Earth Husbands are Odd (Earth Fathers #2) - Lyn Gala Page 0,20

Rick’s tentacles began to relax, until finally several of his tentacles undulated in pleasure. “All your intestines turn symmetrical and digestive track rejects future offspring, I love you,” Rick said.

That was the sweetest flattery Max had ever heard. Gross, but sweet.

Chapter Seven

Max stepped off the ship and looked around. Rick had parked in a sketchier part of the port. Maybe that was his choice to save money and maybe that was because the others wouldn’t let him park his ship in the more popular areas. After all, they might get cooties. Max stopped at the bottom of the ramp and put his bag down so he could re-adjust his weapon.

Rick was all curly fries and stress about Max arming himself, but Max would not walk into this den of assholes unarmed. And he sure as hell wouldn’t take his kids into a meeting without protection. The ship hatch thunked, and Max spotted Xander coming down the ramp. He had one tentacle around the controls of a motorized cart with the weapon prototypes and linguistic equipment. It was hard to believe he was the same age as the other two because Xander was tall enough that he could peek over the top of the cart. Weirdly, his head was smaller than any of the others. He was a lanky boy.

“Xander, are you ready for this?” Max asked. He was hyper-aware of the danger that others might overhear. So he kept his words vague and left the translator turned off.

“I am ready for much Max Father. However, I am very, very, very nervous. Query. I could make a mistake and reveal plans to enemies,” Xander said in passable English.

Max took two fast steps up to Xander’s side and whispered, “Let’s not discuss this in public.” Xander had inherited Rick’s naiveté.

Xander widened a few of his smaller eyes. “Recording in public results in many violations of very many laws, and translation would require recording because others lack English database. However, I must repeat query. The probability exists where I commit a mistake and reveal plans to enemies.” He seemed to have more confidence in others’ ability to follow the law than Max did, but at least he had lowered his voice considerably.

“You have to specify whose enemies. They are, in this case, our enemies. Although they're not enemies as much as they are racist assholes who need to be taught a lesson.” Max grimaced. He wished his kids were not on the wrong side of the universe’s version of Jim Crow laws. Overcoming discrimination made for a hero story, but he had never wanted that for his kids.

“Racist assholes,” Xander echoed.

Max walked down the ramp. “Don't swear.”

“Your use of profanity is frequent,” Xander said as he hurried after him. The cart whined as the sidewalk sloped up. Xander was playing Max’s assistant, but Max itched to check on the cart. It was too large, even if Xander was taller than the average octopus.

Max kept his eyes forward. “Yes, but you're not supposed to understand English well enough to be able to imitate me.”

Xander made a chirping sound that morphed into a whale song. When Max turned, two of Xander’s tentacles were waving in the air, undulating with amusement. “Max Father is illogical. I am very, very, very good with language and very exceptionally excellent with English. Why would I not recognize words?”

Max blinked. “Did you ask a question without labeling it as a question beforehand? Good job.” Max held out his hand and Xander gave him a miniature version of the high five. Max turned back toward the port city before any of the watchers could start questioning their relationship. Of course, if asked, Max would not lie about his relationship to any of the kids. That was the sort of damage that even expensive therapy couldn’t undo.

Xander spoke louder now. “If I use interrogative word, I do not need to label question. I am still unsure how to identify a question with a lack of interrogative word.”

“You know,” Max said, “when that trader had his universal translation machine, the tone came through. I wonder if the difference between our translation computer and that big fancy expensive one is the computer's ability to identify tone. We should get translation samples from that machine and see if we can’t figure out how to imitate it.”

“The business communication facilitator is uncopyable.”

“That’s what other people want you to believe. People are quick to say impossible, but very few things actually are.” Max had seen too many