by E. M. Foner
“I still don’t get it,” Bob said.
“I’m not entirely convinced it’s such a great scheme myself,” Walter admitted. “But I do like the idea of press coverage focusing on a living biography of each candidate, rather than reporting on every speech or trying to control the process with gotcha questions. I haven’t spent as much time looking into Horten politics as our publisher, but from what I can see, they end up electing technocrats rather than actors.”
“What’s wrong with actors?” a reporter demanded.
“I didn’t mean to denigrate the thespian profession,” Walter said, eliciting a groan from the reporter who had complained about the crossword puzzle vocabulary. “I meant it in the sense of individuals who can win support based on their performance skills and appearance. The Horten coverage concentrates on researching and analyzing candidate biographies, including full financial disclosure, work history, military and academic records. So the voters choose candidates based on their past performance, and the simulated battle selects the group who are best at working together with the resources they have. It also helps eliminate the older figure-head candidates who no longer perform at a high level.”
“In any case, we want to start creating an election book for humans,” Chastity said, cutting short the debate. “I’m sure most of you already keep notes on all of the public figures on your beats, so the first phase is simply to formalize that process and create a central database. We don’t expect you to drop everything to work on this.”
“So you want us to write biographies of promising public individuals?” Penelope asked.
“We designed a standard form, starting with the same template as the Horten election commission biographies, and then we brought in some experts to tweak it for humanity,” Chastity continued. “It’s almost a shame that we can’t read each other’s emotions through changes in skin color like the Hortens, but they do say that losing the ability to lie almost destroyed them.”
“It can’t hurt to have the basics on file for business leaders, sports figures, entertainers and famous people in general,” Walter added. “Politicians have to start somewhere, and being known is a serious advantage. We’re also planning an expanded obituary section, so having the data ready to go is a big help.”
“Doesn’t EarthCent Intelligence have all this information already?” a voice called out.
“They’re focused on aliens,” Chastity replied. “As far as I know, the only humans they try to keep tabs on are their agents.”
“And it’s all going to be public record?” another reporter asked. “Anybody who wants to access this information will be able to get it?”
“Only if they have a full Galactic Free Press subscription,” Walter said. “When humans start holding more elections, we’ll release any relevant information we have on the candidates standing for office as a free guide. But you have to remember that the back office services provided by the Stryx cost money, so we aren’t going to turn the newspaper’s database into a 24/7 resource for anybody who feels like checking up on their neighbors.”
“Not to mention marketers,” Chastity added.
“The station librarian is rolling out the new form to your reporter tabs as we speak,” Walter said. “Next time you power up your tab and connect to Stryxnet it should be there.”
All around the room, reporters whipped out their tabs and checked for updates.
“Finding your ideal match?” Katy asked incredulously. “I thought you said we aren’t getting into the personals business.”
“Libby?” Chastity called out in annoyance. “Did you outsource the conversion job?”
“I asked Jeeves to take care of it,” the Stryx librarian admitted. “I guess the form title is his idea of a joke.”
“We adapted the form to the database fields used by the Eemas dating service to get a discount on the station librarian’s back office services,” Chastity admitted to her reporters. “Besides, there’s nothing wrong with getting the basic information like height and eye color on the record.”
“Would the candidate rather eat dinner in a fancy restaurant or enjoy a cozy meal at home?” Bob read out loud from his tab.
“It appears that rather than incorporating your hard work, Jeeves simply replaced every instance of ‘Would you,’ with ‘Would the candidate,’ in our standard questionnaire,” Libby said apologetically. “I just sent an updated version reflecting the changes you actually asked for, and it will be available by the time I finish speaking.”
Fourteen
“I’m not real sure about this,” Joe admitted to Woojin, as a crowd of aliens began forming a line in front of the folding table the two men had just carried out to the training area in Mac’s Bones. “Given our partnership with Drazen Intelligence, I can see hiring some of their under-employed actors to make our training more realistic, but it looks like every alien on the station showed up for the casting call.”
“It’s above my pay grade,” Woojin replied complacently. “From what I heard, when Clive brought the idea up with Hert at the President’s reception, the Horten military attaché just happened to be standing where he could listen in. Ten minutes later, Ambassador Ortha met with the president and demanded to know why the Horten reenactors weren’t invited to the auditions.”
“I don’t understand why Horten reenactors are so keen on working for EarthCent Intelligence. Last thing I knew, they all looked down on humans as being Stryx pets.”
“According to Bork, some of the Hortens are hard up for enough hours to keep their union cards active. Besides, alien attitudes towards humans have been shifting rapidly in the last few years. I think they’re finally getting used to us.”
“That explains why the Horten Stage Actors Guild is demanding that I register Mac’s Bones as an official performance venue, but who invited all of these other aliens? If I didn’t know better, I’d say that the nervous-looking fellow in the yellow beret there is the Vergallian undercover agent who Beowulf sniffed out on our first day of training camp.”
“You should ask him.”
“Beowulf? It happened before he was reincarnated and I don’t know if those memories carried over.”
