by E. M. Foner
Lynx caught the large box, read the label herself and shook her head. “If we didn’t need to return the container empty, I’d set them aside to leave behind. Well, there’s always room in interstellar space.”
“Canned dog food, meat-flavored,” agent Malloy reported as he sent another box in Lynx’s direction.
“Special food for dogs?” Lynx asked in wonder as she guided the incoming projectile to its resting place. “What’s the point of that? And what do they mean by meat-flavored? Is it meat or isn’t it? Earth is a weird place.”
“Winter coats?” A.P. read off the next carton. “There’s a bunch of these that are taped up with handwritten labels.”
“Can’t think too much about it now,” Lynx replied, stowing the box away and awaiting the next. “We’ve got to empty the container and get out of here one way or another.”
“Paint and chemicals,” her partner read off the next box, peeling back the folded-over flaps to look inside. “This stuff isn’t even new. It’s like somebody emptied out their garage.”
From that point on, the cargo varied between high value items that carried a trade premium and boxes that looked like they’d been misdirected from somebody who was moving house. Still, the agents finished emptying the container with more than an hour to spare, and A.P. used the long vacuum hose attachment Lynx provided to remove the inevitable dust and bits of small debris from the metal box. Part of the contract for elevator usage specified that containers be returned “broom clean,” and in Zero-G, this meant vacuuming them out. Not doing so could result in a cleaning fee, a luxury Lynx couldn’t afford.
“We’re cleared for departure,” the captain of the Prudence reported to her partner when he returned from hooking the empty container to the wire conveyer drag and joined her on the bridge. Lynx’s ship was a standard two-man trader, the generic type used by up-and-coming humanoids who weren’t yet manufacturing their own ships and had to make do with little more than customized bathroom attachments for waste disposal. Most cultures shared an apocryphal story about a cheap trader who tried to get by with an alien lavatory, a tale which had grown in length and improbability through countless retellings over intoxicating beverages. Though Lynx didn’t consider herself the squeamish type, she was less than comfortable with the idea of sharing the only facilities with a strange man and hoped they could at least avoid talking about it.
“Have you opened our orders yet?” A.P. inquired.
“I was waiting for you,” she confessed, fishing inside of her coveralls for the envelope. “But maybe we should detach from the docking spoke first. I know it’s not a Stryx station, but you never know who might be listening in when you’re sharing some systems.”
“Operational security,” her partner acknowledged with a nod. “Good call.”
Hah! Passed another test, Lynx said to herself as she initiated the departure sequence. As soon as the docking clamps released, the anchor satellite’s manipulator fields took over, guiding the ship through the moderate trading traffic around the elevator and accelerating them on a vector towards the Stryx tunnel, the direction taken by the vast majority of ships.
Both of Earth’s orbital elevators had been constructed by a consortium of alien contractors at the request of EarthCent, the loan financing provided by the Stryx, in a successful attempt to help the faltering economy of the planet achieve an acceptable balance of trade. The technology and materials involved in elevator construction were hundreds, if not thousands of years ahead of anything the humans could have managed for themselves. The anchor satellites were operated by young artificial intelligences, usually short-timers who were repaying body mortgages to the Stryx administration for newly recognized AI.
“That’s it, then,” Lynx said, relaxing in her command chair as the anchor satellite’s manipulator fields released them to coast towards the Stryx tunnel terminal. “We’ve got a half-an-hour to figure out where we’re going before we get to the tunnel. No point in wasting fuel to get there a few minutes quicker.”
“What do you think the Old Man has planned for us?” A.P. asked.
Lynx groaned to herself. This business of being an apprentice could turn into a real drag if her partner was going make every decision into a pop-quiz. Lynx examined the envelope from both sides, trying to figure out the trick to opening it. There seemed to be a sort of triangular flap on the back, but it was glued down so smoothly that she could barely feel the edge with a fingernail.
