ACKLIN-GIORDIANO STAR BRIGADE

"Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say."

The recruitment pitch starts the same way every time. We're at a bar, or in a dormitory lobby, or even running alongside gurneys as our prospective team member is being rushed towards immediate medical attention. It doesn't really matter where we are, just that me and Matty are ambushing one of the brightest minds of a generation and are undoubtedly going to walk away with a resounding, "I'll think about it."

Today we're holding up the line at a coffee shop in Chicago--the neighborhood in Seile, not the old city--leaning across the counter to hurriedly whisper our proposal to the certified genius--Lehela Franks, aged nineteen Earthly years, dual doctorate recipient in Intergalactic Communications and Bio-Medical E.T., and a near expert in Space Travel Mechanics--who is currently adding Nrul flakes to my cala milk matcha, even after I specifically asked for them to be left off.

"That's really not a debatable point, ya'know, since it's standardly a fact," Lehela says as she pushes our drinks (one poorly made cala milk matcha and one trikso tea) across the counter.

"Everyone says that," I reply, claiming the trisko tea as my own before Matty can take it. "You'd think for a diverse group of geniuses there'd be some original thought."

"I mean, maybe try and back up your view point with research or theoretical proofs," Matty adds, taking the matcha without missing a beat. "Maybe then I'll believe you."

And that's another part of the recruitment pitch. Make a statement wildly accepted as fact, go against it, and make them prove you wrong, make them prove their intellect. It wasn't always like this, wasn't always a carefully crafted game of cat-and-mouse, no, it used to be far more disappointing. It used to be grad students and child prodigies looking to check another box; no passion, no curiosity, no respect for the Great Big Sky and all the knowledge sitting on the other side of Earth's atmospheric barrier. But that got boring (and annoying and the exact opposite of intellectually stimulating) far too quick. And so now we track down worthy minds and do everything short of begging to get them on our side. And so now:

"The Rosko Foundation sent eighteen people up there in 3034 to corroborate the findings of the Fetters-Paol mission report from 2049."

"Not ba--"

"I'm not done," she interrupts Matty with a shake of her head. "Fetters-Paol was in response to an unnamed claim that communication in space is possible across short distances, like if we were fully suited without comms in a coffee shop up there, free-floating, we'd be able to hear each other, but it'd sound like we were underwater. The Rosko mission proved that to be true and found that extraterrestrial life forms actually have designated ways of speaking to be heard clearer while in the vacuum and not on planets. It's traditionally called Kaaps, but the research team dubbed it Star Speak."

"That's not doing much to prove your point," Matty continues antagonizing.

"Still not done. Kaaps is spoken the way a screech or war cry is spoken. It's hard for humans to master because it uses octaves and other sounds that humans are currently incapable of mastering in everyday language, but most extraterrestrial species teach it to their young and speak it freely. So, when someone screeches, it can be heard and even understood by someone fluent in Kaaps, but when someone screams, it's too muddled to be comprehensible."

"Done now?" Matty asks sarcastically.

"Done now," Lehela responds just as sarcastically, scrunching her nose and nodding her head. She waits a beat, and then: "What do you want?"

"There's an opening on a research mission."

"And?"

"And we want you to fill it."

She stares at us, not exactly blankly, but definitely devoid of any traditional emotion. Fifteen seconds pass. The annoyed grumbling of the line of patrons behind us gets louder.

"Grab a seat. I'll be over in a minute."

She turns away from us and greets someone behind us, not even bothering to apologize for the delay. We sit near the back of the shop, tucked into the corner by the bathrooms, and we wait.

"That went well, yeah?"

"Better than Willa from last week."

"Anything's better than Willa."

It's only ten minutes of me and Matty getting lost in our drinks before the grumbling returns to a dull roar of conversation and a single, "Ma! Go on talk story now!" rings out from the front of the store and then Lehela is pulling up a seat without so much as a secondary greeting.

"Okay, what do you want?"

"There's an opening on a research mission," Matty says.

"So you said."

"It's a bit of a continuation of Fetters-Paol and the Rosko thing."

She doesn't think this is an adequate explanation if the way she crosses her arms and raises her eyebrows in expectation is anything to go off of.

"Okay, so, Fetters-Paol posed a great question, and Rosko went above and beyond to answer it, but we're six years deep into proving the similarities between intergalactic dialects and the sonar communications of deep sea creatures," I explain.

"Didn't a professor in Oveilnoe publish something about that in 3052?"

"Yes! Doctor Diamenico. He spent like thirteen years after the publications leading teams in space and underwater investigations as well as heading intergalactic communication teams, and he was the first to teach a beluga whale Kaaps."

"And all of that means...?" she asks, her eyes narrowing in annoyance.

"It means there is ongoing research into the similarities between deep sea creatures and space-bound species. It means there is quantifiable data that backs this, and even extraterrestrial persons who have agreed to lend a hand in the research of genetic and biological markers that could point to communicative advancements. It means we could learn to actually communicate with deep sea creatures the same way we have with extraterrestrial life, and eventually explore the Great Unknown the same way we routinely explore the Great Big Sky."

