Freelance On The Galactic Tunnel Network

by E. M. Foner

  “What else do people eat?”

  “Foods that stick to a spoon, at least if you don’t move too fast. Baked beans in heavy sauce are popular, and some traders will eat anything from a can and just be careful about cleaning up after themselves. I gave you a half-dozen apples instead of the oranges you asked for. I don’t stock citrus because it’s surprisingly messy under weightless conditions.”

  “How about orange juice?”

  “Squeeze tubes or boxes?”

  “Which is cheaper?”

  “Tubes.”

  “I’ll take seven. What’s in that yellow tube you already gave me?”

  “Zero-G soap. Larry has a Dollnick shower installed.”

  “I can’t use regular soap?”

  “Gums up the filters. Your subtotal comes to forty-two creds and seventy centees. See anything else you want?”

  “That’s less than I thought it would be. How about something I can share with my, uh…”

  “Captain,” the chandler supplied the correct term. “Desserts and salty snacks are always popular, or if you want something that will last a long time, I just got in a shipment of rum-soaked fruitcakes.”

  “Like the ones people send around at Christmas?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I think I’ll go with pretzels.”

  Three

  “Roland?” Walter addressed the chief editor of the freelance department, who looked up from his desk to see the paper’s managing editor accompanied by the publisher, Chastity Papamarkakis. “Do you have a minute?”

  “For my boss and the owner? Always.” Roland made a swiping motion over his display desk to dismiss his current work into storage and stood so that he wouldn’t be the only one seated. “Is something wrong?”

  “Have you been watching the Grenouthian news?” Chastity asked.

  “I try to keep it to a minimum.”

  “Put it on and select their top story today.”

  Roland made a different gesture above his display desk, then selected an icon from the resulting hologram and dragged it to the right. A new holographic projection appeared, featuring a fair-haired teen dressed like the girl on the box lid of a popular brand of imported Swiss chocolates. She had a small microphone clipped to her collar and a press ID suspended on a lanyard around her neck.

  “I’m Lena, for the Children’s News Network, here with Matteo Allaman, president of the Combined Insurers Group,” the girl began. “Matteo, I’m sure you already know what my first question will be, but for our viewers, can you explain what’s so special about the Swiss government bond that came due today?”

  “Certainly, Lena,” the president said. “This unique hundred-year bond was issued shortly before the Stryx opened Earth and was the first of its kind to pay a negative nominal interest rate. Our company invested ten million francs in the issue for long-term planning.”

  “But why would anybody ever purchase a bond that pays a negative interest rate? I suppose it’s not surprising that it was the only one of its kind.”

  “Perhaps I need to clarify my statement,” Matteo said. “Government bonds with negative yields actually made up the majority of issuance at the time the Stryx opened Earth. The unique thing about this bond is that it was issued with a negative coupon, requiring purchasers to make regular interest payments to the Swiss treasury. At that time in Earth’s history, national governments were issuing new debt on a daily basis, but most of the maturities ran from two years to thirty years, with the ten-year bond serving as the benchmark. Switzerland enjoyed one of the few governments ever deemed creditworthy enough to issue a hundred-year bond.”

  “Which guaranteed a loss for the purchaser,” Lena observed.

  “The bond’s real value might have appreciated if Switzerland had experienced an extended period of deflation,” Matteo pointed out. “It’s true that investors with access to a vault would have done better to simply keep their savings in cash, but our money managers at the time had no way of knowing if interest rates would become even more negative in the future.”

  “So you’re saying that your insurance company wanted to lock in a small loss for one hundred years rather than waiting and perhaps having the opportunity to lock in a bigger loss at a later date?”

  “I wouldn’t have put it exactly like that,” the executive protested mildly. “You have to understand that our investment activity at all times is based on the prevailing economic theories.”

  “There was an economic theory that said paying a government to borrow your money was a good idea?”

  “Actually, the whole concept of negative interest rates and coupons was supposed to be impossible. If our predecessors had been paying closer attention, they might have detected the problem in the early 21st century, when over a quarter of the world’s government debt was already yielding real negative returns.”

  “You would think so,” Lena said. “But you’re using a lot of financial terms that may be difficult for our viewership to understand, so perhaps you could give an example?”

  “Certainly. The particular issuance we purchased, in addition to carrying a negative coupon rate of 0.1%, sold at auction to institutional buyers at a premium of almost two percent, due to high demand.”

  “A premium is the opposite of a discount, meaning you paid more than the face value?”

  “Exactly. I have the numbers right here. We paid just under one hundred and two francs per one hundred francs of face value for our ten-million-franc bond. For the last hundred years, we have been submitting annual payments to the Swiss treasury of ten thousand francs, the coupon interest we owed them for borrowing our money.”

  “So if I’m doing that math correctly, first you paid almost two hundred thousand francs for the privilege of loaning the Swiss government your ten million, and since that time, you’ve paid out another million francs because of the negative coupon rate. Your original ten million franc investment has lost twelve percent of its value, not counting inflation.”

