Freelance On The Galactic Tunnel Network

by E. M. Foner

  “Thank you for an introduction that gives new meaning to the phrase, ‘Too much information,’” she began. “But in this case, I suppose it’s helpful that you all know that I have the president’s ear, along with the rest of him. Thanks to Flower’s cooperation in providing me with remote Stryxnet access, I just got off a tunneling conference call with the president and the ambassadors of the EarthCent Intelligence Steering Committee.”

  “If this is a tall tale, it’s not funny,” somebody called out in a voice that testified to its owner having over-indulged in the alcohol-soaked fruitcake.

  “I think those of you with outstanding mortgages on your ships will be glad to hear that I’m not making this up,” Hildy responded politely. “You’ve all read the stories in the Galactic Free Press by now, so you must be wondering about the legal and moral implications of making continued mortgage and refi payments to criminals. While Triad Enterprises, through its MORE subsidiary, was engaged in illegal activities that ranged from predatory lending and the dissemination of false trading information to the sabotage and even destruction of ships, the parent company also draws deposits from legitimate investors. Projectionist?”

  A low-quality holographic image of a slowly revolving Earth appeared over the stage.

  “Each of those flags you see represents a location where Triad Enterprises has a significant presence providing banking services and employing locals. Given the number of nations and city-states involved, we expect that it will be months, if not years, before the local authorities can untangle the criminal elements from the legitimate business activities and transfer the assets to responsible fiduciaries.”

  “So do we continue making our loan payments?” a young woman near the stage inquired.

  “In short, yes,” Hildy said. “Although they aren’t tunnel network members, the Sharf government is deeply embarrassed at the unwitting part they played in this criminal scheme. They have instructed their association which handles pre-owned ship sales to other species to buy back all of the securitized mortgages they sold Triad Enterprises, a process that should be completed within days. The payments you submit through your mini-registers will be rerouted to the Sharf, and everything will go back to the way it was in previous years.”

  “What about the refi deals?” a number of voices called out.

  “The situation there is more complicated because of the fraud involved. For the time being, you’ll go back to making your original mortgage payments, and when Triad’s new management is in place, we’ll negotiate a deal that takes the interests of all innocent parties into account. Those of you with refi deals are advised to steer clear of entering Earth’s jurisdiction until this is resolved, as repossession counts for nine-tenths of the law.”

  “Thank you, Hildy,” the master of ceremonies said, resuming his place at the lectern. “I didn’t understand half of that, but I paid off my mortgage a decade ago so I guess I’m in the clear. Next up we have the finalists in the Tall Tales contest. If you missed any of the preliminary rounds, for a five-cred donation to the Ellen’s Ship Fund, you can pick up a recorded chip from the information desk. Without further ado, I give you Trader Yasmine.”

  “Thank you, Gary,” the woman with silver-flecked black hair said, taking her place at the lectern. “No mouse peeking out of the beard this year?”

  “Late night, he’s sleeping in. You have ten minutes.”

  “Well, I’ll just get started then, though I should caution you all that if you’re expecting some wild invention, this is actually a true story about something that happened to me on a Dollnick ag world. I knew from the minute I stepped off my ship that something was rotten, because my monkey, who couldn’t be here tonight due to a prior engagement, said to me, ‘Yazz, something is rotten.’”

  Nine minutes later, the trader wound up the story in which she and her monkey saved the ag world from an invasive species of tuber parasites through a series of coincidences that culminated in her accidental marriage to the Dollnick prince who owned the planet. Yasmine concluded by saying, “I’d love to tell you how I escaped from his four-armed embrace, but time is running out, so I’ll have to save that for my soon-to-be-released maiden novel, ‘Married to the Trillionaire Alien Prince: Book One.’ Buy it wherever they print on demand.”

  “Thank you, Yasmine, for sharing your harrowing experience with us,” Gary said. “It should serve as a cautionary tale for any of you who frequent Dollnick ag worlds on business, as forewarned is forearmed.”

  There were loud groans from the crowd, and not a few traders could be heard repeating the bad pun while waving four fingers in the faces of their neighbors and explaining, “Forearmed is four-armed, you idiot. Get it now?”

  “Next up is Darla, who recently returned from trading among the pirates on the Horten frontier,” Gary said. “Darla, you have ten minutes.”

  “The last time a man said that to me, he was grossly overestimating his stamina,” the willowy trader said as she took her place behind the lectern. “Like Yasmine, I’m going to disappoint those of you who are expecting a tale out of a Vergallian drama. Everything I’m about to tell you really did happen to me, and if it wasn’t for good luck and the intensive training I received as an orphan raised by Horten assassins, I wouldn’t be here today.”

  There were audience members running for the portable toilets by the time Darla wrapped up the story in which she prevented a pirate invasion of the tunnel network by teaming up with a young Stryx who was tired of doing multiverse math homework. Together they opened a rift in the space-time continuum and sent the attack fleet into an alternate universe, where the would-be invaders all accepted highly compensated work as reenactors at pirate-themed resorts.

  “If any of you doubt a word of it, and I couldn’t help seeing the skepticism on some faces when I related how I was beheaded, you’re welcome to come up here after the voting and inspect the scar,” she concluded, drawing an index finger across her neck.

