turn signals.”

                “That’s even worse. Not only is he not telling us when he’s turning, but he’s not paying attention to where he’s going. That’s a recipe for disaster if I ever saw one.”

                “It’s just a thought.”

                “Hey Dad, maybe he’s a spy and doesn’t want us to know where he’s going so we don’t follow him.” Dan chimed in from the back seat. The boy had only just outgrown his booster seat and was twisting this way and that. Probably to get a better look at the car in front of them.

                “A spy, huh?” Jim asked, cracking a smile. Frustration over a bad driver just could not win against his son’s enthusiasm.

                “Yeah! Like James Bond!” He then began to hum the Mission Impossible theme song.

                “Wrong theme there, buddy.” Jim said with a light laugh. “But I’ll keep it in mind. If his car sprouts a few extra tubes, I’ll be ready.”

                “I still don’t think it was a good idea to show him those movies. They’re so violent.” Leslie said quietly.

                “It’s the era of the internet. He’s probably seen worse than a few bloodless gunshots by now.” Jim said equally quietly. “Besides, look at him. Can you really say it was all that bad?”

                Leslie looked over her shoulder at their son. The boy beamed as he thought about the Hollywood version of spies. He reached around for his tablet and opened a drawing program. There, he started illustrating what would no doubt become the next big spy thriller. Well, as much as a child his age ever could anyway.

                “I suppose it’s fine for now.” Leslie said, seeing her son engaged in creative pursuits instead of just watching some mindless video. “Just keep it to a minimum in the future for now, okay?”

                “Fine, fine. In all honestly though, I almost wish this guy was a spy. That would at least give him an excuse for being so inconsiderate and potentially dangerous.”

                The driver in front of them began slowing down, seemingly at random, before turning off onto a tiny side street. All without signalling once.

                “See that? If I hadn’t been paying attention, I would’ve slammed right into the guy. And he probably would’ve blamed me too.”

                “Well it doesn’t matter now. He’s gone, so you shouldn’t let it bother you anymore.”

                “Aw, so we don’t get to see his cool spy car do stuff?” Dan asked.

                “No, sorry, buddy. He’s off to some secret compound to save the world. That’s no place for normal people like us.”

                “Maybe I’ll be a spy when I grow up and meet him and find out.”

                “That’ll take a lot of work to be a spy, buddy.” Jim said with a grin. “But I’m sure you’ll be a great one when you do.”

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Just a little something for today. Nothing big or impressive, but there's nothing wrong with the small stories in life. 

Word: Dactylogram

dactylogram

[ dak-til-uh-gram ]

noun

1. a fingerprint.

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                Derrick always thought of himself as a practical man. He had always tried to live in a simple way, and had little room for the unusual. It was why he had become a detective. Direct, clear cut, and everything had an explanation. And he saw no reason to change that when he had been inexplicably brought to another world.

                Just because the people around him had magic didn’t mean there wasn’t laws and rules to things. Really all it meant was a greater variety of crimes being committed. Turns out people could still make dumb choices and leave obvious clues, even when they could shoot lighting from their hands.

                “Alright, what’ve we got.” He asked the officers. Sure they called themselves guards here, but they did the same thing.

                “Just a normal knifing.” One of them said. “No magic, thank the gods.”

                That was good. Derrick had always been amazed that in a world with magic, people still got killed in many of the same ways as they did in his previous world. He entered the scene and took a look around.  One of the mage guards had created an illusory image of the victim, which was sprawled on the floor with several knife wounds. Blood, real blood, pooled out from beneath the image.

                “Oh no, what do you want?” One of the mages said.

                “Same thing you do. Catch a killer, go home.” Derrick replied, already looking around. “We got any suspects?”

                “Several. And it’s only a matter of time before our truth tellers can find them.”

                Derrick groaned. Truth tellers. Glorified polygraphs more like it. These people relied on them too much, even with the numerous ways they could be beaten. Hell, Derrick had beaten one on his first day, and the people here were still none the wiser.

                “Great. Well until then, I’m going to do something that actually works.” The mage sneered at Derrick’s words. “Has anyone dusted for prints yet?”

                “Why would anyone clean yet?” One of the guards asked. Derrick felt like kicking himself. He almost forgot this world was woefully underdeveloped when it came to forensics. This would not be the first time he had to explain basic concepts to them.

                “Not cleaning. Dusting for prints. Fingerprints. Get some power, uh, chalk powder will do. Go over anything that’s likely to be held and lightly coat things until we get some readable fingerprints.”

                “That sounds idiotic.” The mage said. “Why would we waste time doing that? It’s not like such markings will be left anyway.”

                “That’s what you said about blood that’s been wiped up. Look, human skin gives off a tiny amount of oil, and that sticks to things. Leaves imprints of out fingerprints on everything we touch. So we find the prints and we find the killer.”

                “How?” The guard asked.

                “Seriously? You don’t even know that? Everyone’s fingerprints are unique. We get the suspects, use some ink to get their prints, and then compare them to what we can find around here. If we can find the murder weapon, that’d be best, but even without it, we can work out who was where. Most of what we find will be the victim’s, but the killer’s should be somewhere. Now get to it. We’ve got a crime to solve.”

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I'm a bit tired right now. Long periods of travel will do that to you, you know? So yeah, this probably isn't my best work. Maybe next time.