TERRA‑EXULTA S. L. GILBOW

S. L. Gilbow is a relatively new writer, with three stories published to date, all in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. He debuted in the February 2007 issue with “Red Card,” a dystopian SF story in the vein of Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery.”

Gilbow taught college English for a few years in the early nineties, but claims that he hasn’t had much training in writing fiction. He says he’s currently writing the great American novel. He’s only got one line so far, but says to trust him, it’s definitely going to be great, and it’s definitely going to be American.

This story is about language and how words can be created and used. It was inspired by the word “grimpting,” which was made up in junior high by Gilbow’s wife, her sister, and a childhood friend. Gilbow says he and his wife use it to describe those things that are so bad you can’t think of another word for them.

So add that one to your vocabulary, just don’t use it in reference to any of these stories.

I submit the following translation to the Galactic Society of Ancient Languages in response to the absurd assertion made at our last conference. Although we all agree that Archaic Planetary English can be translated into our Galactic Standard, some still hold that the process cannot be effectively reversed. Therefore, I submit the following sample of my work as evidence that such a translation is indeed possible.

I have selected a transmission at random from my files so that none can accuse me of selecting text based solely on its simplicity. I have chosen to retain some words in Galactic Standard, but only those few which cannot be logically translated. However, rest assured, the text below, and even this introduction written in that ancient language, could have been understood on Earth so very long ago. I hope, once and for all, this puts this issue to rest.

Doctor Galwot Kradame

Linguist

• • •

My Good Doctor Kradame,

May this transmission find you safe, warm, and well. It is difficult to believe seventeen years have passed since last we met. Where does time flow? I plan to return to the old system within the half‑year and hope to see you once again. I will soon complete my latest project and begin the long journey home, to Earth–that place I left so very long ago. I have been gone far too long. It is now time to return.

I read your recent article in Interstellar Linguistics with great enthusiasm. Your proposal to translate our language into Archaic Planetary English fascinates me. If you want for material, I welcome you to use one of my works to complete your exercise. I recommend two of my articles for your consideration: “Terrology Made Simple” and “My Vision, My Worlds.” I await with great curiosity to see if such a translation–as academic as it may be–can actually be accomplished.

I also enjoyed your superb study of languages in this part–let us call it “my part”–of the Galaxy. Your analysis was brilliant, as always, and I delighted in seeing the information I provided you regarding dead languages proved helpful. I appreciate the eloquent way you put it: “Experience is surpassed only by more experience.”

In your previous transmission you asked me to identify all the words I have coined that are now a permanent–if anything is permanent–part of our wonderful language. As you know well, my career has been long and my writings voluminous, so attempting to track down every word I have created–intentionally or unintentionally–would prove futile. Nevertheless, as a lover of language, like you, I treasure the opportunity to highlight a few words which come to mind.

Certainly the word I must first mention is “grimpting.” To define “grimpting” would, of course, be ludicrous. It is so common now, I might as well define “planet,” “terraship,” or “lubradroid.” Nevertheless, it is the word for which I am best known, so, with your kind indulgence, I will tell you how this word first came to be. It is a story I seldom relate.

Truth is truth, so I must admit that I was not the first to use the word; although, to the best of my knowledge, I was the first to form it into writing. I initially heard the word “grimpting” from a young worker of mine while I headed the Kolome Project. Although you are, by decades, younger than I, I am sure you have heard stories of what a difficult project that turned out to be. I can assure you there is much truth in those stories–and many lies. What a troubling project. What a troubling time.

Kolome provided some unique challenges we had not previously encountered. This was long ago, back when we were still working out many of the protocols for terraforming planets and our Federation was still young–when the various species scattered across the galaxy were just learning to work with one another.

In my defense, I arrived on the project quite late, well after things had grown complicated. But I can assure you we began making steady progress soon after my arrival.

One day–with day being relative of course–I was leading a meeting on a capital‑class terrology station orbiting Kolome. This was no ordinary gathering of petty busicrats. No faclicants or holo‑reps were allowed. Only those who had proven themselves worthy were invited, and all the representatives, each carefully selected, had traveled very far. Some came from our most newly developed planets. The rest came all the way from Earth, such was their profound commitment to this project.

