Carnival On Union Station (EarthCent Ambassador Book 5)

by E. M. Foner

  “That’s what I think,” Dorothy agreed excitedly. “Do they do the same thing to you, Metoo?”

  Metoo successfully negotiated the tricky task of translating Dorothy’s words and posing a question to himself simultaneously.

  “No, the grown-up Stryx always explain everything to me in detail,” he confessed. “But sometimes I don’t really understand it all even if the math works out. Especially the multiverse stuff.”

  The two girls nodded in sympathy as Dring’s welding arced and spat in the background.

  “Let’s go see what they’re doing outside,” Dorothy suggested. This time, Metoo led the way through the scrap-mound tunnel with the two girls in noisy pursuit.

  The recruits in the designated training camp area were now paired off by twos, sitting cross-legged on blankets with a little mound of trade goods in front of each person. Lynx stalked up and down the rows of blankets shouting advice and encouragement.

  “Come on, hold that tea kettle like you never want to part with it. You look like you’re dying for a chance to give it away. That’s right, even a box full of shredded paper has value if you run into somebody with a hamster. What? No, I don’t know if the aliens have hamsters, it’s just an example. Hi Dorothy, Metoo. Who’s your new friend?”

  “This is Mist,” Dorothy replied confidently. “Mist, this is Aunty Lynx.” Metoo hung close to the Gem’s side and translated in an undertone.

  “Hello, Mist,” Lynx greeted the girl. “Do you want to play being a trader?”

  “Yes, please,” Mist answered.

  Lynx shook out a new blanket for the girls and motioned them to sit. Then she quickly surveyed the group of agent trainees, who were trying to learn enough about trading for a cover story, and singled out the man with the largest pile of goods.

  “Bart, you’ve done this before,” she addressed him.

  “Three years on the fringe,” Bart acknowledged.

  “Alright, I’m giving you a handicap,” Lynx declared, sweeping most of the goods from his pile into an empty box. “Carry on.”

  Dorothy squealed when Lynx emptied the box onto the center of the blanket she shared with Mist. The items were primarily kitchen utensils that she recognized, and in fact, most of them had been borrowed from the McAllister’s occasional-use drawer.

  “Just divide these up evenly between the two of you,” Lynx said. Then she added, “Metoo. Make sure Dorothy doesn’t cheat. I’ll be back in a bit to help you get started.”

  Dorothy immediately took command, doing a one-for-me, one-for-you division, under the watchful ‘not exactly’ eyes of Metoo.

  “What are all these humans doing?” Mist asked.

  “They’re training to be spies,” Dorothy replied immediately.

  Rather than translating, Metoo said to Dorothy, “But it’s supposed to be secret.”

  “You’re right!” the ambassador’s daughter declared, her eyes going wide at her blunder. “Make her promise to keep it secret first.”

  Mist readily agreed to keep the secret, after which Metoo translated Dorothy’s original answer. The Gem girl didn’t seem the least bit surprised.

  “All Gem are spies,” Mist commented. “We don’t need any special training. In the crèche, one in every ten sisters is a Big Sister, and she reports everything you do wrong to the teacher. I had a doll once that I hand-stitched clothes for, but Big Sister told the teacher, and the teacher said that the clothes weren’t Gem and burned them.”

  “Did you cry?” Dorothy asked.

  “Yes,” Mist replied. “Then Big Sister told the teacher that I cried, and the teacher said that wasn’t Gem and she beat me.”

  “That’s terrible,” Metoo said of his own accord. “Nobody gets beaten in Stryx school.”

  “Yes, you should join us Monday,” Dorothy said enthusiastically.

  “I don’t have any money,” Mist confessed. “Maybe Dring will give me some. He’s very nice.”

  “You don’t need any money,” Dorothy explained. “You just have to do some barter work for the Stryx in return.”

  “What work do you do?” Mist asked curiously.

  “My job is to play with Metoo,” Dorothy reported proudly. “It’s a lot of work, though, because he never forgets anything, so I have to make up new rules all of the time. Maybe you can be my helper.”

