Word Night on Union Station (EarthCent Ambassador Book 9)

by E. M. Foner

  “Will you be taking it internally or externally?”

  “Neither. I was hoping it would dissolve the scale in my coffee maker,” Chance replied.

  “I’m sure if you boil a couple pots of water afterwards it will be fine,” the Drazen woman asserted, before going off script again “Is that a poison sensor ring you’re wearing? It’s very tasteful.”

  “I like yours too. If you add your contact info to my tab, I’ll ping you later with the job details.”

  “Can I go now?” the Drazen male interrupted. “If you chicks keep chatting, I’m going to forget my lines.”

  Chance accepted her tab back from the female and turned to the male. “Is this drink safe for humans?”

  “Will you be taking it internally or externally?” the Drazen male asked.

  “Thank you,” Chance said in Drazen. “Give your contact information to Thomas and we’ll be in touch. Next?”

  The Drazen opened his mouth again to protest, then thought better of exposing himself to further humiliation and moved sulkily away. Chance extended her tab to an open space in front of the table, where it seemed to levitate.

  “How did you do that?” Samuel asked.

  “Please turn off your invisibility projector so the humans can see you,” Chance told the floating tab. A cheerful Chert materialized in front of the table. “Are you sure you’ll be comfortable interacting with people while visible?”

  “I’m fine with it,” the humanoid replied. “But I heard that you were looking for actors to help your secret agents cope with stressful situations involving other species. If I was training Humans to keep their heads around Cherts, I’d want them to practice talking to empty space.”

  “That’s a good point,” Thomas interjected. “But then, what do we need to pay you for?”

  “Oh,” the Chert replied, and vanished.

  Chance retrieved her floating tab and called, “Next.”

  “I hope you don’t discriminate against AI,” said a large cylinder on wheels.

  “No, of course not,” Chance reassured the bulky robot. “I have a script for AI right here.”

  A pincer extended from a slot in the robot’s casing to take the tab, and Beowulf gave a sharp bark.

  “That’s his Jeeves bark,” Samuel cried.

  “Jeeves?” Kelly asked. “Are you in there?”

  A ghostly pair of eyes appeared on the cylinder and shot the dog a disgusted look. Then the metallic shell split apart revealing Jeeves. The Stryx rapidly crumpled the metal halves of the cylinder into a small ball using manipulator fields, and then tossed it to the other side of the training grounds. Beowulf took off in pursuit.

  “Is he going to hurt his teeth on that?” Joe asked.

  “I do it all with holographic projections, he’s more likely to bite his tongue,” the mischievous Stryx replied. “I can use the same technique to impersonate any AI you can imagine. I’m sure your hiring practices don’t discriminate against artificial intelligence.”

  “Actually, I’ll be disappointed if we can’t find any alien AI to work with,” Chance said, extending her tab to Jeeves. “Shall we do the first encounter scenario?”

  “Right,” Jeeves replied, floating a little higher and giving himself a half-spin to settle into his role. Then he proclaimed in an artificial voice, “Prepare to die, biological scum.”

  “But I’m from Earth and we’re a Stryx protectorate,” the artificial person protested. “I’m also friends with the great and powerful Jeeves, and if you—hey, stop sticking lines in my memory, you Stryx creep! Give me back my tab. You just failed the audition. Next.”

  “Go easy, Chance,” Thomas protested. “He’s just having a bit of fun. I’ll bet he’ll work really cheap.”

  “That’s right,” Jeeves declared, reluctantly handing back the tab. “And I’m not a union member so you can abuse me.”

  “I’ll bring it up with Blythe and Clive,” Chance said, though her tone made it clear that she intended to forget. “Now move aside and let the aliens who really need the work have their chance. Next?”

  Fifteen

  Affie came to an abrupt halt and regarded Dorothy with pity, as if the girl had admitted she could neither read nor write. “You’ve never been in a fitting room?”

