Jason King: Agent to the Stars 1: The Enclaves of Sylox

by T. R. Harris

  Desperately seeking something that would get Bill’s hand off my shoulder, I scanned the last of the passengers departing the shuttle. I squinted until I finally noticed a splash of blonde hair standing out from the field of brown fur, burgundy spikes and matted hair that made up the tops of most of the aliens on the platform.

  “There they are, the Wilson family – and cousin,” I announced, with probably a little too much enthusiasm.

  “Cousin?”

  “It’s a relative, this one’s on the female’s side of the family. And to more fully answer your previous question, I don’t think they’re going to be our neighbors. Jennifer and her husband – her mate – are with the Embassy, and they prefer to live out in the city, as a way for their children to experience the local flavor of alien life, as they put it.”

  I saw Bill smile wickedly and I knew what he was thinking: Wait until the children witness a Lymoriam Luia, with a fleshy Gorikean covered in local barbeque sauce, his eyes bulging out at the feasters, displaying a look of absolute terror as they literally eat him alive.

  The kids will get a real kick out of that bit of local flavor.

  I nodded, agreeing with Bill’s unspoken thought. “You’re right of course … never say never.”

  **********

  Over the years I’d lost count of the number times new arrivals to the capital city of the Galactic Union had expressed the same misguided wish; to live amongst the aliens so they could experience different cultures. Usually it took no more than two showings before they’d come running back to me pleading to be shown properties in the vast Human Enclaves being constructed by a number of builders from Earth, such as Pulte and D.R. Horton.

  This transformation – from fearless galactic adventurer to that of humbled Human looking for anything familiar – was predictable and operated like clockwork. The only variable in the equation was the children.

  Did I mention that I hate children, and I mean Hate with a capital ‘H?’ Not that I have anything against them as a group, it’s just that on far too many occasions they’d cost me a decent commission with their antics.

  As a confirmed and childless bachelor – childless as far as I know – I couldn’t understand why parents would let their often ungrateful brood influence family decisions so much? Many of my clients came through the Embassy and were therefore part of the Diplomatic Corps. This meant that in the past these children had been shuffled from one assignment to the next. After a while you’d think they’d get used to it.

  Of course, I realize there’s a big difference between an assignment in Brazil or Bangladesh, to one on the planet Sylox. But did the kids always have to freak out so often?

  I’d lost many a deal to the wild temper tantrums of the children, who were often so scared and inconsolable when exposed to this strange alien planet that many of my potential buyers simply packed up their bags and went home. When that happened, my bank account suffered.

  And now I had a starship to buy!

  My preferred clients were single people and DINKS – couples with Dual-Income, No Kids. Unfortunately, this breed of client was few and far between here on Sylox. Instead, most of my customers were married couples trailing a herd of unruly rugrats after them.

  Nearly all my new business came through a long-standing affiliation I had with the Embassy, and although the sprawling Consular Compound did have some housing units available, I was fortunate that most of these were taken up by visiting high-ranking officials or those with the shortest-duration assignments. This meant that the thousands of new arrivals to Sylox had to find accommodations outside the Compound, and that was where Galactic Realty and Relocation Service came into play.

  I had come to Sylox seven years before as a site agent for Pulte. This was right at the beginning of the big influx of Humans to Sylox City, the Union Capital, and there was a lot of groundwork to be laid before major construction of the expat communities could begin. The Earth-based developers were anxious to gain a foothold on the planet, so they had been more than generous with their – how can I say it – gratuities. I had been instrumental in many of the negotiations with the Council in those days, helping to spread the wealth around and grease whatever palms, paws or tentacles that require greasing.

  As a result, I established of a lot of long-lasting relationships with the powers-that-be in the Galactic Union, relationships which were paying dividends even to this day.

  However, after a couple of years I realized I’d gone about as far as I could with Pulte, so I broke away and started my own firm, the first independent Human real estate firm on the planet. The major builders at the time were more interested in turning and burning their customers rather than building relationships. And with the constant turnover of diplomats, contractors and other Humans coming to the Capital for business, there was never a shortage of fresh blood for the developers.

  I – on the other hand – realized early on that new arrivals to the alien world required more than just a familiar bed on which to lay their heads. They often arrived in a complete state of shock, overwhelmed by the sheer alienness of it all. They needed more than just a friendly real estate agent showing them properties; they needed the whole acclimation service my firm offered.

  So we specialized in new arrivals – buyers primarily – although we did have a fair number of resales and rentals these days, with our property management division one of the fastest-growing of late. And the Embassy was the source of clearly ninety-percent of all my business.

  Did I also mention that I love Embassy customers, almost with the same – yet opposite – intensity that I hate children? The reason was simple: they were easy sells.

  All workers assigned to the Embassy were entitled to a hefty housing and cost-of-living subsidy while on Sylox called BAH, an acronym for Basic Allowance for Housing. This was the same subsidy I received during my military days back on Earth, yet for duty on Sylox, it was BAH-on-steroids. The allowance was so high in fact, that even the lowest GS worker could afford to purchase the average-priced expat home, which at the time was in the three-million dollar range.