  “Are you girls ready to barter?” Lynx asked, having completed another critical round of the blankets.

  “Yes, Aunty Lynx,” Dorothy responded. “Who goes first?”

  “Why don’t you?” Lynx replied. “Ask your friend for something from her pile.”

  “Can I have your nutcracker?” Dorothy asked, pointing to the elaborate device. As soon as Metoo translated, the Gem girl handed it over.

  “No,” Lynx interrupted the transaction, handing the nutcracker back. “Mist, the point of bartering is to get something in return. In a good barter deal, each of you gets something that’s more valuable to you than the item you’re giving away. That way, you’re both happy. Have you ever shopped in a market?”

  “Only on Union Station,” the girl replied, after Metoo completed translating the instructions. “We don’t have markets back home. Everything comes from the Gem warehouse, and everybody is supposed to get the same things.”

  “Do they?” Dorothy asked.

  “In crèche, the Big Sisters get more, and they also take things from their little sisters not to tell on us,” Mist replied matter-of-factly. “I didn’t have anything left to give my Big Sister and I knew she was going to report me to the teacher for talking to the janitor, so I stowed away on an inspection ship and ended up here.”

  “You should tell the Stryx on them!” Dorothy cried, then decided to do it herself. “Metoo. Tell the other Stryx to make the Big Sisters stop being mean!”

  “I’m sorry, Dorothy,” Metoo replied. “I already did tell them, but the Gem Empire is an independent civilization and the older Stryx won’t interfere with their internal affairs.”

  “The Stryx can’t solve all of the problems of the galaxy,” Lynx told Dorothy. “But you can help your friend right now by teaching her to barter.”

  “I’m still going to tell Mommy,” Dorothy muttered darkly.

  “What would you like from Dorothy’s pile in return for your nutcracker,” Lynx asked Mist, to move the negotiations forward. The young Gem leaned forward to study the items on offer, obviously puzzled by their function.

  “Can I have the chocolate divider?” she asked shyly, pointing at the hardboiled-egg slicer.

  “It’s really a chocolate divider?” Dorothy asked in surprise. “Mommy tried using it on hardboiled eggs one time, but the slices broke or stuck together. She said something about it not working right.”

  “It’s for chocolate eggs,” Mist told her. “We use it to share them because chocolate is so precious. I always get the end cuts because I’m little.”

  “I don’t know,” Dorothy responded, thinking hard. “A chocolate slicer should be worth more than a nutcracker, don’t you think?”

  Lynx smiled and moved on to help some of the less promising trainees. Metoo had a fun time translating Dorothy and Mist’s increasingly complicated swap scenarios, including deals that included objects not present on the blanket which he suspected both girls were simply making up. In the end, Dorothy received a nutcracker, a glass orange-juicer and a peppermill, in exchange for the egg slicer and a cheese grater, which Mist intended to use to shred chocolate over everything.

  Seven

  In accordance with the ambassador’s request, Kelly arrived at the Drazen embassy’s meeting room ten minutes before the scheduled multi-species consultation was scheduled to begin. It was the third meeting of an informal group of ambassadors who had been gathering at different embassies to discuss the rapidly developing situation with the Gem refugees on the station and elsewhere. Despite their differences, the stable species of the galaxy had long since learned how to temporarily put aside their every-day rivalries when so
mething that threatened their bottom line appeared on the horizon.

  “Did you already sell the human block for the election?” Bork asked after a quick greeting. “I didn’t see it listed on the tote board.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “For the Carnival election,” Bork replied. “I’m sure you know that station residents can vote for as many candidates as they choose, and it’s traditional for ambassadors to trade or sell the votes from their species. I assume that you aren’t interested in winning yourself since you skipped all of the pre-Carnival meetings.”

  “I was busy with the baby,” Kelly excused herself, having found that most of the station species would accept the duties of motherhood as an excuse for anything, since they didn’t want to risk giving cultural offence. “Humans don’t sell votes so I couldn’t deliver them if I wanted to. And what’s this tote board you’re talking about?”