  “I’ve tried things on in a boutique,” Dorothy replied defensively. “They have sizes based on your height, weight and measurements, but it doesn’t make much sense.”

  “Tried things on?” the Vergallian asked incredulously. “As in, you take off your own clothes and then put on something that a hundred other people have worn?”

  “Not a hundred, I don’t think. And it’s kind of fun since I only go with my Mom or with Chance. She’s got great taste.”

  “So whoever you go with tells you if the dress fits?”

  “Well, they have mirrors, too.”

  “Mirrors?” Affie shook her head. “I knew you guys were a bit slow on the technical front but I didn’t think it was that bad.”

  “Well, how does everybody else do it, then? Why hasn’t it even come up in my Open University design courses?”

  “Did you count on your fingers when you were a little girl?”

  “Of course. Well, my friend Metoo said it wasn’t fair since he didn’t really have fingers, so I learned to count in my head,” Dorothy explained.

  “And do you see anybody counting on their fingers in the Open University?”

  “Do you mean that all the other species know about fitting rooms from childhood?”

  “Exactly,” Affie said, steering Dorothy into a side alley of the upscale retail section on one of the Vergallian decks. There she stopped and took a last critical look at the human girl’s face. “If it wasn’t for the red hair, you could almost pass, you know. A little shadowing would bring out your cheekbones and hide some minor asymmetries.”

  “Pass as Vergallian?”

  “For a couple years, maybe, until your skin begins to age,” Affie said matter-of-factly. “I asked the station librarian about your biology and it was a little shocking.”

  “How old are you, Affie?” Dorothy asked, suddenly curious.

  “In your years, forty-two,” the girl replied.

  “That’s more than twice as old as me!”

  “You have to look at it in relative terms. You’re old enough to get married, but I won’t be able to have children for at least another ten years or so. We just age and mature at different rates.” The Vergallian girl looked around as if she was searching for something. “I would have sworn there was an avatar parlor around here somewhere.”

  “I thought we were going to a fashion outlet to try things on.”

  “That was before you said you’ve never been to a fitting room. We need to get your avatar first.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Another you, for the fitting,” Affie said in exasperation at her friend’s thick-headedness. “There it is, let’s go.” She led Dorothy into a narrow shop lined with doors. The waiting customers were all Vergallians, some mothers with children, but mainly adolescents.

  “This is embarrassing,” Dorothy muttered. “They’re all kids.”

  “It’s just that you have to come in a lot more often when you’re growing,” Affie explained. “I haven’t needed a new avatar in years. Look, the self-service one is open.”

  “But I don’t know what I’m doing,” Dorothy protested.

  “It’s easy, the attendants are really just there to help with complicated clothes, the kind your maid helps you remove.” She lowered her voice. “Not that the customers here can afford servants, but it’s a cheap way to pretend.”

  “I have to take my clothes off?”

  “Unless you’re shopping for dresses to wear over what you have on now, it would be a good idea.” Affie opened the self-service door, deposited a one-cred coin in the slot, and pushed Dorothy in. “Just strip down and do what the voice tells you to do. It only takes a couple of minutes.”

  “Everyth
ing?” Dorothy squeaked, as Affie began closing the door.

  “Don’t be a baby. You can keep your undergarments on if you don’t expect to do any lingerie shopping,” she added, seeing Dorothy’s obvious discomfort. “I’ll guard the door.”

  The room was long and narrow, with a series of rails running along the walls and ceiling. There was a small bench to her left and a number of hooks with clothes hangers on the back of the door.

  “Please remove your clothes,” a voice intoned in Vergallian. “Three minutes to avatar construction.”

  “Libby?” Dorothy subvoced. “Is it safe in here?”

  “I have no records of any accidents taking place in an avatar parlor,” the station librarian replied.

  “I mean, will my pictures be kept private?”

  “No images will be created. The parlor uses low-power lasers to take your active measurements for creation of an avatar. It’s just a large set of numbers and vectors and you retain sole ownership.”