“I meant the Vergallian.”
“It’s a thought. But doesn’t Clive realize that some of these aliens will be equipped with in-eye recorders so that all of the agents they come in contact with will immediately be blown for undercover work?”
“When did we start sending agents to alien worlds on undercover missions?” Woojin asked, shooting his friend a skeptical look. “Besides, Clive initially plans to try the alien trainers on the newspaper correspondents who actually have a more immediate need. He and Blythe both take the long view, so they want to see EarthCent Intelligence build the internal expertise for our own people to play the part of aliens for training purposes at some point in the future. We’ve been relying on holograms and Shuk outings for all of our alien environment training, and since the recruits know that they’re dealing with 3-D images and market vendors, it’s not that realistic.”
“I just wonder if we can trust some of these aliens,” Joe reiterated. “Imagine a reporter on a Dollnick world asking for directions to a press conference if a Dolly actor intentionally taught him all the wrong words.”
“Our own implants will know the difference,” Woojin pointed out. “What we’re looking for isn’t that different from what a commercial traveler might get out of a one-week immersive language and culture course. And it’s just an experiment at this phase.”
“You and I picked up enough Vergallian to get by in a slum, but I never could have become fluent. I used to think that human hearing wasn’t capable of registering the fine tonal variations that can change the meanings of the words completely around, but Samuel seems to have a gift for it.”
“I try Vergallian on him from time to time and he never misses a beat,” Woojin said. “He must practice with his Stryx friend, Banger, because it seems to me he started speaking like a nat
ive at some point after Alia left.”
“She was a sweet kid.” Joe glanced sadly at the ceiling of Mac’s Bones, as if he were replaying her departure in his head. Then he set his empty coffee mug on the folding table and checked the time on his heads-up display. “We’re open for business in two minutes, but I still wish I knew how the auditions expanded beyond Drazens and Hortens.”
“I’ll bet the alien performance artists have their own subculture, just like mercenaries,” Woojin said. “We never had much competition for cannon fodder jobs, but when it came to a punitive expedition against a rich pirate stronghold or off-network actions with a chance for prize money, all of a sudden every alien mercenary in the sector would be there to sign the rolls.”
“True enough. Here comes Thomas, so we may as well get started.”
“Great turnout,” the artificial person said, approaching the pair of ex-mercenaries behind the table. “Where’s Lynx?”
“Security detail for the president and first mistress,” Woojin replied. “She’s not even armed, but some alien cultures won’t take a leader seriously unless he has some staff in tow.”
“Has Chance turned up yet?” Thomas continued.
“I haven’t seen her,” Joe said. “Have you tried a ping?”
“Do you ping Kelly when she’s running late?”
“I have Libby do it for me,” Joe admitted. “Kelly’s not as sensitive about reminders from the Stryx.”
“Here she comes now, Thomas, with the ambassador, Samuel and Beowulf in tow,” Woojin said. “Chance must have stopped in to invite them.” Beowulf and Samuel veered off to inspect the line of aliens, while Chance and Kelly joined the men at the table.
“This reminds me of the Carnival try-outs,” Kelly observed, “except they aren’t throwing things and they’re much better behaved. Who got them to form a line like that?”
“They did it themselves,” Joe replied. “I guess it’s not a first casting call for any of them.”
“I’m ready to get started,” Chance said. “I worked up a few basic scripts in all the standard languages to see how well they interact with me in realistic encounters.”
“What exactly are you looking for?” Kelly asked.
“Some alien acting traditions are intentionally artificial,” Chance replied, raising her voice so that the applicants could hear her. “For example, Verlock actors would never consider working without their traditional masks made from compressed volcanic ash, and Farlings only give vocal performances from behind a screen. We’re looking for trainers who can work naturalistically with a human partner using simple training scripts. It’s not dramatic work.”
A number of disappointed Verlocks and a giant beetle stepped out of the queue, but well over fifty aliens remained. Chance gave the culled species a minute to say goodbye to the acquaintances whom they only met at open casting calls, and then she turned to the first actor in line.
“Language?”
“Vergallian.”
Chance called up the appropriate script and handed her tab to the actor. Joe nodded to Woojin and both men flipped the mental switch to turn off their translation implants. Joe assumed that Chance was fluent in a number of alien languages thanks to her secret agent upgrade from QuickU, but it would be interesting to see how well the artificial person actually spoke it. The boy and the dog returned from inspecting the aliens just in time for the first audition.
Chance put on an ingratiating smile and spoke her part in Vergallian from memory. “I’m here on assignment for the Galactic Free Press to cover the ballroom dancing championships.”
“Do you have press credentials?” the Vergallian read from the tab.
“I’m Chance. My name is on the list.”
“I can’t find your name here,” the Vergallian responded, looking rather blank. “Is it possible you put the pass in your change purse and got it mixed in with your creds?”
“Thank you,” Chance said. “Give your details to Thomas and we’ll be in touch. Next?”