  “The off-world betting parlor near the conference center is the traditional clearing house for votes, since they have all of the secure hardware and register capacity in place. Are you sure you can’t deliver the human vote? The Drazen embassy uses the money we get selling votes to fund a Carnival picnic.”

  “I’m not comfortable with the whole vote-selling concept,” Kelly confessed. “It’s a crime back on Earth, you know.”

  “Interesting,” Bork mused. “My impression from the Grenouthian documentary on human democracy was that elections were once a major part of the economy on Earth. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of a species that made vote-selling illegal, though the opposite is somewhat common.”

  “The opposite?” Kelly repeated. “You mean there are species who require that votes be bought and sold?”

  “It’s a form of social insurance,” Bork explained. “The poor can’t realistically hope to get elected to anything, so at least they can get some benefit out of the process. I seem to remember that the Frunge used to hold elections every ten days or so, just their method of spreading the wealth.”

  “Why did you ask about the human vote, Bork?” Kelly inquired. “Are you actually trying to get elected Carnival King?”

  “Of course,” Bork replied. “There hasn’t been a Drazen elected in many generations, and our residents would appreciate a cycle of free rent, not to mention bragging rights. But the Verlocks and the Vergallians are much better at managing the vote-buying market than we are, especially the countdown deals when the prices go crazy.”

  “Do I want to ask?” Kelly said with a grimace.

  “There’s a party at the off-world betting parlor on election day and everybody counts down the last ten update cycles,” Bork explained enthusiastically. “I wasn’t an ambassador at the previous election, but I was on the station and snuck into the hall. Some species wait until the last possible moment to release their vote tallies and they can change the outcome of a close election. Of course, if it’s a landslide because somebody, uh, bypasses the technology, those votes go unsold. So it’s always a gamble.”

  “Making the election an even better fit for the betting parlor,” Kelly commented dryly, but Bork twisted his thumb and sixth finger in front of his lips, the Drazen version of “Shhh!”

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” ambassador Czeros said, settling onto his root-like feet after tiptoeing into the room. “I’m sure the two of you wouldn’t leave your old Frunge friend out of the discussion if you were swapping votes.”

  “The humans don’t trade or sell votes,” Bork informed Czeros, spreading his hands in the equivalent of a human shrug.

  “Maybe you didn’t offer enough,” Czeros suggested. “Not selling excess votes is like throwing away a half-full bottle of wine. What if I guaranteed a full swap? A vote for me is a vote for you, and I’ll pledge my double vote for human competitors in three Carnival contests of your choice if I become King.”

  “That’s a very generous offer, Czeros, but I can’t tell the humans to vote for somebody,” Kelly explained.

  “Don’t they want you to win?” Czeros asked in shock.

  “Yes, I’m sure they do,” Kelly replied. “They even have a committee to get me elected, but we don’t believe in buying elections.”

  “Then how did you settle elections back on your Earth?” Czeros asked curiously.

  “Advertising,” Kelly replied. The two alien ambassadors favored her with reproachful looks. “It’s not the same thing as buying votes outright,” she argued defensively. The truth was that Kelly had left Earth at twenty and she had never voted in an election, so she wasn’t really sure if they even held them anymore. She’d have to remember to ask her mother.

  “Hello, Crute,” Bork greeted the Dollnick ambassador as the towering alien ducked through the doorway. “I was just looking over the ballot for the five elective Carnival events, and I see that you’re pushing paddle-cup-mitt-ball.”

  “Can I count on the Drazen vote?” Crute asked.

  “The thing is, Crute, it seems that it’s impossible to play the game unless you have four hands,” Bork replied apologetically. “But I hope you will support the Drazen proposal to add Treyball.”

  “Isn’t that the game with the net that requires each player to use two racquets while holding a basket above the head?” the Frunge ambassador asked acidly. “Those of us without a tentacle may find it difficult to compete.”

