“Have you ever been to Earth?” Ash wanted to know.
Shane shrugged. “Never been off this station—not yet anyway. That’s why I entered the service. I’m gonna be a space pilot someday and see the universe.” His eyes were big with the dream.
“Space Patrol?” Shiro asked him.
“Nah, too stuffy! I might go privateer though, or maybe a star racer.”
“Star racer?” Lissa asked.
“It’s a popular sport—very dangerous,” Octi told them all.
“This is my navigator,” Lissa told Shane belatedly, realizing introductions were still in order, “Octavian Stubergott III of Europa moon, and my bodyguards are Ash of the Mursi and Shiro of the Kazakhs on Earth.”
Shane nodded to them all. “We have a colony of Europans in the bay, Mr. Stubergott. You’re welcome to hunt if you want; just contact Su-Tsi below Dock 6. She’ll register you. And be sure to log your catch each time so we can watch population figures.”
“Thanks!” Octi enthused.
“Well,” Shane raised his hands, palms up, “to official business. This is Dock 9. Your fees have been waived by Port Authority on request of the 3rd Patrolship, who notified us of your impending arrival.” His voice had shifted subtly, reciting a message he had learned by heart. “While you’re here, you and your crew have diplomatic immunity, Ambassador.” He nodded respectfully in her direction. “You are officially protected, which means that should any incident occur involving station citizens, you can log a complaint with Station Authority directly.”
Octi bobbed his head to show he knew how.
“A transport has been assigned for your use, and refueling and maintenance are on us.” Shane smiled. “So, where do you want to go?”
In the end, Shane ended up taking them on a walking tour of the space city that held Survey & Research Center 42. Although mainly focused on the nebula and analyzing its emissions and the formation of stars within it, he told them, the Research Department also turned out various weapons systems and armor modules to keep their accounts in the black.
“Warfare in space is eternal, after all, and no matter how pure a scientist may keep his favorite theorems, it’s not his formulas that put food on the table,” Shane said.
“It’s the same way on Earth,” Lissa said. “People thought that creating OneWorld would solve the endless conflict, but no. The governors just rewrote their budgets so ‘military expenses’ became ‘local law enforcement’ and war became ‘civil unrest.’ Then they went right back to fighting the same old wars fought for centuries. Let’s face it, how can you end war when all you have to do to earn a quick buck is sell armaments to both sides of a conflict and then stir the pot a bit?”
Shane looked sideways at her. “You’re not what I expected,” he said quietly.
Lissa glanced at Ash and Shiro, walking ahead and behind them for added security, before replying with a blush, “How so?”
“I thought an ambassador would be more …” Shane trailed off.
“Stiff?”
“Stuffy,” he blurted, and then laughed when she made a face.
“I haven’t had a chance to be much of an ambassador yet. I’ve mostly been fighting off pirates, outwitting kidnappers, and trying to outrun assassins. Once I manage to actually meet with another government official and do some negotiating, then we’ll see if I come out stuffy and stiff.”
He cracked a grin. “Yeah, I guess I’ll just have to withhold my judgment until then.”
“Let me know if you see any signs of it,” Lissa added, pretending to be worried. “I don’t want it to sneak up on me without my noticing.”
“Don’t worry,” Shane assured her. He gave her a friendly slug in the shoulder. “I’ll keep an eye on you.”
“Thanks,” Lissa joked. She rubbed her shoulder.
“We’re nearly back to where we started,” Octi announced from ahead of them, slung across Shiro’s broad shoulders like an odd blue shawl.
“That’s pretty much the tour,” Shane announced. Lissa covered her disappointment. “I suppose you’ll want to get settled before you see Commander Semo?” He directed this to Ash, who had told him they would be sleeping on the Forty-Five for the duration of their stay on-station.
“Give us an hour and then we’ll meet you here on the dock?” Ash asked him, after a glance at Lissa for her assent.
“I’ll be here after the dinner hour,” Shane agreed. “It’s just about that time now.” He checked his timepiece. “Is the commander expecting you?”