  “Very good,” Matteo praised the teenage reporter. “If you’re interested in a job when you finish school, please come and see me. But keep in mind that had there been deflation, we might have come out ahead.”

  “But there wasn’t deflation.”

  “No, rather the opposite, I’m afraid, though nobody could have predicted the Stryx opening Earth and bringing us onto their tunnel network. Still, I like to think the fact that the one-hundred-year issue was oversubscribed says a great deal about the creditworthiness of the Swiss government. We can also boast being one of the few nations on Earth that remained fully independent and retained more than half of our pre-Opening population.”

  “That is much better than the international average,” the girl agreed. “Technical language aside, can you tell our viewers why supposedly sophisticated investors were so eager to buy debt that paid negative interest rates back before the Stryx opened Earth?”

  “I’ve made a study of the period and the answer is surprisingly simple,” Matteo said. “The prevailing economic theories of the time all made the fatal assumption that investors are rational actors who think through the consequences of their decisions. In reality, investors just follow the herd.”

  The teen nodded her head in agreement, and then said, “This is Lena, reporting for the Children’s News Network in Zurich. Over to you in Paris, Samantha.”

  Instead of Samantha in Paris, a furry alien resembling a giant bunny appeared, and he seemed to be having trouble breathing. The Grenouthian news presenter struggled mightily to compose himself, but his lips were still trembling with suppressed mirth when he began to speak.

  “And there you have it, straight from the Human’s mouth,” the presenter said. “Negative coupon rates on government bonds, Earth’s contribution to financial engineering. Turning to news from more serious species, in Verlock—”

  Roland waved the hologram out of existence and turned back to Walter and Chastity.

  “We’ve already contacted CNN for th
e print rights to Lena’s interview,” Walter said. “Those kids have a nose for stories like that.”

  “I’m sure you know that we negotiated deals with the Earth’s surviving news syndicates not long after I started the Galactic Free Press,” Chastity told Roland. “Unfortunately, most of the papers supporting those syndicates have since gone bankrupt.”

  “If you’re about to say that you’re opening an Earth bureau and you want me to be the head, I’d rather stay on Union Station and take a pay cut to work for EarthCent Intelligence,” Roland told them. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate all you’ve done for me, but I have a thing about Earth.”

  “Don’t worry,” Walter said. “For the time being, we’re focused on expanding our relationship with the Children’s News Network and the student newspapers. But you know that the maximum age of their reporters is eighteen, so using them as investigative journalists is out of the question.”

  “I see,” Roland said. “Is this about the young woman who came in yesterday?”

  “Who was that?” Chastity asked.

  “Georgia Hunt. She grew up on Earth, even went through the New University system there, and she just made the move to freelance because she wants to do investigative journalism.”

  “Our local food writer? But I count on her for reviews of all the new restaurants that open here. They come and go so fast.”

  “I agreed to buy any food stories she sends in while she’s pursuing her big story,” Roland said. “Georgia told me she was leaving Union Station right after lunch, so I’m afraid we’re too late if you wanted to offer her an Earth assignment.”

  “I think she’ll need a little seasoning first,” Walter punned, drawing a groan from both the publisher and the freelance editor.

  “We’ve put together a list of the journalists from Earth whose stories we ran over the years,” Chastity continued. “If you have a freelancer with business sense headed that direction, we’ll pay a bonus for contacting the names on the list to see if they’re interested in forming a group to work with us. I’d rather subsidize a new independent syndicate until they can get on their feet than open a permanent office of our own on Earth.”

  “Got anybody in mind for the job?” Walter asked the freelance editor.

  “How about Ellen?” Roland suggested. “She came up through the student newspapers while her parents were working on a Dollnick ag world, and she’s been freelancing for us the last ten years to supplement her trading income.”

  “She wrote the series of articles we ran last year about longevity treatment scams,” Chastity recalled.

  “That’s her. She’s tough as they come, and she would have won our investigative journalist of the year award if Andreas hadn’t uncovered that price-fixing scandal involving mercenary contractors.”

  “Isn’t she the one who got blitzed at the awards dinner and fell off the stage?” Walter asked.

  “Ellen has a bit of a control problem with social drinking, but it’s never interfered with her work.”

  “Has she ever been to Earth?”

  “That I’m not sure, but I’ll get ahold of her and let you know if she’s available.”

  “Works for me,” Chastity said. “Walter?”

  “I suppose it’s worth a shot,” the managing editor said. “Roland, let me know if you need more resources. The two of us have to run if we’re going to make the Grenouthian reception.”

  “Why do you go when you know they’re only going to gloat about scooping us on the Swiss bond story?”

  “Because if you let them brag a little, they always end up giving away something they’re still working on,” Chastity said. “Besides, they did beat us fair and square.”

  As soon as his employers left, Roland pulled up the database he used to track the location of all the freelance journalists who were regular contributors. He scrolled through the list with impatient hand gestures until he located the reporter he was looking for and barked a short laugh.

  “Libby,” Roland said out loud. “Could you ping Ellen for me?”

  “I’m afraid she’s muted her implant.”