"Why can't the two of you do it? You seem to know just a little too much about this stuff; just go up there yourselves."

"Oh we have," Matty snarks, failing to say it quietly.

Lehela narrows her eyes even further and presses her lips into a thin, menacing line.

"Well, you see, we were up there, just a lightyear-and-a-half out, but our base had some...technical difficulties--"

"It blew up a little," Matty interjects.

"--and we spent like six earthly months free floating before anyone could get us back to ground. Technically speaking, us and our old team were dead and involuntarily cryogenically frozen among the stars. They got us back here on Earth and thawed us out and--okay, so they reanimated us... And then it was radiation treatments and crazy invasive examinations and a bunch of other stuff that we were mainly unresponsive or flatlining for, and, long story short, we have more transplanted extraterrestrial DNA than our own original copies, so if we went up again there'd be at least three jurisdiction arguments, and like six infractions or blatant disrespections of the Halt-Yeradkt."

"Holt-Redact?"

"Halt-Yeradkt. Fifty year old treaty that basically says that Earth bound governments and organizations won't use E.T. recruits to fight their battles. It includes half-breeds, full-bloods; honestly if you have a testable amount of extraterrestrial DNA in your body, you're unable to do government based research."

"Isn't that still problematic? Like, doesn't it still prevent extraterrestrial advancements in the scientific world?"

"Yes and no," Matty answers. "Yes, it causes problems for government-backed out-of-towners when they're trying to conduct experiments in various space-centered careers. No, it doesn't restrict those same out-of-towners from pursuing professional scientific careers outside of government backed organizations. Can't work for the National Aeronautics, but they can work for the Intergalactic Aeronautics. It's just a bunch of red tape."

"So, why don't you guys work for the Intergalactics?"

"Because National owns the rights to our research, and the government technically owns the blood in our veins," I explain. "It's also just a bunch of red tape."

"Okay, so you need to make a team of people who are interested in your work and qualified enough to bring it to a credible completion, right?"

"More or less, yeah."

"And I fit the bill how exactly?"

"Lehela Franks, aged nineteen Earthly years, dual doctorate recipient in Intergalactic Communications and Bio-Medical E.T., and a near expert in Space Travel Mechanics," I recite. "You've tested into the National's flight program twice and the walker program three times. You've set recruitment records that anyone not currently employed at the National or Intergalactic has been able to beat, but you've never followed through with attending the training and being inducted."

"You ever think there's a reason I haven't officially joined up?"

"I mean, there's a reason for everything," Matt snarks. "We were just hoping you'd be at least a little interested in following through if there was a guaranteed spot for you, and if the work was based in your areas of expertise."

"And if I were interested?"

"Then it'd probably do us some good to actually introduce ourselves," I reply with a smile. "Doctor Reila Acklin."

"Doctor Matthew Giordiano."

"And your pre-recs?" she asks jokingly.

"I specialize in genetic and linguistic differences among land, water, and space inhabitants. I hold doctorates in Intergalactic Communications, and Biology of the Humanoid and Aquatic varieties, and I've got half a medical degree," I say, watching as her face blanks out. "I can understand Kaaps, but not speak it for obvious reasons, and I'm fluent in the languages of the Gageo and Nrul."

She blinks once, slowly, and then turns to Matty. "And you?"

"I'm not nearly as impressive in the knowledge department," he responds. "I mean, I have a doctorate in Marine Biology, and I have Masters degrees in Engineering and Computer Science. But I've never fully understood Kaaps, and I'm much better at writing than I am speaking extraterrestrial languages."

"Yeah, totally not impressive."

"Look, I know it can be kind of intimidating and overwhelming, especially with me and Reila bringing you into the fold, but this is groundbreaking work, and we want you and your expertise. You made our personal list of top picks. You're the fifth person we've contacted personally off that list, and that's only because the addresses you used on your applications weren't valid anymore."

Lehela sighs. This is normally where the conversation drops off, where Matty and I apologize for the intrusion and leave. It's happened before, when we were recruiting for the first installment of this research project, and it's happened three times recently. There's no hard feelings. There's no threat to ensure cooperation. Life with the National Aeronautics isn't for everyone, and that's understandable, respectable.

"If I say yes," Lehela speaks into the silence we'd lapsed into. "If I say yes, what exactly am I agreeing to?"

"A three year term with the National. At least one of those years is gonna be spent in space. Complete relocation just outside of Oveilnoe. Intense hours, detailed research, I mean, you'll probably complete enough work to earn a doctorate by the end of the term. And then there's the chance to re-up, to stay on the team and continue the explorations."

"Three year minimum with an indefinite maximum?"

"Pretty much."

"Any guarantee that I won't also become a sack of blood that the government owns?"

"Wish I could say yes."

Lehela goes silent again, her face back to the blank, emotionless void it had been after the initial proposal. I can already hear the, "No," or the, "I'm sorry. I can't," rolling off her tongue. I can see her laughing at the entire interaction a couple months down the line. I can see her vindication three years in the future when nothing noteworthy is attached to the names Acklin and Giordiano. It's happened before, to us and to others; it'll happen again.

She nods to herself, once, twice, and then she speaks: "When do we start?"