The three Earthlings exchanged glances. “I think so,” Lissa answered for them.
He looked from one to the other. “What are you here to see her about, anyway?”
Lissa hesitated, and then said casually, “We want to set up a Universe Co. station on Earth’s moon.” It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him with the rest of it, but the last couple weeks had taught her to be cautious.
“Well, that seems like a sound idea. A good way to get started on interplanetary relations. A base like that would attract folks from all over. UC are really well-liked, I can tell you! But why come so far?” He looked at her curiously. “Surely a message could have called a UC rep to you?”
“We wanted to see space,” Ash stepped in. “See how UC treats the rest of the galaxy before we decide to invite them to roost on our front door.”
Shane laughed at that description. “A point,” he conceded. “Well, I’m off. Having dinner with the family tonight. Catch you in an hour?” he asked Lissa.
She nodded and the five of them parted ways, Shane toward home and Lissa and her crew returning to the ship.
Filbert Jones
Filbert Jones considered himself an ordinary human. A freed slave, he had gratefully accepted the opportunity for employment by an intergalactic conglomerate which catered to the ecological needs of inhabited planets, and for twenty-six years he had been happy.
In space jargon, he was what was generally known as a solar engineer. Or, as his teenaged son Shane had once put it, “really not much more than a pulley operator.” And indeed, a pulley was involved in Filbert’s daily life, for posted as he was on the small station located just spatially north of the Rosette Nebula, his main duty at this particular branch was the initial airlift of the sun at dawn.
Utilizing ropes of ionized space dust fed through an electromagnetic pulley, Filbert hauled a solar kernel into position at exactly 05:00 every morning, ran the various diagnostic tests, and then ignited the kernel at precisely 06:15, before settling down to monitor its slow-burning dawn throughout the rest of his eight-hour shift.
It was not a glorious life, but Filbert never felt the slightest twinge of regret.
One particular morning, Filbert received a message alert just as he finished coiling his ionized rope. Pausing his whistled tune, he took a swig of coffee as the stars slowly gave way to a blue summer sky. Setting down the rope and his coffee, he pressed the toggle on his wrist-communicator to listen to the recorded message.
“Dear Mr. Jones, Solar Engineer First Class, Station 42 Resident no. 4,926. Greetings from HQ,” a brisk official voice said, “We regret to inform you that your station is scheduled to receive a system upgrade that will make your current position obsolete. These changes will take effect in 48.5 hours local time. If you wish to apply for continuing employment in another facility, please respond to this message before 03:00 tomorrow. Best wishes, The Management.”
Filbert was crushed.
Eight hours later, he turned over his duties to second shift and made his way home to the three-bedroom lodgings he shared with his wife and two children. Tossing down his work cap on the table beside the couch, he squished himself into his easy chair, tuned the Space Wave Finder—SWF for short and more commonly known as a “Swiffy”—to the latest episode of his favorite historical-fiction radio series, and tried to ignore the uncomfortable feelings of deflation swimming through his head. His wife, Margaret Jones, known affectionately as Mags, bustled abou
t the kitchen behind him, carving a thick slice of beef onto equally thick slices of bread for his favorite roast beef sandwich.
Shane Jones, aged fifteen, entered the house wearing his usual Service uniform. He dumped his bag on the side table in the foyer and called out, “Mom, I’m home! What’s for dinner?”
Ginny Jones, her copper pigtails swinging, skipped in from around the corner. “Mom, Shane left his bag on the table again!”
“Put your bag away, Shane, and wash up. Roast beef for dinner!” Mags called out as she turned the corner, carrying a hot dish of soup to go with the sandwiches.
Generally, they ate Earth-style foods, replicated cleverly out of protein substitutes imported to the station from various nearby-inhabited worlds. Mags was an expert cook, one of the things Filbert loved most about her, and she enjoyed making sure her family ate well.