“I’ve been thinking about our meeting with the, uh, Old Man,” Lynx ventured after a long silence, during which she gave up on getting the envelope opened without using violence. “I know he didn’t say anything when he handed over our orders, but you being senior and all, I guess he really intended you to take them.” Without releasing her safety harness, she turned to the right and extended the envelope to agent Malloy. “Here, you open them.”
A.P. nodded gravely and reached across the central console to take the envelope from Lynx. He studied it for a couple of seconds, then ripped it in two, returning the larger half to his partner. Both eventually figured out how to pop open the walls of the envelope and extract the torn sheet of paper from within.
“Well, this is a dumb technology,” Lynx commented, studying her half of the message. “What’s the point of a package that forces you to destroy the contents to get it open?”
“Beats me,” A.P. responded. “My half says, ‘Your training mission is, uh, next line, penetrate Farling home system, next line, destroy this message.’”
“My half says, ‘Top secret, next line, to acquire Farling mind control drugs. Do not, next line, contact at Corner Station in three weeks.’” Lynx stopped reading and closed her eyes in concentration, trying to solve the word puzzle from memory. “So the original message either read ‘Your training mission is top secret. Penetrate Farling home system to acquire Farling mind control drugs. Do not destroy this message. Contact at Corner Station in three weeks.’ or ‘Top secret. Your training mission is to acquire Farling mind control drugs. Do not penetrate Farling home system. Contact at Corner Station in three weeks. Destroy this message.’ Wow, those are pretty different meanings,” she concluded opening her eyes and looking over at her partner. “We better line up the two halves of the paper to—what are you chewing on?”
A.P. held up his finger that Lynx should wait a minute and forced himself to swallow. “If it’s not a big deal, I’d prefer if you ate all the secret messages from now on,” he grumbled. “What were you just saying?”
“You ate your half?” Lynx asked incredulously. “But we needed to put the two pieces together to know what it means. Now I don’t know if we’re supposed to go to the Farling home system or just to one of their outer colonies on the tunnel network.”
“We have three weeks to work it out,” her partner replied complacently. “Perhaps we should do both.”
“How can we both attempt to penetrate the Farling system and not attempt to penetrate the Farling home system?” Lynx demanded. Then it struck her like a thunderbolt that she was being tested again. The whole setup was too perfect. The director must have known that she would give the envelope to A.P. in the end, and there had probably been a trick to tearing it in half in exactly the right place. Maybe the message had been carefully torn in half before the envelope was even sealed! She had to give the EarthCent Intelligence professionals credit. They had stayed one step ahead of her all the way.
“If it was easy, they wouldn’t need us,” her partner replied jauntily. “So what are you going to tell the tunnel controller?”
“We’ll start with the Farling outpost world, Seventy, since it’s on the tunnel network,” Lynx replied decisively. “I was there once years ago, and I’d be surprised if there’s anything for sale in the Farling home system that isn’t available on Seventy’s orbital. If we can’t buy drugs there, we’ll trade for some goods that are attractive to the Farlings and see about going further. I don’t know, though. The Farlings are pretty advanced, and
I’ve never heard of anybody messing with them and getting away with it.”
“Suits me fine,” A.P. agreed. “I’m assuming you sleep in your chair on the bridge, so I’m going to go sack out in the cargo hold. I don’t see any need to sync our schedules while we’re in the tunnel, and we’ve both got plenty of material to study up on. Here’s a display tab the Old Man gave me for you,” he added, removing the device from a hidden pocket of his immaculately tailored jacket. “It’s got some instructional videos and basic operational manuals for you to read through. I’ll see you on the other side.”
Lynx wasn’t sure whether she was annoyed or relieved when her partner released his safety harness, kicked himself over to the ladder leading down into the hold, and disappeared without another word. It was true that the bridge of the two-man trader was cramped for living space and the hold was still half-empty after loading the eclectic cargo, but she had planned to spend some time picking the senior agent’s brain about his experiences. Maybe the rules prohibited sharing the details about former missions? She looked at the display tab A.P. had handed her and was about to check the contents when the comm system blinked to life.