  And with the government actively encouraging homeownership – it made for a happier and more stable personnel roster – I was more than willing to do my part to help out.

  Through my contacts at the Embassy, I managed to negotiate an extra half-percent commission for me and my agents, as a bonus for taking these bewildered and often lost souls by the hand and helping them to find not only appropriate housing, but also to feel more comfortable with their alien surroundings. We accomplished this through a series of pre-arrival seminars, personal tours of common facilities – such as schools and shopping centers – and by providing extracurricular activities within the subdivisions, including sports teams, movie nights and other distinctly Human events.

  If we did our job well then the Embassy had more-contented personnel who would hang around longer. After all, it cost a not-so-small fortune to bring someone all the way out here from Earth, and it was inefficient and wasteful to have entire families bail after only a few weeks on the planet. If these new arrivals stuck around for at least a year, then I was a hero in the eyes of the Consulate personnel department, and became the recipient of more than just the extra half-percent commission. I also received preferential treatment in the halls of government, along with more new customers than I could shake a stick at.

  My firm now employed a total of nine full-time real estate agents. We also had a four-person support staff, a three-person mortgage department, and a property management division, currently with four agents. I also had a native alien-affairs liaison with direct access to the Council and the Human Ambassador-at-Large. Even with that, we needed more.

  There were several other firms now trying to compete with us, yet they were late comers to the game and had a lot of ground to make up. I didn’t worry about them. I was the top-dog on Sylox, and it looked as though I would remain so for a long time to come.

  For the past year or so I had
begun to back away from personally working with customers on an individual basis, preferring to spend most of my time fostering relationships with the various government entities beneficial to the business. However, occasionally a new Undersecretary would arrive on the planet who could command my personal attention. Because of their elevated rank, these diplomats often bought in the eight-to-twelve million dollar range. That wasn’t a client I couldn’t easily pass along to one of my agents. I was generous, but not that generous.

  Even though the developers of the Enclaves only paid one-and-a-half percent commission to outside agents, we supplemented this reduced commission with the other half-percent from the Embassy. That ended up being plenty, since homes within these subdivisions were much easier to sell and still resulted in a decent payday at closing, even if it meant first having to indulge the all-too-common desire to live outside the boundaries of the Human settlements.

  In truth, the homes For-Sale-By-Alien were often more affordable and paid a much higher commission, often in the five to ten percent range. Yet I was smart enough to realize that I often had a snowball’s chance in Hell of selling one of these little goldmines. The change of venue between Earth and here was just too drastic for most people to handle, and especially when the buyers had a viable alternative with the Enclaves.

  For years now, the Human developers had gone out of their way to make these massive, multi-hundred-home subdivisions into little slices of Earth-on-an-alien-world. The communities were all gated with live security; they maintained their own schools and grocery stores, in addition to rec centers, movie theaters, sports fields and more. In fact, if you ignored the presence of a second moon in the night sky, you could easily mistake the Enclaves of Sylox for any upscale community on Earth.

  Oh, and there was also the incredibly bright swatch of stars in the night sky that came as a result of being so close to the Galactic Core. This served as a constant reminder to my clients that they weren’t in Kansas anymore.

  So for the right price, I would personally suffer through a few extra days of leading these wanderlust souls through a short course in alien reality. By then, easily ninety-five percent of my customers were chomping at the bit for a little Earth-familiar cocoon they could crawl into and forget where they were.

  This predictable routine happened with uncanny regularity, and the Wilson family would be no exception. In fact, I could already picture the Noreen II sitting in my hangar at the executive spaceport outside of the Zanzibar Enclave. The craft was the equivalent of owning a G4 Learjet back home – or at least when Learjet was still in business. But you get the point. The Noreen II was the jewel I would soon possess, and thanks to Mark Wilson and his lovely family, the commission from the transaction would make that possible.

  That was if no one sabotaged my efforts. And the ‘no one’ I was referring to came in the form of the Wilson’s three children.

  **********

  I began to make my way through the alien crowd toward the lost-looking Jennifer Wilson, while Bill trailed alongside me, feeling some kind of license to do so as a friend and past client.

  One of the concessions the Human developers made to receive the permits to build their communities was that ten percent of all housing had to be sold to natives or other members of the Union. The Council had originally wanted twenty percent, yet the negotiators – I had been part of the delegation – had successfully argued that Humans, in particular, needed a little more time and space to acclimate themselves to this new reality. Having a community with so many aliens roaming around could defeat the whole purpose of having the Enclaves in the first place.

  Eventually, the Council relented, realizing that the technological level of the Earth, as well our cultural development, were unique among Union members. Unique in that we were more backwards and primitive than any other race to have ever been accepted into the community of alien worlds….

  On that point, Jonk Limbor was right, when he said he saw no value in having Humans as members of the Union. I, too, had no idea what we were contributing. Earth’s location in space held no special strategic value to the Union, positioned as it was out in one of the six spiral arms of the galaxy. Also, our raw materials were more easily acquired from the billions of asteroids and uninhabited worlds throughout the galaxy. And we certainly weren’t contributing anything of a scientific nature. The aliens were light-years ahead of us in every respect.