The four of them sat down at the table, Filbert joining last as he tried to decide how to spring his news on them all. He still had not recovered from the shock of it enough to even ponder the choices of whether to look for work elsewhere or seek out a new position on-station.
Shane took a bite of his sandwich and then said, around a mouthful of roast beef and melted cheese, “Ship came in today, Pop.”
“Swallow your food, Shane Jones!” Mags cried, horrified.
Filbert barely remembered to look up as his son spoke.
“It was carrying the human ambassador from Earth.” Shane grinned: that got their attention.
“Earth is finally getting attention!” Mags rejoiced, distracted from scolding him. Her eyes danced with happiness at the news.
“Representation in space could be important for our species,” Filbert nodded sagely, coming out of his blue fugue.
“There is too much prejudice,” Mags agreed, munching on her salad with enthusiasm. “And nowhere to turn for an Earthling down on his luck.”
This last comment seemed to deflate Filbert again, and he said around a mouthful of beef sandwich, “Um … about that, dear.”
“What is it, Filbert? You’ve been dour all evening.”
“Fired,” Filbert managed to get out around chewing his sandwich.
The silence at the table was hollow and heavy.
“It’s going to be okay, Daddy.” Ginny’s small hand stretched out from beside her cup to cover his. She patted it gently, her palm small and soft. A little smile brightened her face to hide the worry in her large eyes.
Filbert’s throat bobbed.
“She’s right.” Mags’ voice cracked slightly. Her eyes were very bright as she watched her daughter lay down her sandwich and crawl into her daddy’s lap. The little girl put her arms around Filbert’s neck and hugged him. He pulled her tight, pressing his cheek against hers.
“She’s right,” Mags repeated. “Filbert, there are other positions open and there are other stations that need a solar engineer. Why, you’re the best lifter in the galaxy! There’s no one else I’ve ever heard of who can lift a kernel manually without pre-calculations or laser-fitted aim devices. I’m sure you won’t have trouble finding another job!” She smiled reassuringly at her children.
Shane spoke up, “Dad, I heard there’s a new station opening up on Earth’s moon. The ambassador was talking about it today.”
“Oh?” Filbert looked hopeful.
“She said they were planning to join up with Universe Co., who are gonna put a base on the moon.”
“Earth’s moon doesn’t need a solar engineer, Shane,” his mother said.
“I know that, but maybe the ambassador can get Dad some other position. There aren’t that many Earthlings in space with techie skills. Earth is gonna need all the help they can get when they first get that base up and running.”
Filbert mulled it over as he polished off his roast-beef sandwich. Retire and take up teaching on Earth? It sounded like a dream. But could it actually be so easy?
“Where is this ambassador? I’d like to talk to him about it myself.”
“Her,” Shane corrected. He grinned. “Lissa Phelps is her name.
Ginny’s eyes were bright with interest at this news. “Is she pretty?” she asked her older brother, who flushed. “Ooh! Shane likes Lissa, Shane likes Lissa!” Ginny chanted teasingly, bouncing up and down in her seat.
“Shut it!” Shane said. “I do not.”
“Yes you do!” Ginny teased. “You’re turning red, Shane.”
Shane got up from his seat without asking permission, earning him a frown from his mother, who put a firm hand on Ginny’s shoulder to silence her.
“In all seriousness, Shane, do tell the ambassador that your father would like to be a part of the techie team for her new moon base. I’m sure I could also find employment on Earth or her moon.” She rolled her eyes. “The spiral knows I’ve spent enough time in administration to teach any Earthling a thing or two about GTC.”
“Alright, Mom,” Shane agreed, and then, before Ginny could renew her chanting, he stepped into the kitchen with his plate, scraped it, and placed it in the scrubber, and then ducked into his room and shut the door.
Plots
“Madam CEO?” The voice coming over the speaker in Cle-zea's office was tinny from the effect of being transmitted across thousands of lightyears and several vias to disrupt any attempt to trace its source. The Jerz female stopped primping her long golden hair and glanced sidelong at the informant whose projection had interrupted her.
