Career Night on Union Station (EarthCent Ambassador Book 15)

by E. M. Foner

  “But what about that princeling who’s always giving you a hard time, Grude. Aabina told me that—”

  “Shshhh,” all three aliens interrupted him, and the Dollnick actually reached over and clamped a hand over Samuel’s mouth.

  “Think,” Grude instructed in a low whistle that translated to a whisper. “Is it likely that a princeling would be aware of the existence of secret societies for students?”

  “Yes,” Samuel said in a soft tone when the Dollnick removed his hand. “So why would it matter?”

  “Let’s have a hypothetical discussion,” Jorb said. “Suppose there was a proud species whose leadership was concentrated in the hands of certain families of great wealth and power.”

  “With four arms,” Marilla put in.

  “And say the scion of one of those powerful families was taking courses on a multi-species university campus.”

  “Like this one,” Grude contributed.

  “Now, say there were such things as secret societies,” Jorb continued, making Drazen air-quotes around his last two words with both thumbs on each hand, “and say our hypothetical jerk wasn’t welcome in a society that he would claim as his natural right, if he was made publicly aware that it existed.”

  “He’d be furious, and nobody wins by making a wealthy and powerful hypothetical jerk angry,” Samuel said, nodding. “By keeping everything secret, you save face for the students who aren’t welcome for one reason or another. But isn’t it good training for diplomats to have to deal with difficult sentients?”

  “We’re not all diplomats,” Marilla said, “and you don’t have to come to the Open University to experience a bad working environment. The main function of the secret societies, other than sharing old competency test questions, is connecting with alumni and establishing cross-species channels of communication. Humans don’t care who they associate with, but most Hortens wouldn’t be caught dead sitting with a Drazen in public. The secret societies allow those interactions to take place.”

  “But you’re friends with Jorb,” Samuel objected.

  “We’re both friends with you and Vivian,” the Drazen corrected him. “We tolerate each other’s company because you’re here.”

  “And my little sister, Orsilla, was on ‘Let’s Make Friends’ with a Drazen,” Marilla reminded the ambassador’s son. “Hortens who want a reason to look down on my family already have one, so it gives me a sort of freedom of association.”

  “Well, that was weird,” Vivian said, taking her seat and swatting away the Drazen’s tentacle, which was reaching for her half-eaten brownie.

  “Secret society?” Samuel asked.

  “I’m not allowed to say.”

  “The Verlocks are really strict, and if it’s a secret society for spies, they probably have all sorts of extra rules,” Grude said. “Is there a handshake?”

  “Not until I pass the initiation,” Vivian replied, then realizing she had been tricked, hastened to change the subject. “Do you guys want to make some easy creds?”

  “Doing what?” Marilla asked.

  “My sister-in-law, I mean, Sam’s sister, is putting on a LARP fashion show. She’s looking for alien models for enchanted fashions, and since you guys have already met Baa, you aren’t terrified of her.”

  “I am,” Grude said, hastily taking his tray and standing up. “I’ll see you guys later.”

  “Would I have to walk like there’s something wrong with my hips or undress in front of the other models?” Marilla asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Vivian replied. “Dorothy said they’re shooting it in a holo-studio with staged combat. It won’t exactly be a LARP, but it won’t be a catwalk either.”

  “I can’t say I’m crazy about working with Baa, but it wouldn’t be fair to deprive the galaxy of this,” Jorb said, framing his face with his hands. The Horten girl made a gagging sound.

  Seventeen

  “This is definitely not in my contract,” the enraged Horten commentator shouted, his skin color shifting to a deep blue. “I won’t do it.”

  “In the absence of Stryx Jeeves, the management of SBJ Fashions has authorized me to represent their legal position,” Tzachan informed the pair of network employees. “Although I specialize in intellectual property, it’s plain to me that the sponsorship agreement commits you both to announcing any pre-LARP action featuring Baa’s Bags.”

  “In case my chameleon friend Poga isn’t getting the point across, we categorically refuse,” snarled the Drazen half of the duo. “And going by the way you’re dressed, I’d guess your legal specialty is skulking around in the woods and shooting arrows at innocent passersby.”