I held the meeting in the station’s main conference room where a long table stood before an enormous window looking out over Kolome, a beautiful red drop in the distance. Outside the window six Klarmond ships, even now considered the finest terraships ever built, were lined abreast in construction formation. Have you ever seen a Klarmond ship, Doctor Kradame? Nothing else made by man possesses such power. Two Klarmond ships can transform a small planet in a half‑year. They can level mountains or empty seas, move continents or cleanse a chlorine atmosphere. Initially I ordered the Klarmond ships to Kolome merely to illustrate my resolution. Initially, I had no intention of actually using them.

The meeting turned out to be quite a challenge. Five senior leaders, seven adjuncts, a full team of my engineers and I were struggling with some delicate issues, but things were going very well and some wonderful ideas were being tossed about. Just as I made an excellent point, a point–you must understand–with which almost everyone agreed, one of the engineers sitting next to me slammed her hand down on the conference table making a sound as deafening as a continental Klarmond shot. I assure you, I have been in many meetings in my life, and that is the only time I have ever witnessed such uncivilized behavior. But she did. She hammered the table with the blunt of her hand and shouted, much to my embarrassment, “This is the most grimpting thing I have ever heard in my life.”

I stopped. I stopped talking. I stopped listening. For a few seconds, I stopped breathing. I think my heart was even still. The fruitful discussion we had been having and the excellent progress we had been making immediately ceased. We all just stared at her, not really sure how to react. I sensed that I could lose control of the meeting if I did not act quickly. This was not just a disruption; this was a challenge, a challenge to my very authority. The senior leaders, all wise and gerbunctious, looked at me; after all, she was my employee and it was my meeting. I could have had her ejected immediately, but I did no such thing. I just looked as her and thought for a moment, and then I said, as calmly as I could, “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” she asked. She did not look well. She was pale and trembled like a baby limik. Even now I attribute her behavior to some undetected illness, the Regulian flu perhaps. “Just look,” she whispered, “just look at what you are proposing. Just stop for a second and look at it.”

“No,” I said. Obviously the young woman had completely missed my point. Another sign of her illness, I assume. “What do you mean by ‘grimpting?’” I asked. Her eyes widened and she stared at me as if I had spoken in a language she could not comprehend. Two of the leaders at the table smiled at me and one of the adjuncts even laughed, so I seized the opportunity. I leaned towards her, moving as close as I could without leaving my seat. Her breath was hot on my face. “Are you making up words?” I asked. A few more joined the adjunct in laughter. “Are you sure you’re well?” I added.

The young woman turned as red as a glamik and explained that she and her sister had made up “grimpting” as children and that to define it would be difficult. They had, in fact, never defined it; they had merely used it. She looked down at her hands and then she looked at mine. Finally she said, quite seriously I believe, “But whatever the hell it means, I am sure it is entirely appropriate.” The young woman rose from her seat and ran from the room. After the laughter had faded, we composed ourselves and continued our excellent progress.

I must admit, I owe much to that young woman. I cannot remember her name and really do not know whatever happened to her. She was off the station within two hours, and I can assure you she is no longer a terrologist. But that young woman made me keenly aware of language. She made me aware of how easily words can be created, how they can be crafted and used. I have uttered the word “grimpting” (or one of its various forms–grimpts, grimpter, grimptel, grimpted) almost every day since I last saw that young woman. What wonderful words they all are.

• • •

As I look back on the Kolome Project, I realize that it provided many fine words to our language. To avoid wandering into a topic that cannot be easily covered in one short transmission, please allow me to limit my discussion to the words that emerged from my work with that single planet.

I am not sure of how familiar you are with Kolome. I certainly do not remember it coming up in any of our conversations. So please indulge me while I recount a little history. If you need more information, I encourage you to read my early work on the subject: Kolome–When Rumors Meet Truth.

Kolome was the eighth planet outside our solar system we had attempted to settle. A remote planet, Kolome is best remembered for being the first planet we colonized with indigenous life already on it. By the time I was brought onto the project, humans had been living on Kolome for almost two years. Initially there was no plan to terraform Kolome at all. The atmosphere was breathable, and the temperature, although frodeling, was warm enough to sustain human life. Water was scarce, but enough could be extracted from minerals to negate the need to import more. All in all, it was a decently hospitable planet.