“Hello, Number Seven,” she cooed. Her eyes flashed as she bit down her annoyance. She did not enjoy being interrupted, “This had better be good.”
“Priority number one,” the squeaky little alien said. She winced at his awful soprano, then paused as his words sank in.
“You're sure?” she demanded.
“Projecting images now, Madam,” he pressed a button hidden from her view and four stills appeared on screen.
A gangly black youth in body armor with a feline animal paointed in gold on his helmet stood beside another boy with almond eyes and a fur cloak. They appeared to be talking to a Europan, whether male or female she couldn't tell—all Europans looked the same to her. A second image flashed of the Europan perched on the shoulder of a girl...
“Wait, go back,” she held up a hand and the second image reappeared. The girl had large hazel eyes, an expressive mouth and a stubborn chin. Cle-zea glanced down at the photo provided to her by Anubis of Ambassador Melissa Phelps—definitely the same girl.
“I don't know...” she hedged, knitting her brows doubtfully. She gave Number Seven a skeptical look.
“It is, it is!” The informant squealed, “Look again!” He pressed another button and a space galleon appeared, bobbing gently up and down at a sea dock surrounded by stars.
“Where is that? Planetside somewhere?”
“No, Madam, its Survey and Research Station 42, just outside the Caldwell Nebula.”
“They have an Europan population?” She stared hungrily at the girl.
“152 Europans, four humans and fifty-six other alien races aboard, including ninety-one of the galaxy's best astrophysicists.”
“Sabotage the station—make sure it looks like an accident,” Cle-zea ordered casually, “Just enough survivors to tell the story to the press. Make sure the Ambassador does not escape.”
“Yes, Madam CEO.”
Universe Co.
Lt. Commander Briar Semo scowled at her aide, a rotund alien male of short stature, who gazed up at her with equal displeasure.
“If you would only seem to give way a little …” he began.
There was a slight pause as he listened to her thought-voice.
“I don’t care that their demands are ridiculous!” he snapped. She shook her head at him in disdain.
“A military commander you might be, but you make a ruddy patty-cake diplomat!”
The Kweep female shifted one hoof slightly, yielding to him.
“They backed your latest offer right off a cliff,” cautioned her aide, whose nametag
proclaimed him to be Chief Petty Officer Samison. “You need to come at them obliquely. Try applying some of that brilliant strategy you’re so known for! Think of it as … verbally flanking your opponent. They know how badly you want this contract, Commander. And in their greed they’ll make you pay through the teeth to get it.”
All this was relayed via translator bot to Lissa and her two guards as they stood a little ways off, observing the commander and her diplomat aide. They had not meant to eavesdrop, but Lissa had paused in her approach when she observed that the conversation was not idle chatter.
Sensing now the pause in their argument, Lissa jerked her head at Ash and Shiro before stepping out of the little alcove where they had stood to listen. Nearing the two UC representatives, she said in a mild tone to let them know she had overheard them, “Perhaps I could help.”
She sensed it when the commander directed her thoughts at her.
“And just who the hell are you?” Semo demanded. Her thought-voice had a slight lilt to it, as though she spoke with the Kweep version of a strong accent. But there was enough command in her presence, alien or no, that Lissa stood just a tad straighter. It was not unlike the feeling she’d had when facing her former math teacher without her homework done.
“Ambassador Melissa Phelps of Planet Earth,” she said, proud of how even and mature her voice sounded. “Did Mr. Piff send word ahead that we were coming?”
“Yes, and a damned nuisance it is. No offense meant, Ambassador,” she added a bit hastily when her aide bit back a protest at her brusque retort. “We are in the middle of some delicate negotiations here with SS42 and I don’t have time to be gallivanting around the galaxy on rescue missions—especially ones on a planetary scale such as you seem to have.” She shook her large flat head.
“Not that we do not empathize with your plight,” her aide began.
“Space Patrol has done what it can in the matter of your slavery issue,” Semo said.
“What the commander means to say is …”
Space Patrol! Page 18