  The Frunge attorney’s close-cropped hair vines paled under his forest ranger hat, but he maintained his composure and shook his head sadly at the live broadcast team. “I’d hoped to settle this matter with you like gentlemen, but if you insist on ignoring your contractual obligations, I’ll have to let our design team deal with you.”

  “Getting scared yet, Bunk?” the Horten joked with his co-host. “Do you think they’ll hit us with their purses?”

  Tzachan gave the commentators a wooden smile and turned to Flazint, who was also dressed as a forest ranger. “Get Baa,” he instructed her.

  “Wait!” the Drazen cried, jumping up from his folding canvas chair. “Let’s not be so hasty.”

  “There’s no need to involve the T – T – Terr – Terragram,” Poga stuttered. “Let me see the script.”

  “I sent it to both of you two hours ago as stipulated by the agreement,” Tzachan said. “But if you accidentally removed it from the queue for your heads-up teleprompter, I’m sure Baa has—”

  “Found it,” Bunk declared, his eyes rapidly scanning a text that only he could see. “I, uh, I must have been looking at something else before. We can definitely do this.”

  “What’s a gaiter?” the Frunge inquired.

  “It’s ankle protection that fits over the shoe,” Flazint spoke up when Tzachan nudged her.

  “Iridescent?” the Drazen asked.

  “Something that changes color when the light catches it, like the inside of a seashell,” the girl told them.

  “Raglan?” Bunk squinted and scratched his head with his tentacle.

  “It’s when the sleeve goes all the way to the shoulder without a seam,” Flazint told them, basking in the admiring gaze of her fellow Frunge.

  “And a knife pleat is a kind of hidden scabbard,” the Horten bluffed.

  “No, it’s a sharp fold, usually when there’s a bunch of them together, like a fan.”

  “So why don’t you call it a fan-fold?”

  “Knife pleat sells better.”

  “We’ll be fine,” the Drazen asserted, though his expression failed to confirm his words. “We’ve got five minutes to nail this down, Poga. It’ll be just like the old days when they were adding all of those Human-derived monsters nobody ever heard of to the LARPs and we had to wing it.”

  “I don’t think I can read this line without getting in trouble at home,” Poga objected. “What kind of woman would consent to wearing a yoke?”

  “It’s not a plow yoke,” Flazint said, suppressing her laughter at the Horten’s skin color shift to bright yellow, which showed how nervous he was at the thought of getting on the wrong side of the females in his family. “It’s what we call the neckline of a dress, front and back. Baa likes to wear a usekh broad collar. I make them out of precious metals.”

  The two commentators exchanged a quick look. “Anything that’s fine by Baa is fine by us,” Bunk said. “You just make sure that your models are ready to go because we can’t delay the actual starting time of the LARP broadcast for a fashion show.”

  “Unless Baa wants us to,” Poga added.

  “Right,” the Drazen confirmed. “Uh, when is Stryx Jeeves getting back to the station?”

  “He doesn’t keep me informed of his plans,” Tzachan replied. “Oh, and our band didn’t bring an engineer so I hope your gu
ys can mix them.”

  Bunk opened his mouth to protest, but the Horten was faster, saying, “Absolutely. No problem. Tell Baa we’re happy to cooperate.”

  “I think that went well,” Tzachan murmured to Flazint as the Frunge couple made their way back to the dressing room. “I wonder if Baa would be available to sit with me in court next time I have a tricky case.”

  “Jeeves made her promise not to intimidate anybody on the station,” Flazint said. “Of course, if she doesn’t know…”

  “I’m glad you’re adjusting to her presence. I remember how uncomfortable you used to be sharing an office with her.”

  “Seeing Baa struggle to open some of the puzzle clasps I use on our bespoke bags made her a little less scary. And she’s kind of pathetic about a mage guy,” the Frunge girl concluded in a whisper as they entered the backstage area.