The Vergallian’s shoulders slumped at the brisk dismissal, but it was all in a day’s work for an unemployed actor.
“Why did she stop him?” Samuel asked his father. “He speaks almost as well as a real Vergallian.”
“What?” Joe said, turning towards his son. “He’s not Vergallian?”
“I think he’s human,” the boy said. “I guess he could be some other species, but definitely not Vergallian. Couldn’t you tell?”
“Why are you trying to pass as Vergallian?” Joe demanded of the disappointed actor in English.
“I haven’t had a good audition since I arrived on Union Station and I’m getting desperate,” the man admitted. “Nobody is hiring human actors, and I grew up in Vergallian space so I thought I’d give it a shot.”
“Why don’t you apply to EarthCent Intelligence for an analyst job?” Thomas asked him. “We can always use people who understand alien languages without implants.”
“I’m an actor,” Donald said indignantly, straightening himself up. Then his shoulders sagged again. “How’s the pay?”
While Thomas explained the employment conditions of EarthCent Intelligence to the man, Chance selected the script for the next actor in line, a towering Dollnick.
“What are you doing here, little human?” the Dollnick demanded. Joe heard the line as a series of whistles and bird calls and realized he hadn’t turned his translation implant back on.
“I was looking for the prince’s summer pavilion, but I seem to have gotten lost,” Chance trilled and tweeted back.
“You’ll never find your way without help,” the Dollnick asserted, working himself up into a rage. “How much money do you have?”
“Excellent,” Chance said, retrieving the tab. “Give your details to Thomas and I’m sure we’ll be in touch. Next?”
A pale yellow Horten stepped forward and presented the artificial person with an aluminum wafer the approximate size of a business card.
“What’s this?” Chance asked.
“My chit,” the Horten explained. “You have to register that I showed up for the audition or I could lose my actively-seeking-work allowance from the Guild.”
“Don’t you want to wait to find out if you got the job first?” Kelly asked.
“I never get the job,” the Horten replied dolefully. “They always say I look too nervous.”
“We’re fine with your color,” Chance told him. “Most Hortens turn at least a little yellow when talking to humans in any case.”
“Really?” The Horten immediately turned pink with joy and pocketed his chit. “Where’s my script?”
Chance punched up the Horten script and handed over her tab. “You have the first line.”
The Horten’s lips moved silently as he read through the script to himself. He turned yellow with white spots as he got into character and his expression became dour. Finally, he placed the tab on the table and confronted Chance aggressively.
“Stop right there,” he said. “No dogs or Humans allowed.”
Beowulf let out a rumbling growl and rose to his feet, his shoulders coming up to the same level as Samuel’s.
“Okay, we’ll take the dog but not the Humans,” the actor ad-libbed.
“But we have a reservation on this shuttle for Horten Eight,” Chance replied in fluent Horten. “Our team is here to cover the gaming tourney.”
“What do Humans know about gaming,” the Horten replied scornfully. “Run on home to your Stryx and get the news off the Grenouthian network!”
“That was perfect,” Chance said, picking up the tab. “Give your information to Thomas and we really will be in contact. Next.”
A young Drazen male leaned on the table and leered at Chance. “Hey, baby. Looking good. If the gig involves playing with you, I’ll take it
“First we have to see if you’re up to the challenge,” Chance responded with a saucy grin. She pulled up the appropriate script on her tab. “I’ve met plenty of Drazens who talke
d like big men, but when push came to shove, they could barely read a menu.”
“That’s because we eat everything,” the alien retorted, but after taking the tab, his face fell. “Why’d you write the script in High Drazen?”
“You don’t speak High Drazen?”
“Of course I can speak it, but I haven’t ever seen the need to learn the musical notation in order to read it. It’s only used by news commentators, diplomats, people like that. When I’ve played aristocrats in daytime immersives, the High Drazen is always transliterated for the scripts.”
“I can read it,” the female Drazen behind him spoke up. “We all do. The boys don’t pay attention in school.”
“We were really looking for actors capable of playing a wide range of roles, including diplomats and officials,” Chance said to the young male.
“I told you I can speak it fine. Hey, how about writing it out for me phonetically,” he continued, turning his charms on the Drazen female.
“Do you have a quota for the number of Drazens you’re hiring?” the female asked Chance.
“Yes, but we definitely want to split it between males and females,” the artificial person replied.
“Alright. Let me go first and see if you can remember the lines,” the female told the male. He handed her the tab and moved grudgingly aside.
“Ready?” Chance asked. Receiving a nod, she continued with her lines from memory, “Is this drink safe for humans?”
“Will you be taking it internally or externally?” the female read.
“Neither.”
The Drazen woman erupted in musical laughter and turned away for a moment to regain her composure. “I’m sorry, can I go again? The idea of a human wanting to buy a Divverflip is just too funny.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Chance said, winking at Thomas. The two artificial people still had difficulty understanding why humans went to such lengths distilling alcoholic beverages that they couldn’t enjoy without watering down. “Is this drink safe for humans?” she started over again.