  “But couldn’t they be used to create holographic images?”

  “As long as you only use your avatar crystal in certified fitting rooms, the transferred data is restricted to temporary memory. Fitting rooms are a big business for Horten manufacturers and they take the security very seriously.”

  “Two minutes to avatar construction,” the room announced.

  “Thanks for reminding me,” Dorothy said sarcastically, but she stripped rapidly to her underwear, thankful she was wearing sandals and not laced boots.

  “Please walk towards the green light,” the voice said, just seconds after she finished disrobing.

  “This better not hurt,” Dorothy grumbled, walking down the track. A veritable battery of moving lasers painted her from head to toe at every possible angle, reminding her of a scene from an old movie of a ground vehicle on Earth going through an automated car wash. When she reached the end of the short runway, the voice began issuing a series of rapid-fire commands.

  “Touch the red lights to your sides, now reach for the blue lights above your head. Sequence fail. Touch the red lights to your sides, now reach for the blue lights above your head. Second sequence fail. The Vergallian Clothiers Guild requires that you be notified that three sequence failures in a row results in avatar construction termination without a refund. Touch the red lights to your sides, now reach for the blue lights above your head. Thank you. Walk towards the green light above the entry door. Thank you. Place your right foot on the bench. Exchange your right foot for your left foot. Sequence fail.”

  “But I didn’t understand the instruction,” Dorothy protested.

  “Place your right foot on the bench,” the voice continued. This time, Dorothy didn’t hesitate in taking her right foot down and putting her left foot up. “Touch your toes. Stand up straight. Lunge to your left. Lunge to your right. Crouch. Spin to your right. Your other right. Spin to your left. Jump. Higher. This construction session is completed. You have three minutes to dress. Thank you for your business.”

  Dorothy hurriedly pulled her clothes back on and was slipping into her sandals just as the buzzer sounded. She opened the door and stepped out of the avatar booth, feeling a sudden chill.

  “You’re all red,” Affie exclaimed, looking concerned. “Do you have a skin allergy to lasers? I’m so sorry I dragged you here.”

  “I’m just embarrassed,” Dorothy admitted, feeling somehow better that she had given Affie a shock. “I’ve never paraded around in my underwear for a disembodied voice before. Was all that bending and stretching really necessary?”

  “You want your clothes to fit while you’re moving, don’t you?”

  There was a clattering sound like a pebble tumbling down a rainspout, and a small, transparent cube rattled into the catch basin under the coin slot. Dorothy retrieved the avatar crystal and squinted at it, as if to make sure there wasn’t a visible image of her trapped inside.

  “What do I do with it now?” the ambassador’s daughter asked her Vergallian friend.

  “Now we shop,” Affie declared, linking arms with Dorothy and leading her back out into the corridor. “This whole section is women’s clothing stores, including accessories and shoes. But now that you have an avatar, you’ll want to see a real dress in a shop with a fitting room.”

  “Nothing too expensive,” Dorothy reminded her.

  “How much can you spend?”

  “Maybe fifty creds?” the girl replied tentatively. She arrived at this figure by adding the emergency twenty-cred coin her mother insisted she keep as a reserve to the current cash value of the programmable cred piece through which the Stryx paid her for working at the lost-and-found. Affie guided her through a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn and then headed in the opposite direction, away from the main corridor.

  “I know a place that gets the latest fashions from the Empire but at Dollnick knock-off prices. You can never be sure when they’re open though, because they get raided from time to time.”

  A harried-looking Vergallian male approached the friends as they entered his shop and he addressed Affie politely. “Are you shopping for yourself or your servant?”

  “Both, and she’s my friend, not my servant,” Affie replied, using the inflection on the Vergallian word for ‘friend’ that indicated a relatively new relationship with a fellow student who was perceived as a social equal.

  The shop owner hid his surprise and spoke directly to Dorothy. “Are you looking for something in particular today?”