  “Thank you, Darla,” the master of ceremonies said, tilting his head to inspect her neck as she passed, but his eyes strayed lower. She yanked on his beard in response, and a small grey mouse popped out and scolded everybody in sight. It took almost two minutes for Gary to calm the creature sufficiently to continue.

  “Our final contestant is Marshall, who some of you will remember as last year’s runner-up with his true story about being swallowed by a Floppsie while space-walking to fix a weather-control satellite for a primitive civilization which mistook him for a Terregram mage after he had been tarred and feathered at his previous stop. Marshall?”

  “Thank you for reducing my epic tale of suffering and redemption to a fifteen-second highlight reel,” Marshall said as he assumed his place behind the lectern. “Unlike the other contestants tonight, I’m going to do something different this year and spin you a tale of which not a single word is true. It all started a little over a month ago on Earth, when a trader I’d never met before passed by my blanket cursing like a sailor at her twentieth-generation cell phone, which for those of you who don’t know, is what passes for personal communications technology on our motherworld.”

  Marshall went on to tell the story of how Ellen had conducted her investigation of Advantage and MORE, with certain embellishments, such as admitting that he was the undercover operative who had obtained the damning video, and insinuating that Ellen had remained on Flower for several days because he warned her of an assassination plot.

  “Thank you, Marshall,” Gary said, giving the older trader a wink as they exchanged places. “I especially liked the part where you convinced your old friend, President Beyer, to send his mistress along with Ellen as a human shield, because after all, who would risk incurring the wrath of EarthCent?”

  “I get around,” Marshall replied modestly, and took his seat on the remaining folding chair.

  “So the time to vote for the Tall Tale Teller of the year is upon us. If you’ll get out your tabs and head to the main screen for Rendezvous, you�
��ll find it’s been replaced with the names of our three contestants in the order in which they performed. You can only tap one name before the screen locks out, so take a minute to think, and while you’re doing that, our outgoing council head has a special announcement. Phil?”

  Larry’s father, who had been waiting at the event table, climbed onto the stage and took Gary’s place at the lectern. “I’ll keep this brief and try not to steal anybody’s thunder,” he said. “I’m sure you’re all aware that this year was the first time we had a competitive election for council seats rather than me having to chase around drafting volunteers. I want to thank all of the candidates for participating. A few hours ago, I was approached by the young traders running on an anti-incumbency platform, among other things, and they all requested that their names be removed from consideration.”

  “Good riddance to them,” somebody shouted. “Those free cards were all marked.”

  “They wanted to stress the fact that they believed their financial backers were acting in good faith, and they didn’t know about MORE’s scheme to become the dominant force in independent trading. They also didn’t know that the decks were marked. Mountain Man Gary will be announcing the election results immediately after the winner of the Tall Tales contest accepts his or her prize, and I want to take this final opportunity to thank you for your votes over the last thirty years. Gary?”

  “And the results are in,” the master of ceremonies declared, looking down at his own tab. “The winner is Marshall with his thoroughly unbelievable tale about corruption in the financial services industry. Darla is this year’s runner up, and Yasmine, I loved your story, but I think you lost a few points with the book plug at the end. Marshall?”

  The older trader approached the lectern and accepted the trophy featuring a figurine which had one hand behind its back with the fingers crossed. “I’ve been trying to win this damn thing for more years than I can remember,” Marshall said, and his voice choked up with real emotion. “I want to thank Ellen for letting me borrow what is really her story, and to say that I’m donating the winner’s purse of one thousand creds to the Ellen’s Ship Fund so she’s not left paying a mortgage on a pile of slag.”

  “Insurance?” a few voices shouted.

  “The Tharks have an exclusion for damage caused by vandalism or the fire-bombing of ships in use by working press and intelligence agents,” Marshall said. “I’m told that with the donations collected so far, we’re still around six thousand creds short of paying off the mortgage, and that doesn’t even touch on her lost equity. I think the trading community owes her at least that much. Thank you all for making me the Tall Tale Teller of the year, even if it’s only because I went last and was fresh in your memories when you voted.”

  “Thank you, Marshall,” Gary said. “I see some people getting up to leave, so I’ll just hurry up and say that the incumbents for the Traders Guild Council were all returned to their seats, with the exception of Arlene, who didn’t make it here in time to register. Her place will be filled by Semmi’s John, and Phil’s seat as the council’s head has been successfully passed to his son, Larry, who will say a few words.”

  The tent really started emptying out in earnest as Larry took the stage, and he began speaking the moment he reached the lectern. “I’ll skip the formalities and just say that the older council members have appointed me to be our representative to the Conference of Sovereign Human Communities because none of them wanted the job and John is too busy with his EarthCent Intelligence work. But I want to take the opportunity in front of those of you who are still here to ask, Georgia? Will you be my apprentice?”

  “He just proposed in trader terms,” Ellen said, jabbing the younger journalist with her elbow. “Say something.”

  “Yes,” Larry’s mother called out, and then turned to Georgia. “This way it’s not legally binding and you can always change your mind after taking him out for a test drive.”