“Stryx tunnel control to Prudence. Please supply your destination for queuing,” the synthesized voice addressed her in unaccented English.
“Prudence to Stryx tunnel control. Our destination is Farling Seventy,” Lynx responded.
“Will you be paying toll or sharing revenue?” the controller inquired politely. In the deal engineered through EarthCent eight years earlier, the Stryx gave human traders the option to go shares on their cargo profits rather than paying a cash toll. It was a money-losing proposition for the Stryx, but along with the elevators, it had made trade viable for the technologically backwards planet. Only a handful of humans understood what the Stryx were getting in return.
“Revenue sharing,” Lynx replied from habit, though thinking about it, she wasn’t sure it was a wise move operationally speaking since it meant sharing the cargo manifest with the Stryx. The whole thing was conducted on the honor system, though human traders all had stories about some other guy who had been caught cheating by the seemingly omniscient AI. But on second thought, she doubted she had enough creds on her balance to pay the toll for real, and EarthCent Intelligence hadn’t provided any cash funding. She double-checked that she had in fact reinserted the cargo management tab into its slot on the main console. “Transmitting cargo manifest now.”
“You’re queued for Farling Seventy, manipulator fields locking on,” the controller reported after the longest pause Lynx could remember after transmitting a manifest. Later, she wasn’t sure whether it was real or her imagination, but just as the stars smeared out to infinity and the Prudence began its violation of the human laws of physics, she swore she heard the tunnel controller comment, “Interesting cargo.”
Five
The Prudence remained in the unique artificial universe of the Stryx tunnel for a little over seventy-five hours before emerging again in real space. During that time Lynx only saw her partner twice, both of these occasions coming as a result of her sticking her head into the cargo hold and looking for him. A.P. had tethered himself to a bulkhead cleat using a short cord tied around his ankle, and he was either sleeping or reading from his display tab as he floated in Zero-G. She couldn’t tell which since his back was turned towards her. Lynx didn’t know whether it was luck or sensitivity that had led her partner to restrict his visits to the lavatory corner on the bridge to while she was sleeping, but she was thankful in either case.
The comm came to life even before the stars stopped their post-tunnel wavering, and a creature resembling an armored beetle with an exaggerated number of teeth filled the main view screen. The native speech of the Farlings consisted of modulations on a high-bandwidth squeal produced by rubbing a specialized set of forelegs together, not unlike a mechanical version of an old FM radio transmitter, or amorous crickets. The trader implant Lynx had purchased at the same time as her ship handled the translation flawlessly.
“Seventy ground control to Prudence, Lynx Hedgehouse commanding. What is your destination?”
“Ground control, this is Lynx Edgehouse,” she responded in irritation, stressing the ‘E’. “Destination is Market Orbital.”
“Identification unconfirmed,” the insect replied. “Have you purchased Prudence from Lynx Hedgehouse?”
“It’s Edgehouse, there is no Hedgehouse,” Lynx replied through clenched teeth. She was beginning to wonder if there was some sort of mistake in the Stryx registry that would prove impossible to correct, forcing her to change her name.
“Hedgehouse deceased, Prudence now registered to Edgehouse,” the ground controller confirmed in a bored whistle. “Since this is your first visit to Farling Seventy, we’re transmitting the basic etiquette manual for primitives. You must complete the timed quiz at the end before you can dock at Market Orbital.”
“Hedgehouse is not deceased,” she argued in frustration. “Hedgehouse never existed. My name is Edgehouse, and I’ve been here before and passed your stupid quiz.” She stiffened as she felt an impact and a hand gripping her shoulder, but it was just A.P., who had misdirected a dive from the ladder to his chair and was using Lynx as a pivot point.
“Stand by, Prudence,” the beetle replied calmly, and turned to consult with somebody off screen.
“Nice trip,” A.P. commented as he finally reached his seat and strapped on the safety harness. He glanced at the main viewer and took another second before asking, “Did you make it through the, uh, materials?”