  “Affie said that you carry the latest Empire styles, and I was hoping there might be something that suits me,” Dorothy replied. “I’m also doing field research for my work in fashion design at the Open University.”

  “Do you mean a sort of an investigation?” the man asked nervously. He backed up a few steps and pulled a small device that looked like some sort of controller from his pocket.

  “Just relax,” Affie said. “My friend isn’t an undercover agent for the fashion police. She just got her first avatar,” the Vergallian girl continued, trying to put the shop keeper at ease. “Humans usually try things on until they find something that fits.”

  “This is a prank, right?” the man said, peering out the front of the shop to see if an immersive crew from one of the candid camera shows was lurking. “It’s really her first avatar?” The girls nodded solemnly. “Then I shall have the honor of selling the young, ah, sentient, the first dress she’s ever owned that fits.”

  “Is there an open fitting room?” Affie prompted him.

  “Certainly,” the man replied. “Do you wish to browse the floor inventory before entering or will you choose from the catalog.”

  “I think we’ll go with the catalog today,” Affie said.

  The salesman led the girls to a blank sheet of black, wall-height glass, and made a lifting gesture. The glass shot up into the ceiling, and the girls entered a small room with a Vergallian-style sofa against one wall and an articulated metal arm with a device resembling a mini-register sticking up from the floor. After Dorothy and Affie took their seats, the man made another gesture, bringing a holographic catalog into existence.

  “Items with a blue star aren’t currently in stock but can be imported within a quarter-cycle. Just slot your crystals into the receptacle and you can get started.” He remained long enough to see Affie slot her crystal into the device on the floor-mount. The black glass wall reappeared as soon as the man stepped out of the fitting room.

  “Just put in your crystal and say your name,” Affie encouraged Dorothy. “It’s just so the fitting room can tell who’s who.”

  “Uh, Dorothy,” the human girl said, putting her new crystal into the device. “What now?”

  “Pick something you like from the catalog,” Affie said. “Touch the image and say your name, or advance to the next collection with a gesture, like this.” She swiped at the curved hologram like she was spinning a prayer wheel, and a new set of dresses on unbelievably perfect Vergallian models rotated into view.

 
; “It’s intimidating,” Dorothy complained. “They’re all so beautiful.”

  “They’re professionals. A lot of daughters from the high-caste families do modeling before they get married. I tried it for a couple cycles, but it was exhausting, and the old duchess who owned the agency kept hinting that I should lose some weight.”

  “That’s crazy. You’re like a size zero already.”

  “How can anybody be a size zero? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I looked it up a couple years ago. After they established a system on Earth where the smaller numbers were supposed to be better, they changed the scale every decade so that the skinniest women could claim a smaller and smaller size. After zero, they went to double-zero, and then they started multiplying by the square-root of negative one and calling them ‘imaginary sizes.” The whole thing got so ridiculous they had to go back to zero as the ultimate.”

  “Now you’re pranking me, aren’t you?” Affie asked with a skeptical look.

  “Do you want me to ping Libby for the proof?”

  “Never mind. We’re here to shop, even if it’s homework for you. Just pick something to see how it works.”

  Dorothy leaned forward and poked an elegant evening gown, saying her name as she touched it. The catalog disappeared, and a perfect hologram of herself materialized out of thin air and twirled. She watched in shock as she saw herself reach above her head, touch her toes, and then amble gracelessly around the room.

  “You walked better than that when you were high on Kraaken stick,” Affie observed. “You’re hunched up like you expect something is about to attack you.”

  “I was embarrassed,” Dorothy said. “I didn’t know. Libby? Can you fix my avatar?”

  “That will be two creds,” the station librarian replied.

  “You’re going to charge me?”

  “It’s written into the lease for the avatar parlors that we won’t undercut them by providing freebies for station residents,” Libby said apologetically. “I have to charge double their rate by contract.”