by E. M. Foner
“They can’t be hoarded,” Stanley informed her. “Didn’t you know that the programmable creds have a built in half-life that causes the value to deteriorate if the money isn’t circulated?”
“We, or should I say, the first generation Stryx, created the cred to encourage interspecies economic activity,” Jeeves explained. “That can only happen through trade in goods and services. The successful businessmen know that if they start accumulating Stryx creds, they have to use them or gradually lose them. The true misers, and they exist in every species, end up exchanging Stryx creds into their local currency so they can hoard that, but of course, the local currency ends up losing value versus the cred.”
“It’s really a slick system,” Stanley added. “It doesn’t prevent individuals or species from hoarding wealth, as you know. Just look at the old Kasilians or the Dollnick merchant princes. But the real effect of their hoarding is just to drive up the prices of rare artworks and artifacts that aren’t part of everyday economic activity. It’s not like the old days on Earth, when financial inflation made it impossible for young people to save for retirement because every investment turned into a pyramid scheme. The Stryx maintain economic growth without inflation, and the money is recycled back to them in station rents, fees for tunnel usage, ship controllers, and the various technologies they license.”
“When did you learn all of this, Dad?” Chastity asked.
“The details are all in the End User License Agreement for the InstaSitter Stryx cred register,” Stanley replied.
“So are we going to do something about these Wanderers or not?” Ian demanded. The pub owner had a particular grudge against the bad coins, because he had only found out he was accepting them when the counter kid at the local coffee shop had refused to take a five-cred piece that Ian proffered to pay for his drink. Ian was up for reelection as the president of the Little Apple council of merchants, and getting accused of passing bad coins didn’t fit in with his campaign.
“You shouldn’t talk about them like they’re all crooks,” Chastity protested. “It’s not like we don’t have any con artists and rogue traders here on the station.”
“I heard somebody has been visiting Dance Hall every night,” Jeeves commented.
“Don’t you start in on me,” Chastity warned the Stryx. “I’m in agreement with Chance that there’s nothing worse than robot gossips.”
“Even though the Wanderer visitors are mainly from the same species as the merchants on the Shuk deck, they often give themselves away,” the Hadad patriarch said, in an effort to steer the conversation back on track. “Sometimes they forget that they’re shopping and they ask if they can have whatever it is gratis.”
“They walk up to a booth and request free goods?” Ian asked in astonishment. “Maybe they aren’t crooks after all. Maybe they’re just nuts.”
“They do seem to live by a different set of rules,” Kelly said. “And the important thing to remember here is that all of the advanced species are willing to put up with them, at least to a point. I think they see the Wanderers as a sort of safety valve for the misfits from their own societies.”
“The Wanderers have their part to play,” Jeeves said agreeably. “Among other things, despite the negative connotation certain people attach to gossiping, the Wanderers are an excellent source for information on progress around the galaxy. They go everywhere, get into everything, and even take samples of populations with them when they leave.”
“So visiting them is like doing field research by looking in a vacuum cleaner,” Shaina hazarded a comparison.
“Now you’re calling the Wanderers garbage!” Chastity bristled, getting really upset. “You have to put yourselves in their shoes to understand where they’re coming from. At first glance, they seem to be a mix of parasites and hustlers, but if you take the time to get to know them...”
“They turn out to be really good dancers?” Stanley interrupted.
Chastity glared at her father and then sank back into her chair, muttering to herself. Jeeves floated over to the bar and began examining the jar of counterfeit creds that Ian had collected. The Stryx studied the coins one by one, moving so rapidly that the humans all stopped what they were doing to watch the blur of his pincer. Four narrow towers of coins seemed to grow out of the bar, and a few shorter stacks were placed around them, like an architect’s conception of a multi-purpose complex.
“There you have it,” Jeeves declared. “Your sample includes counterfeits from thirteen different replication processes, likely run by different Wanderer families or groups. The composition of the feed alloys varies more than one would expect, so there’s probably not much cooperation among the counterfeiters. Perhaps they are from different species as well.”
“And that’s just based on my sample,” Ian said thoughtfully. “We mainly get humans in here, a few Drazen, the occasional Frunge, Vergallian or Horten. Maybe the heights of the stacks correlate in some way with our customer base.”
“A good guess,” Jeeves acknowledged. “Gryph is waiting for the situation to stabilize before buying in the counterfeits, so these are the only samples I’ve examined. But the records from prior Wanderer visits indicate a sort of affinity network. The counterfeiters are most comfortable spending the coins they manufacture with their own species.”
“You really go through this every time the Wanderers visit?” Kelly asked. “Why didn’t Gryph start with the tight visitor controls when the mob first showed up if he knew this was going to happen?”
“Punishing the children for the sins of their fathers?” the older Hadad asked. “Besides, it makes sense that the Stryx can’t get worked up over something they see on a regular basis and view as a minor nuisance. But you should probably send a warning to Earth in case the Wanderers pay a visit. It wouldn’t take too many bad creds to have a real impact on the economy there, and who knows if the Stryx would make good.”
“We wouldn’t,” Jeeves answered the unasked question. “It would be too tempting for humans to start counterfeiting creds on their own and blaming it on the visitors.”