“What?” Lynx replied reflexively, her mind fully occupied with the nonsense about her name. “Oh, yes, we can talk about that later,” she added significantly, pointing her chin at the viewer.
“I just heard the end of that as I came in,” A.P. admitted. “Is it possible that you have your name wrong?”
“Are you joking?” Lynx glared at her partner. “My name is my name. It’s just this last month that everybody else is getting it wrong.”
“It could be that the ‘H’ is pronounced silently where you grew up,” A.P. mused. “If that’s the case, you could go through life never knowing that it’s actually Hedgehouse.”
“It’s Edgehouse!” Lynx practically shouted. “Edgehouse!”
A second beetle, larger than the first, entered the picture on the main screen and gazed at them through its multifaceted eyes. The new beetle’s carapace was highlighted with emerald green and it moved with the self-assurance of a bug long accustomed to command.
“I am senior controller G32FX,” the flashy beetle rattled off its identification, undoubtedly for the record. “Junior controller K8CC reports a conflict between Prudence’s transponder data and the self-identification of commander Lynx Edgehouse. All data conflicts must be resolved before Prudence can be authorized for docking or departure. Proceed to the designated quarantine area around the second planet.”
Lynx bit her tongue and thought rapidly. Had the tech at Hawk’s Orbital said something about upgrading her transponder to the new standard during her pit stop on the way to Earth a couple weeks ago? That could explain how EarthCent Intelligence, and now the Farlings, had gotten the spelling of her name wrong. She had a vague memory of a story about a trader running afoul of the bureaucratic Farlings and spending years fighting a charge of faking a cargo manifest before abandoning his ship and fleeing back to Stryx space under an assumed identity. Lynx glanced at her partner, who as usual, showed no signs of being at all upset by the sudden turn of events.
“The ‘H’ is silent,” she muttered at the view screen, feeling utterly defeated. “It’s Hedgehouse, but the ‘H’ is silent. The controller might have recorded it improperly during my last visit.”
“K8CC, check your records for confirmation,” the senior controller instructed his subordinate. The smaller beetle tilted his head to the side for a moment, as if the files from previous years were stored in another part of his brain and had to be slid into
place for processing.
“I have it,” he reported a moment later, bringing his head back to even keel. “A Lynx Edgehouse commanding Prudence was here seven years ago and passed the etiquette test. Should I correct that record?”
“Do so,” the senior controller instructed him. “Lynx Hedgehouse, the Prudence is cleared for docking at Market Orbital. If you remain in Farling space more than two cycles, you must report to the local head-tax office and apply for temporary residency status.”
With that, the main viewer went blank, and Lynx was left alone with A.P. and what remained of her pride. She delayed a few minutes by setting course for Market Orbital at medium burn and soon felt the tug of acceleration as her body sank gently into the cushioned seat.
“It really is Edgehouse,” she finally said, not looking over at her partner. “There must be a problem with the ship’s transponder, but no point in messing with it or we may never get out of Farling space.”
“Is it safe to discuss the materials now?” A.P. asked her in response. Lynx was thankful he let the whole silent ‘H’ business pass without comment.
“The channel is closed,” she replied, glancing at the status lights for confirmation. “We have as much privacy now as we’d have anywhere in space.”
“Well, what did you learn?” her partner asked.
“I’m not exactly sure,” Lynx replied. “The Ashenden material was very depressing, I wasn’t quite sure if it was fact or fiction. I can’t even imagine hiring an assassin, much less one who goes out and kills the wrong man.”
“It was required reading for the intelligence service of the old British Empire at one point,” A.P. informed her. “What else?”
“Well, I watched some of those old-fashioned movies, the pre-immersives,” Lynx said. “I didn’t really get the Bond ones. The female agents all kept getting killed, and the actor playing Bond changed so often that I could barely tell who was who. Then the Bourne movies seemed to be saying that the real enemy always turns out to be your boss.”