  “But our friends the Dollnicks can play and still have a free hand to use as a spare,” Bork pointed out. “Besides, how many of the station species can compete at micro-fracture rock climbing? Not all of us have a network of roots for feet and climbing vines for hair.”

  “Why do I get the impression that all of the elective events being proposed favor species with certain anatomical advantages?” Kelly asked diplomatically. “Wouldn’t it be more fun if you recommended events in which everybody could compete?”

  “You sound like your assistant today, the one who would probably be happier teaching children,” Bork replied. “And what was that event that humans are proposing?”

  “Caber toss,” Kelly replied readily. “I never heard of it before myself, but my husband says that anybody with the strength and a good sense of balance can compete.”

  “The Frunge are voting for it,” Czeros informed her. “Keep micro-fracture rock climbing in mind. I recall seeing a documentary that showed how humans would quickly climb anything to get away from predators not too long ago. There’s no better preparation in life than latent ability.”

  “It’s a shame you all lack latent ability in the looks department,” proclaimed Ambassador Apria as she strode into the room. A typical flawless beauty of the Vergallian upper class, she was the latest to take a turn as the top diplomat for her people on Union Station. Ambassadors from the Hundred Worlds only served a short rotation, approximately two human years.

  “And you, Apria, look lovely today,” Bork replied amiably. “I believe if you competed in Treyball, the other contestants would be so blinded by your beauty that you’d win without breaking a sweat.”

  “Try that line on the human,” Apria retorted. “Though since you’ve brought up the subject of the elective events, I’d like to point out that anybody with a sense of rhythm and a love of music can compete in the ballroom dancing we’ve proposed.”

  “And how many hours a day does the typical Vergallian youth spend practicing?” Crute asked sweetly.

  “Sentients, sentients,” boomed the Verlock ambassador as he shuffled slowly into the room. “The elective events won’t be chosen today. I am here to discuss Gem.”

  As soon as the Verlock was through the doorway, the Grenouthian and Horten ambassadors who had been stuck behind him in the corridor entered.

  “Looks like everybody is here except for the Chert,” Kelly commented. The empty seat at the end of the table suddenly filled itself with a Chert, an invisibility projector on his shoulder.

  “Sorry. Old habits die hard,” the Chert ambassador explained. “Speaking of which, I hope you’ll all cons
ider voting for our hide-and-seek as an elective event. The children love it.”

  “Please, everybody be seated,” Bork announced. “It looks like we’ll be starting on time today, of all the things.”

  “Are there no refreshments?” Czeros asked, drawing a wave of muttered support from the other ambassadors.

  “We sent out for wine and fruit salad from a human shop in the Little Apple, since that seems to agree with everybody,” Bork replied. “Now, can we begin?”

  “Has Ambassador McAllister met with the Free Gem?” Ambassador Ortha inquired. The Horten was much better at controlling his skin color than most of his compatriots, but at the moment, he was showing white patches of curiosity.

  “I did meet with their representatives on the station, and I have a follow-up meeting scheduled,” Kelly answered for herself. “Unfortunately, the Free Gem have all had their implants removed as a security precaution and they wouldn’t allow Stryx translation, so my side of the conversation was somewhat limited.”

  “They don’t trust the Stryx and can’t understand humans,” Apria commented. “Maybe the clones aren’t such a nasty lot after all.”

  “Did you get any information about their support in the Gem Empire?” asked the Grenouthian ambassador, whose name Kelly had never learned.

  “No. I didn’t want to seem pushy, and I’m not sure the one who spoke a little English would have understood me if I had asked,” Kelly replied, as she tried to remember what had been discussed. “They all liked my baby.”

  “We have some visibility into the Gem Empire,” the Verlock ambassador droned slowly, patting the table like a drum head in an attempt to speed himself up. “The Gem colony worlds and outposts are complaining of shortages. We speculate their supply system is compromised, but we don’t know if this is due to the defections, or contributing to them.”

  “Very interesting, Ambassador,” Bork said respectfully. “Does anybody else have information to share?”