“The Wanderers are proscribed from visiting Earth until the Stryx let us out from under their wings, so it won’t be a problem for a long time,” Kelly added.
“Does anybody on the station try counterfeiting creds and passing them off as being imported by the Wanderers?” Shaina asked Jeeves out of curiosity.
“Not according to the records,” the Stryx replied instantly. “The risk is high and the reward is low, so it wouldn’t make much sense. There are frequently cases of traders from various species rushing to a station that the Wanderers are visiting to exchange bad coins passed to them elsewhere. Gryph’s policy is to analyze the coins and exchange any which were manufactured by the mob currently visiting the station. It’s not generally worth the expenses of the trip unless the trader has accumulated a large number of counterfeits or knows ahead of time which Wanderer mob made them.”
“Well, I have to get back to the embassy to work on my pilot show,” Kelly said, bringing the informal meeting to a conclusion. “It’s not too late to drop in and give me suggestions if you have any. We’re currently planning a quiz show where contestants from all of the species ask each other questions, rather than the host asking them.”
“That could prove interesting,” Jeeves commented dryly.
Eight
“Actually, I’m the EarthCent Cultural Attaché on Union Station,” Lynx told the Wanderer storyteller group. “Whoever gave you the idea I was an agent?”
“He did,” replied the wrinkled old Drazen woman sitting at the head of the table, pointing a bony finger at Thomas. “He said that the two of you were EarthCent Intelligence agents. We wouldn’t have agreed to talk with just anybody.”
“Oh, that’s what you meant,” Lynx said, putting her improvisation skills to work. “My translation implant must have glitched. I though you asked if I was a talent agent who could represent you. Of course we’re spies. Thomas and I we
re the first two agents they hired when the agency was started.”
The Drazen studied her skeptically, but decided to let it pass. The eldest human storyteller from the mob present, Monos, was harder to convince.
“If you’re really a spy, do something spy-like,” he demanded in a crotchety tone.
“Yeah, let’s see some secret weapons,” said a Drazen male, who looked almost as old as the head elder of the group.
“I didn’t bring anything with me,” Lynx protested, drawing a Bronx cheer from the human. “Do you have any spy stuff today, Thomas?”
“Put an apple on your head.” Thomas slid his partner the fruit basket and then walked around to the far side of the table. Several of the dozing elders came back to life at this directive, and began to nudge each other with creaky elbows and withered tentacles. Shooting a piece of fruit off of somebody’s head was a foundational myth for many species, but none of the sentients present had ever seen it acted out before.
“I’m not putting an apple on my head!” Lynx tried to make her objection sound final. “Besides, you don’t have a bow and arrow.”
“I’ve been training with Woojin,” Thomas said. “I now know sixty-three ways to kill a man with common household items. What’s the matter? Are you afraid you can’t keep an apple balanced?”
“I’m afraid you’re going to put my eye out with a common household item,” she retorted, doing a quick inventory of the table for dangerous weapons.
“No apple, no stories,” the old Drazen woman stated flatly.
“Don’t worry, partner,” Thomas reassured her, feeling around inside his immaculately tailored suit coat. “I almost never miss in practice.”
“No knives or forks,” Lynx stipulated, rummaging through the fruit for an apple with a nice concave bottom. She wondered whose stupid idea it had been to bring the fruit basket, and then realized Thomas had suggested it. Clearly, she had been set up. The old folks were becoming restless as Lynx stalled for time, examining each piece of fruit, and Monos began making “Brawk, brawk,” noises, implying that she was chicken. Annoyed at everyone and everything, she settled on an apple at random, stood back from the table, and placed it on her head.
“Do you want me to warn you before I throw?” Thomas asked.
“Yes,” Lynx hissed between clenched teeth, trying to speak without moving her jaw. “If you hit me, I’m going to...”
Before she could finish her threat, her partner’s hand flashed forward, and although she didn’t feel the impact, she heard a small noise, and the apple rolled from her head, bounced off her shoulder, and hit the floor.
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” the old human remarked with a snicker.
Lynx bent to retrieve the bruised piece of fruit. A pencil had speared it right through the core and protruded out the other side, though thanks to the fall, the point had broken off. Seeing the penetration, she realized that Thomas must have thrown the light pencil really hard.
“There, do you accept that I’m a spy now?” she demanded, placing the apple in front of the Drazen crone. The old heads around the table all nodded.
“We would have believed you if you had just showed us the pencil,” the old Drazen male said. “Who but a spy would carry such a thing?”
“I brought extras, in case anybody else wants to stand with an apple,” Thomas offered.
“Perhaps another time,” the eldest answered with alacrity. “Now, remind me again why you wanted to see us.”
Lynx groaned internally. Here they were on a mission to gather intelligence through the rumors passed along by storytellers, and their potential source couldn’t remember something from yesterday. Fortunately, Thomas had no problem with recapping his previous encounter with the chief storyteller.