  “Final inspection,” Dorothy shouted, waving the tab with her checklist. “Everybody line up in the order you’re going out. We only have five minutes from when Mornich and his band start playing the accompaniment to get through this.”

  “How am I supposed to slay a troll by myself in under twenty seconds?” Affie’s boyfriend complained. “Last time we went after one, I was with a half-dozen barbarian warriors and I still got killed.”

  “Just duck under his club and lunge,” Dorothy told the Vergallian. “Chance and Thomas choreographed all of the action and your opponents are going to crumple up and die even if you barely touch them. It’s a fashion show, not combat.”

  “Are these slits supposed to come up this high?” Marilla asked.

  “They’re vents, and it’s a pencil skirt. You wouldn’t be able to move without them,” the ambassador’s daughter informed her. “You. The handsome Drazen who hangs out with my brother. What’s your name?”

  “Jorb.”

  “The strap goes over your shoulder, not around your waist.”

  “But it will look like a purse!”

  “It’s a man’s bag-of-holding. Trust me. If you wear it around your waist, it makes you look like a Horten message carrier.”

  Jorb almost broke the buckle in his haste to get the purse off his waist and sling it around his neck.

  A large bunny leaned in through the passageway from the holo-stage and shouted, “Two minutes.”

  “You guys ready?” Dorothy asked Samuel and Vivian as she reached the front of the line. “I’m counting on a big opening.”

  “Block, twirl and stalk,” her brother said. “Piece of cake.”

  “I still think I should go out first,” Baa called from the final spot in the single file of models. “I’m the one who enchanted everything.”

  “The auteur always goes on last,” Dorothy told her for the fourth time that day. “It’s an honor. If you went first, everybody would think you were just a model. No offense, models.”

  “One minute,” the Grenouthian shouted, and from the stage area, a bass line began thumping.

  “Remember. Don’t look at the immersive cameras and try to act like it’s all a great big bore. I want the watchers to think you’ve been killing monsters since you left the cradle, and whatever you do, don’t forget to put any dropped loot in your bags. Why are we here?”

  “Baa’s Bags,” the models replied dutifully.

  “I can’t hear you,” Dorothy shouted back, and she really couldn’t hear them with Mornich’s band cranking up their instrumental. “Who’s paying you?”

  “BAA’S BAGS,” the models all shouted.

  “Now get out there and kill them,” Dorothy instructed. She pointed dramatically at the entry to the holo-stage just as the bunny leaned back in and began a five-second countdown.

  Vivian reached over with her left hand and took Samuel’s right hand, and as the bunny folded down his last finger at zero, the couple strode out into the bright lights.

  “I don’t know about you, Poga, but there’s nothing I hate worse than getting pin-cushioned by pesky projectiles fired out of concealment,” the Drazen commentator read from his script as the sound engineer frantically sought the right mic level to mix over the loud music for the home audience.

  Right on cue, a cloud of arrows streaked towards the young couple. Samuel and Vivian raised their travel cloaks to deflect the projectiles, then twirled to show off the full expanse of the fabric, revealing at the same time the matching bags-of-holding worn crossways across their chests. With no loot to gather, they immediately spun about and stalked towards the exit.

  “And nothing offers better protection against acid-spitting monsters than an enchanted unitard,” Poga read from the script as Chance strode onto the stage in a skin-tight garment that covered her whole body, from the ankles to the wrists.

  An enormous holographic toad suddenly appeared and spat a stream of bright green fluid at the artificial person. Rather than dodging, she launched herself directly into the liquid attack and skewered the giant amphibian with her sword, causing it to disappear in a puff of smoke. Chance scooped up the nugget of gold her vanquished enemy left behind, making sure to flash the Baa’s Bags tag at the immersive cameras as she stored the treasure in her purse. Then she moved off stage in time with the beat.

  “And the four-feather bag-of-holding sported by our Horten assassin gives her a place to stash the loot,” Bunk read, as Marilla came onto the stage and plunged two daggers in the back of an unsuspecting barbarian warrior. She paused to pick up the broadsword her victim had dropped after vanishing, and fed the blade into her tiny evening bag, which swallowed the weapon like a circus performer.