  I often equated our presence in the Union to that of an fourteen-year-old genius who suddenly finds himself on a college campus, most times feeling awkwardly out of place, and at others struggling to prove he belonged there.

  Yet on a positive note, Humans had proven to be incredible builders, not only of housing units for our species, but also for commercial construction on the few worlds where we had received permission to build. Our structures were in demand, and there was a whole herd of Human builders, developers and real estate agents ready and willing to service that demand.

  We had only been a member of the Union for less than fifteen years and were just now beginning to feel comfortable with the whole idea of alien worlds and civilizations. But surely, the aliens hadn’t come to Earth just so we could build three-bedroom, two-bath, ranch-style homes across the galaxy?

  They wouldn’t do that, would they?

  Chapter 4

  Jennifer Wilson spotted me before I reached her, now focusing her attention on one of the few Humans she saw on the landing at that time of day. Her expression changed dramatically, from one of brow-furrowing concern, to that of immense relief.

  We had video-chatted several times over the past six months, so I felt as though already I knew her. Still, I was a professional and as such I had to offer my most-professional presentation to my new, high-end customer.

  “Mrs. Wilson, I’m Jason King of Galactic Realty and Relocation Service.” I flashed my brightest salesman’s smile. “I’m so glad to finally meet you in person.”

  “Mr. King, please call me Jennifer,” she said, flashing her own bright smile. “After all the communications we’ve had, I think we can be on a first-name basis.”

  “Then I insist you call me Jason.” I looked past the fetching blonde woman of forty-two and caught site of my nemeses – if that’s even a word. They came in the form of Heather, sixteen; Jonathan, nine; and Melissa, six. They were all huddled behind their mother, with the exception of Jonathan, who clung to a strikingly-beautiful woman with jet-black hair and eyes as deep as space itself. I’m sure my mouth had fallen open at the sight of Jennifer’s cousin, and it took me a moment to recover.

  Although there were over forty-thousand Humans on Sylox, many of the women here were either married or too young for me. At thirty-six, I was finding it more difficult lately to find available dates on the planet; however, Jennifer’s cousin had just brought that gene pool to a fast boil.

  Jennifer had mentioned that her cousin would be joining them on Sylox – temporarily – as she served a six-month internship at the Embassy; however, she had failed to include a picture of her in any of the correspondence. Now I wondered why?

  I finally broke my gaze from the dark-haired woman, and was promptly embarrassed to see Jennifer staring up at me with an amused smile. “Jason, this is my cousin Miranda, Miranda Moore. I mentioned her in our emails. She’ll be staying with us while she’s here.”

  I desperately tried to exude the most professional decorum I could muster, but it was too late. The damage was already done.

  As a diversion I turned to Bill. “I’d like to introduce you to Minister Billork Kly Gon-Mok, of the Union Transit Service. He’s a friend and past client; he actually lives in the Zanzibar Enclave.”

  Bill took a short hop forward. “I am honored to meet you, Mrs. Wilson,” he said with a bow. “I am actually a neighbor of Jason’s and we are both members of the same softy-ball team.”

  I could see Jennifer Wilson trying hard to act nonchalant in the presence of the towering alien with the green skin, but she was havin
g a hard time of it. “I’m pleased to meet you, Minister Billork … Gook; I’m sorry, but I’m terrible with names.”

  “Perfectly acceptable; I am known simply as Bill to my friends and neighbors, which I hope to one day consider you both.”

  Jennifer frowned slightly. “I find it fascinating that your kind would play soft … softball.”

  “Jason introduced me to the activity, and it has been a most-exhilarating experience. He is quite the organizer of events within our community. It is a wonderful place to reside.”

  Jennifer turned back to me. “You do recall that I want to live within the native community, and not in one of the Human Enclaves?”

  “I do,” I said quickly. “I have six homes already selected within the city limits for us to see today. It’s a start, and hopefully next time we go out, Mark can join us.”

  “With his new job, he’s pretty busy, but he has promised to join us on Saturday – or whatever they call Saturday here. But you can be assured that he’s given me full authority when it comes to finding us a home—”

  “My name’s Jonathan – are you a real alien?” The tiny voice came from Jonathan Wilson. He had released Miranda’s hand and ran up next to the seven-foot tall alien. Now he stood with his mouth agape staring up at Bill’s green face.

  “My friend Jonathan, I must correct you. Even though the Union built its capital on Sylox three hundred years ago, this planet is my home. I am a native. So you see it is you who are the alien here.”

  “I’m not an alien; I’m a Human!”

  “On Sylox, Humans are the aliens—”

  “But we don’t stink.”

  “Jonathan!”

  “That is quite all right, Mrs. Wilson,” Bill said with a smile. He crouched down on his reverse-jointed legs until he was at the level of Jonathan’s head. He leaned in closer and flared his nostrils. “I’m afraid you do have a distinctive odor, young Human. It is not unpleasant, yet you do stink, as you put it.”