The first colonists established one settlement in the north and one far to the south–with “north” and “south” being relative of course. The equatorial region, warm and lush, could have much more easily sustained human life, but the first settlers avoided the region in order not to conflict with the numerous life forms that already thrived there.

For almost two years the colonies survived without any problem, at least nothing more than the usual challenges of settling an alien world. The northern settlement grew to more than seven‑thousand inhabitants and showed signs of economic potential. The southern colony, although not quite as prosperous, began to expand to the north. Things seemed to be going very well. Very well indeed, until, inexplicably, one of the indigenous species started to migrate toward the southern pole.

The migrating species was red and long but no wider than the tip of your little finger. They looked like quick ribbons fluttering about close to the ground. Their migration started slowly, no more than a few kilometers a week, but by the time I was summoned the creatures had come within fifty kilometers of the southern settlement’s primary base. They did not seem particularly aggressive, and the colonists initially assessed them to be quite harmless. Unfortunately, initial assessments are frequently wrong.

As the creatures neared one of our outposts, many colonists there grew ill. It started with a few isolated cases of fever and hallucinations. The doctors on Kolome initially thought they could contain the disease, but it rapidly spread into an epidemic, incapacitating the entire southern settlement. Most patients recovered after a few days. For some the illness lingered for weeks. For a few, but far, far too many, the disease proved fatal.

At first the colonists did not draw a connection between the illness and the migrating species. They initially thought the symptoms might be a delayed reaction to one of the native plant‑like species the colonists fed upon. The food had been thoroughly tested years before but was studied again and found to be quite harmless, as initially assessed. The finest physicians in that part of the galaxy were brought in, but none of them could cure the disease or even determine its cause. In the end we could only assume the illness had something to do with the migration of the little red creatures. By the time I arrived, almost two‑hundred colonists in the south had perished. There was talk of abandoning the settlement. Some even proposed leaving Kolome altogether.

I will not go into the details of how we resolved the problem, for that is not my purpose here. I fear I have already digressed. I will try to restrict myself to the subject at hand, the words which arose from my work on the Kolome Project.

I must admit that I saw the little creatures only once, and that was during a brief excursion to Kolome’s surface. I had traveled over a hundred kilometers north of the southern settlement. Some of the colonists had encouraged me to take a faclicant to help me properly assess the situation. As it is, on this excursion, I preferred to travel as one, trusting my instincts. An ancient philosopher once said, “When a man is alone, he is alone.”

Truth is truth, and I must admit I have never felt so isolated, even with the settlement only ten minutes away by galaride. While I surveyed what I can only describe as a hopelessly barren landscape, one of the creatures came flitting by, alternately displaying its crimson back and its underside flecked with orange and yellow. As the creature passed within half‑a‑ten meters, I heard it make a high‑pitched singing sound. The first colonists, understandably entranced with the creatures, had named them “trillbrights.”

As I watched the trillbright dance over that desolate landscape, I realized the challenge I faced, the problems that lay before me. The creature was, as I had feared, quite beautiful, more beautiful than the holopics could ever portray.

As the trillbright twisted its way into the distance, I knew what I would have to do. I knew I would have to change the trillbright’s name. After days of deliberation, I decided upon “slaggerbug.” Truth is truth, so I must admit the creatures actually had very little in common with insects, except size. But it was not the accuracy of the word that was important to me. With a little coaxing, “slaggerbug” became the accepted term among the colonists and scientists in the region. I correctly assumed that if I could change the word used by the local population, the rest of the galaxy would follow their lead.

Soon afterwards, I wrote an article for Galactic Science in which I coined another word–“delinction.” “Delinction” was, I proposed, the methodical elimination of a harmful or useless species. We had to acknowledge, I argued, that we no longer had life on a single planet to contend with–or even a handful of planets for that matter. We had an entire galaxy potentially teeming with life. We had to recognize that just because something “did exist,” it did not necessarily mean it “should exist.” The article, I am proud to say, was well received in this part of the galaxy.