  “I don’t know about you, Bunk, but I’m not going to be the first one to tell that berserker that he’s wearing a purse,” Poga said, slipping into his standard color-commentator role before recalling the script. “And those, uh, welt pockets disguise the carrying capacity of his jerkin, and double as holders for throwing knives.”

  A spider the size of a horse charged Jorb. He started the swing of his battle axe from low behind his back, and rising on his toes, brought it around through a glittering arc and sank the head into the super-sized arachnid’s body. The spider vanished with a screech that fit right in with the band’s instrumental. Jorb recovered the dropped fangs and poison sack and stuffed them in his purse with a look of disdain, as if the loot was below his notice.

  “What LARPing expedition would be complete without a troll?” Bunk read as Stick came on stage and charged the hulking creature, which nearly took the Vergallian’s head off with its club. “Nice sword thrust, but it’s an even nicer backpack. I’ll bet that tree the troll was waving around won’t weigh more than a spare water bottle once that three-feather weight reduction hits.”

  “A really big water bottle,” the Horten ad-libbed.

  Flazint and Tzachan were out next, and for variety, Dorothy had staged it so that her Frunge friend had the attorney’s backpack stashed in her purse. Tzachan only needed one well-placed arrow to bring down a charging beast that looked like somebody’s nightmare, and as he gathered the heavy hide dropped by the creature, Flazint pulled his large backpack from her tiny bag and held it open for him while he stuffed in the loot. Spinning the pack to present the four feathers to the front camera, she lifted it easily by the straps while Tzachan slid into them. Then the couple walked off stage hip-to-hip, appreciably closer than a trained Frunge chaperone would have allowed.

  “Raglan sleeves and an iridescent buckler complement the no-nonsense bag of our duelist,” Poga read as Judith marched out, her rapier held loosely in one hand as she scanned the studio area for her opponent. A spherical creature displaying no teeth or claws rolled up to her and waited for its death blow.

  “Looks like we have a new monster as well,” the Drazen commentator said. “I’ll bet it’s one of those magical creatures that drains your life force if you let it come too close.”

  “Maybe it’s iridescent too,” the Horten suggested.

  Judith sighed when she realized her supposed opponent wasn’t going to fight, so sh
e took out her frustration on the fur ball, running it through with her sword. When the puff of holographic smoke cleared, a jeweled tiara was left floating conveniently at waist height, no doubt to save her the effort of bending over to pick it up. She stuffed the loot in an oversized bag that could easily hold a day’s supply of diapers, and strode off the stage with a look of disgust.

  The Drazen commentator stumbled over the cap sleeves on Affie’s tunic, and Poga, who like most Horten males had an eye for high-caste Vergallians, got the color of her purse wrong because he was staring at something else. The wasp-waisted designer let her royal training show when she sliced and diced a holographic cobra into snake sushi. The departed serpent left behind a ring of dexterity, which Affie scooped up on the point of her thin blade and deposited in her fashionable handbag.

  “Amateurs,” Thomas grumbled to himself as the announcers missed his entry because their eyes were following Affie as she strutted off. He twirled his halberd like a baton, and then dispatched the diving wyvern, which impaled itself on the spear tip.

  “Uh, jouy print,” Poga said, having lost his place in the script. “I mean, a dismounted dragon-rider is always a target for lesser flying critters, but check out those saddlebags he’s carrying.”

  “And enchanted gaiters to reduce chafing from that tough dragon hide,” the Drazen contributed.

  Thomas recovered a large golden chain dropped by his departed adversary and fed it into the enchanted saddlebag that fell across his chest. Then he moved off towards the exit, but stopped on his designated mark as Baa strode onto the stage.

  “And here’s the enchanter of Baa’s Bags, the Terragram mage who has honored us with her presence,” the Drazen concluded dramatically.

  “She’s wearing a jouy print that details scenes from her prior conquests, and that’s a five feather bag she’s carrying. I’ll bet she could fit a whole Stryx station in there,” the Horten said, going off-script again in his eagerness to please.