“We met in Dance Hall where you were telling a story during a band break,” Thomas reminded her. “I approached you and asked if you had any stories about dangerous goings-on, and you said that the Wanderers didn’t want to hear those. So I said that I was a spy and I’d like to hear them, but I wanted to bring my partner if I could, and you said that was fine because you were tired anyway. Then I bought you a fancy pink drink that bubbled so much that I got little drops on my suit sleeve, which bleached the fabric white, and you said if you were a hundred years younger, you’d show me how to really tango. Then I...”
“That’s enough, Thomas,” the Drazen woman interrupted, and smiled. “If you go on any longer, I’ll forget the beginning, but you show an excellent aptitude for storytelling.”
“Do you want to hear about the time Lynx and I photographed a Horten superstar on a Farling world?” Thomas asked.
“Please, Thomas,” Lynx interjected. “We’re here on a spy mission, remember?” She invoked one of the mantras of EarthCent Intelligence’s spy camp. “We listen with our ears, not with our mouths.”
“Would you like to hear about dangerous events from long ago, or from our recent travels?” the old Drazen woman asked.
“Recent travels,” Lynx replied instantly, to prevent Thomas from saying the opposite. The artificial person had developed a fascination with history, perhaps because his own was so limited.
“I am oldest, so I shall begin,” the old woman declared in a formal manner. The other storytellers sat back in their chairs, closing their eyes in concentration or drowsiness. “A few years ago, our mob was recovering satellites from orbit around Gnosis Five, a former Dollnick ag world whose sun had grown unstable.”
“So the satellites were salvage?” Lynx asked.
“That’s exactly what we said, but a group of Dollnick farmers living there accused us of disrupting their weather control network,” the storyteller replied. “In any case, they threatened to target us with their anti-asteroid defenses, which we pointed out is a clear breach of the license agreement for planetary protection systems funded through Stryx grants.”
“I didn’t realize the Dollnicks accepted hand-outs like that from the Stryx,” Lynx said.
“They don’t, but we were trying to buy time to recover at least one full quadrant of the grid,” the old Drazen woman explained. “The resale value for orphan weather control satellites is terrible. You basically need to find a world running an identical system in need of spares.”
“I’m not sure I understand this story,” Thomas said slowly. “You were stealing...”
“Harvesting,” the Drazen male interrupted the artificial person.
“You were harvesting satellites from an active weather control system and the owners objected?”
“Correct,” the elder said, and resumed her narrative. “They weren’t having any of it, apparently they had dealt with a mob before, and they sent a couple asteroid-busters across the bow of our flagship to make their point. Well, we issued the recall for all of the shuttles and tugs chasing down satellites, and offered the Dollys a very good price for restoring the previously harvested satellites to their stations.”
“Ransom,” Lynx interpreted.
“Finder’s fees. So they made a big deal over the price, which you expect from Dollnicks, and then proposed to target us on general principle. The Sharf who runs our mob pointed out that destroying us wouldn’t do anything for their weather, which was deteriorating rapidly. So we came to an arrangement, but they absolutely refused to let us send any of our people down, including our Dollnicks. They also said if they saw us back again, they were going to shoot first and ask questions later.”
“Seems pretty reasonable of them,” Thomas commented.
“Yes, we thought so also,” the Drazen woman concluded, and bit into a pear. “These are really good. You grow them on the station?”
“That’s it?” Lynx said. “I ask for a story about galactic dangers and you tell me about your mob extorting ransom money from a failing Dollnick ag world?”
“They didn’t have any money, now that I think about it,” the storyteller said between bites. “They paid in grain that looked like it had been left in the silo too lon
g, plus an old Dollnick colony ship that was parked in orbit around Gnosis Four. I’m not really sure it was theirs, but if there were any sentients left on Four, they didn’t complain.”
“But in your story, you’re the villains,” Lynx couldn’t restrain herself from saying.
“Yes. Were you only interested in stories where we’re the good guys?” The old storyteller appeared to be stumped. “I’m not sure I know any of those.”
“Tell them the one about the black hole weapon,” the elderly human suggested to a decrepit Frunge, whose vines were withered on his head.
“From the Forgotten Zone?” the Frunge croaked. “That was just a couple years ago. The story hasn’t had a chance to ripen.”
“It’s what they want,” the old Drazen woman said. “Besides, you need the practice.”
“Our mob had begun tunneling into the Forgotten Zone, just to get away from things for a while, when a young shrub with too much ambition picked up a repeating signal coming from a nearby system. Since the mob expected to spend at least a month in the Zone, getting things in order and choosing our next destination, Pzorat, that was the fool’s name, decided to investigate. He was dating a sapling whose father owned an old jump-capable explorer, on which I was unfortunately a guest, and Pzorat basically hijacked the ship with all onboard.”
“You weren’t able to decode the repeating signal?” Lynx asked.
“Didn’t have to,” the old Frunge replied. “It was broadcasting in all of the modern languages, including Frunge. Some drivel about the system being a protected galactic historical site and warning visitors not to touch anything. So we ended up in orbit around this cold ball of rock with an unbreathable atmosphere and no intelligent life. Pzorat, who had put a password on the ship controller, refused to return to the mob without visiting the surface.”
“What made the world a historical site?” Thomas asked with obvious interest. “Were there abandoned cities, or signs of a devastating war?”