Of course, language rarely resolves problems by itself. It is only one of many tools used to address difficult issues. And I used all my tools to help persuade others to see the logic in my argument. But it is language I am addressing here, so I will try to restrict myself to that topic.

Of course things are never as simple as they first appear. Many believe that terraforming is merely using powerful equipment to shape, reform and refine a planet. In reality, terraforming is about managing cause and effect, about judging consequences. When you are working on a planetary scale, every action will have a dramatic reaction, often one you did not predict. It is the terrologist’s job to assess those reactions and respond accordingly. Kolome is an excellent case in point.

Once the slaggerbugs were gone, the small gray plantlike organism which had sustained the colonists began to perish. It was not completely unexpected but many busicrats grew angry when what we had already identified as a possibility actually occurred.

I took, however, another approach. The organism had originally been named “calobush,” so I merely asserted that if we were going to use plant analogies, referring to the organism as a “bush” was not entirely accurate. I rationally recommended changing the organism’s name to “caloweed.” I also pointed out that although the caloweed was capable of sustaining life, much more flavorful and nutritious food could be grown on Kolome. I argued that since the caloweed was already perishing and could be replaced it would be logical to speed up the process.

Once the caloweed was gone, the remaining species declined as well. The “glushworm” and “testimite” were gone within a year. The “cessfish” hung on a little longer.

This brings us to the word “retoration.” “Retoration” would be, I asserted, simply the removal of all life from a planet in order to repopulate it with other life forms to create a more balanced ecology.

But of all the words which arose from the Kolome Project, I believe my personal favorite is “Terra‑Exulta.” During the first year of the transformation, things were extremely difficult. The planet had to be temporarily abandoned while the Klarmond ships did their work. Many argued not to return to Kolome at all. I countered by saying that although things were difficult, in the end the result would be “Terra‑Exulta,” a perfect world, an ideally‑constructed planet.

In the end, I worked on the Kolome project for over five years. After four years, Kolome was once again a viable planet. But you should see it now. It has little resemblance to the frigid wasteland I visited long ago. The entire planet thrives, full of life and features you would quickly recognize. Even though it was one of my early works, I am especially proud of it.

Since that time I have worked on many planets, and with each project came new challenges and new words. The Walgard Project brought us anaclam, fecateria, glomoration, reimmolate, and elimitest. The Glaman Project itself spawned seventeen new nouns, six verbs and one of my favorite words, “ecoviserate.”

Oh, how I could go on, for the list is almost endless. I have, as it is, written far more than I intended. I hope you find this information useful as you continue your studies. Please let me know if you need any more information, for I do so enjoy reminiscing.

As I said at the beginning of this transmission, I will soon be returning to the old system. I am excited about once again seeing the places I left behind so very long ago. I have heard that Mars grows greener with each passing day and the Moon’s rivers run deep and clean. It warms my heart to see the positive changes my profession can make. Such works bring tears to the eyes of even the most seasoned terrologist.

But what I have heard of Earth is quite disheartening. The air is thin and the seas are thick and hot. I have also heard the population has become quite grimpting. Unfortunately, as most of our human race grows strong, there are, regrettably, some few who do not. Earth’s viability falls with each passing day and there is some talk out here of redoing it. For it is out here, among the various scattered species of the galaxy, among those new planets that we have marked with the gifts of my profession, that we have truly perfected the art of terraforming.

I have made some proposals, modest ones I assure you, for improving Earth and anxiously await a response. For is it not obvious that when a planet fails some form of dilinction is in order? Can we not see what a positive influence a retoration can have on even the most ancient of our treasured worlds? Should we not work to ecoviserate those few who are not functioning as they should and replace them with the stronger species that have grown, even flourished, out here on the fringes of civilization?

Will we not take the effort to turn the birthplace of what is now a well‑traveled species–a galactic species–into a true Terra‑Exulta?

I have already taken the liberty of ordering eight Klarmond ships to head toward Earth. It will be my gift to humanity–using those talents I have developed out here, so very far from Sol–to turn our ancestral home into the Terra‑Exulta it deserves to be. What a wonderful opportunity. Who knows what new words will spring from this new project?

Give my love to the family.

Humbly Yours,

Harald K. Jeribob

Terrologist