  The next morning, Larry and Georgia met Ellen and John at the latter’s ship. The two reporters went to work on a wrap-up piece about Rendezvous, while the men tried to get the better of each other trading merchandise from their stock that hadn’t moved for years.

  “You’ll make a killing with these socks next time you visit Verlock space,” Larry promised the older man. “The only reason I’m letting them go is that I want to do a circuit of the CoSHC worlds I haven’t visited yet in preparation for the convention.”

  “There are at least a half-dozen Verlock open worlds with academies in the Conference of Sovereign Human communities,” John pointed out skeptically.

  “I’ve been to them already trying to buy used magnetic monopoles.” Larry pulled one of the socks onto his arm and spread his fingers in a ‘V’ with the thumb stretched to the side. “Three toes, you can’t miss.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want the socks,” John said, and changed over to a honeyed tone. “It’s that I follow a strict rule about apportioning my cargo and I’m full up on clothing and accessories. Now, if you’d take a gross of Grenouthian hats in exchange…”

  “I’ve never seen a Grenouthian in a hat,” Larry said suspiciously. “What makes them special?”

  “The ear holes. But you could always patch those and then they’d be good for any species with big heads.”

  “Do they stack?”

  Semmi got tired of listening to the men who were all talk and no action and decided to get in some exercise before the ship took off. She gave a loud “Caw,” to get everybody’s attention, and scratched out a perfect circle with her right front paw. Next, she used her beak to add two lines of different lengths, and then took to the sky.

  “What was that about?” Georgia asked.

  “It’s one of the ways Semmi communicates,” John said, going around and standing where the gryphon had been when she scribed the lines. “The big hand is straight up and the little hand is ninety degrees down, so I’d say she’ll be back at three this afternoon.”

  “Is she really that smart?” Larry asked.

  “Smart enough to cheat at poker,” Ellen said. “The Farling doctor told me that she’s smarter than most humans he’s met, but Flower claimed he says that about everybody’s pets. Why don’t the two of you take a break from trying to out-trade each other and make us lunch?”

  “Are you almost finished?” John asked.

  “Georgia is just adding a bit about the new foods she discovered at this Rendezvous, and I’m going to write a few words about Marshall’s win and the results of the fundraiser. It feels a little weird to be reporting on a charity for myself, but it’s part of the story, and the Galactic Free Press already offered to make good any losses that the collection didn’t cover.”

  “Come on, Larry,” John said. “I’ll show you my stock of freeze-dried rations and break a few open for lunch so you can get a sample before you buy.”

  “Who says I’m buying?”

  “Put them on my tab,” Georgia said. “Ellen told me about those rations, so get us two of each, and I’ll have something to write about.”

  “I hope you’re not giving up on investigative journalism,” Larry said. “I know you got off to a rough start with the Colony One thing, but your editor has to take you seriously after all the stories you’ve had published the last week.”

  “Ellen says it’s always a good idea to have some anytime stories in the bank, and food is my go-to fallback.”

  The introduction of freeze-dried meals to the trading forced Larry to start offering merchandise that he wouldn’t have just as soon given away to make space. By the time the men concluded the deal and actually rehydrated a few packets, the women had finished their stories and everybody ate lunch.

  “Where does Semmi go when she flies off like that?” Georgia asked.

  “I just hope she’s not hunting,” John said. “Aarden is pretty built-up, and I’m sure that the farmers wouldn’t take kindly to a gryphon raiding their flocks.”

  “They’ve probably never seen
one before,” Larry said. “Where are you headed next?”

  “I’ve got to return to the Borten system to follow up on some EarthCent Intelligence business, and Ellen should get a story out of it as well. By the time that wraps up, we’ll probably have to head for the Sol system so she can do her Earth Syndication Coordinator thing.”

  “So the two of you are partnering up?” Georgia asked.

  “I’m too good for him, but with my ship destroyed and the pre-owned market being in a mess, I’m kind of stuck,” Ellen said.

  “Well, it’s been a fun week, but if I don’t spend some time with my parents before they leave, my mom will kill me so dead that even a Farling doctor won’t be able to bring me back,” Larry said, rising from the table. “I’ll keep the council posted about my progress with CoSHC, John, but you’re probably the only one who will read it.”

  “And I’ve learned so much from you in just a few days,” Georgia said to Ellen. “Anytime you need another pair of feet on a story, tell Roland you want me.”

  “Will do,” Ellen said, and got up to exchange a brief hug. “Take care of yourselves.”

  John began breaking down the campsite as soon as Larry and Ellen were on their way. “Nice young couple,” he commented. “We’ll give Semmi until three-fifteen, and if she doesn’t show—”

  “We’ll wait until she does,” Ellen interrupted. “We don’t need an angry gryphon chasing us around the tunnel network. Speaking of which, do I get added to your ship controller, or are you and Semmi going to treat me like a second-class citizen?”

  “I can’t speak for the gryphon, but when it comes to adding you to the controller, it’s not going to happen.”

  Ellen’s face fell, but she affected a light tone and said, “Letting the beetle doctor rejigger my intestines so I can’t drink any more wasn’t enough for you?”