  “Can you tell me her exact location?”

  “I don’t think that would be appropriate at the moment.”

  “How about where she isn’t? Could you tell me if she’s sleeping it off on her ship?”

  “She is not.”

  “Is she on a date?”

  “I wouldn’t call it that.”

  “In a bar?” Roland waited a moment to confirm that Libby wasn’t responding, and rose from his desk. “One of those dives near the Empire Convention Center?”

  “Does she ever drink anywhere else?”

  “You don’t approve,” Roland continued the conversation over his implant as he threaded his way through the newsroom. “Ellen claims she gets all of her best leads in bars.”

  “There are better ways to meet people. I offered her a discounted membership to my dating service.”

  “I don’t think she’s the type.”

  “You have an incoming ping from Katya Wysecki.”

  “I’ll take it,” Roland said, stepping into the lift tube capsule and instructing it, “Empire Convention Center,” before continuing, “Hello, Katya.”

  “Have you found me a replacement for Georgia?” a woman’s voice came over his implant.

  “How is that my job? Besides, she’s going to be submitting food articles during her travels, and now they’ll come out of my budget instead of yours. I’d say you won on the exchange.”

  “You don’t have anybody who wants to move from freelance to full-time?”

  “I don’t understand. I would have thought with all the publicity around the All Species Cookbook launch you’d be flooded with candidates.”

  “The problem is that none of them can write. I wasted the entire day reading story samples from would-be reporters that were no more than recipes. Food writing requires a certain flair.”

  “How about Scotch Frank? He recently moved back to Union Station and he’s looking to pick up more work.”

  “Your distillery reporter?”

  “He doesn’t just cover distilleries. A lot of the microbreweries he visited were combined with pubs, and I remember you telling me how much you enjoyed his piece about wine tasters.”

  “That was hilarious. Okay, have him ping me, and if it works out, I’ll put him on our payroll to make up for you taking on Georgia.”

  “You still win because they’ll both be writing about food. Hello?”

  “She disconnected,” the Stryx librarian informed him.

  The doors slid open and Roland immediately turned left in the corridor, heading away from the convention center towards the strip of bars that culminated in the station’s red-light district.

  “Libby,” he subvoced. “Have you ever played Hot/Cold?”

  “You’re really pushing it today,” the station librarian replied. “I wouldn’t be doing this if you weren’t on Ellen’s emergency contact list. You’re getting warmer... warmer… warmer… colder.”

  Roland turned around and headed back towards the last bar he had passed, a seedy-looking place without a name above the doors.

  “Warmer… hot,” Libby declared over the freelance editor’s implant as he entered. “You’re on your own.”

  Roland strained his eyes in the dim lighting trying to locate his wayward freelancer. There was a long bar running the length of one side of the room, and the other side featured a row of high-backed booths, obviously intended for privacy. Looking closer at the table in one of the empty booths, he saw a small machine that he initially took for an antique jukebox remote, but on closer inspection proved to offer a Dollnick audio suppression field for one cred per hour. Then loud laughter from the end of the bar caught his attention.

  “You almost made me soil my armor,” a man’s voice protested. “I’ve got to hit the head.”

  “Hit it for me too,” a woman’s voice replied.

  “Ellen,” Roland cal
led out as he approached the reporter. “Fancy bumping into you here.”

  “I’m not available,” she replied immediately. “I’m leaving tomorrow and I can’t tell you where I’m going because it’s a sheecrit.”

  “Did you mean secret?”

  “That’s what I said. Are you getting something to drink? Frode. Give my editor a drink.”

  “No, thank you,” Roland said, waving off the Drazen bartender. “This is a major opportunity, Ellen. I wouldn’t have tracked you down otherwise. Our publisher and managing editor are—”

  “Can I get some peanuts?” the reporter interrupted him, grabbing at the Drazen’s sleeve as he passed. “The good ones, with the salt.”

  “Try to concentrate for just a minute, Ellen. There’s an opportunity on Earth—”

  “How did you know I was going to Earth?” the reporter demanded. “Did you sic EarthCent Intelligence on me?”

  “I didn’t know you were going to Earth, but it’s highly fortuitous. The old news syndicates have broken down and we’re left dependent on the student-run papers and Children’s News Network—”

  “Reporting for the student papers was the best job I ever had, even though it didn’t pay,” Ellen interrupted again. “Hey, what happened to Jordan?” she asked the bartender as he placed a small dish of peanuts in front of her.

  “He snuck past behind you when he came out of the bathroom,” the Drazen replied. “It’s just as well. His wife usually comes looking for him around now.”

  “I have a list of the Earth-based investigative journalists who we’ve published in the past, and we want you to contact them and offer our help in setting up their own news syndicate,” Roland continued unperturbed. “We don’t expect it to happen all at once, so if you take the job, it means a bonus and regular stops at Earth, which could be quite profitable for you.”

  “What’s the bonus?”

  “We didn’t discuss an exact figure, but—”

  “I need fifteen hundred creds.”

  “That much!?”

  “I’m working on the scoop of the century but the expenses are killing me.”