by E. M. Foner
“It’s a tough situation,” Daniel acknowledged. “Give us all of the documentation you have and we’ll share it with EarthCent Intelligence. If you’re willing to go on the record with the Galactic Free Press, it would help raise awareness about employing contractors offsite.”
“Do we have a correspondent on your world?” Walter asked.
“A couple of our kids participate in the Children’s News Network via their teacher bots, and I know we’ve had a few stories about local events make it into the Galactic Free Press through that channel.”
“Why don’t the two of you talk after the session?” Aabina suggested. “Where’s the woman who approached me in the corridor with a question? Elizabeth?”
“Here,” a middle-aged woman replied. “I’m from Jzeop, a Frunge open world where my group just completed a ten-year contract and has agreed to stay on to form our own community. We all came directly from Earth after signing up with a human who had a subcontract from the Frunge, but we didn’t realize that he was acting as our agent.”
“You mean all of the money went through him?” Blythe asked. “I’m afraid I know how this goes.”
“Right. So our Frunge employers went beyond the letter of the contract in providing our housing and child support, and we received our salaries on time every week. But after we completed the contract and began negotiating directly to stay on Jzeop to work in the same jobs, it came out that our pension contributions had all been paid to the original human contractor.”
“Who is no longer accepting your pings.”
“There were just under eight thousand adults in our group working full time for ten years, and the Frunge were contributing ten percent of our salaries. It’s not a small amount of money.”
“And what actions have you taken so far?”
“Our situation is the same as the guy who just reported the child labor violation. We only found out a couple of weeks ago, so rather than throwing good money after bad on expensive Stryxnet calls to who knows where, we decided to wait until we were here.”
“Were the Frunge able to tell you where they were sending the money?” Daniel asked.
“Yes, but the contractor was clearly preparing for this all along. He used to take all of the payments over the register network, but a few cycles ago, he had the Frunge start directing the payments to a Thark bank.”
“Thark bookie.”
“Most of us are still young and we have time to rebuild our retirement savings, plus we’ll earn more now than we did the first ten years. But if there’s anything we can do…”
“I’m afraid you’re talking about a stern chase when the other ship is already over the horizon,” Walter said. “If you’re willing, the Galactic Free Press will send a correspondent to your world to do an in-depth series, and hopefully that will make other contract workers check with their employers about who is holding pension benefits and balloon payments. I’m sure that EarthCent Intelligence will contact ISPOA and do what they can, but that much money and that much of a head start will be a challenge. I can almost guarantee that he’s no longer in Stryx space.”
“So sad,” Kelly subvoced to the Stryx librarian. “Is there anything you can do?”
“We have to draw the line somewhere, Ambassador, but I can offer you a bit of advice to pass on. Large sums of money often turn into a curse for white collar criminals because of the opportunity for legal operatives to make a big score. Tell the victims to offer a substantial reward for the recovery of their funds. Ten percent would come to millions of creds.”
“Do you mean bounty hunters?”
“The advanced species don’t prohibit their police forces from accepting rewards. They’re very effective.”
Fifteen
“Don’t think of it as a tech-ban world,” Samuel told the potential settler. “Think of it as a park or a nature reserve.”
“With no holographic entertainment.”
“Studies show that children learn better when they aren’t distracted by technology.”
“But we were counting on teacher bots subsidized by the Stryx for most of our schooling needs.”
“And the Vergallian queens grant an exception for teacher bots as being part of humanity’s cultural heritage since joining the tunnel network.”
“You speak excellent English for a Vergallian.”
“Thank you,” Samuel said. He’d discovered through trial and error in two dozen similar conversations that it was best to accept the compliment and move on. “If I could just get your contact information…”
“Maybe I’ll stop back after visiting the other booths,” the woman said. “I heard that the Drazens are providing free housing for skilled equipment operators on the latest world they opened to immigration.”
“I’ll be here,” Samuel called after her retreating back. He noticed that the tray of oversized chocolate chip cookies that helped attract passersby into the U-shaped booth was running low and busied himself refilling it. Not many people were helping themselves to the free wine, but it was still late morning so that wasn’t too surprising. He took advantage of the extended lull to check the large cooler unit, which contained a dozen trays of pre-wrapped sandwiches and party platters prepared by Gem caterers, but decided against putting any of it out yet.
Aabina approached the booth and helped herself to a glass of red wine. “I’m done moderating panels for the day,” she explained. “How’s it going with you?”
“Not great,” Samuel admitted. “People love our immersive dramas but they think that living on tech ban worlds means going back to the dark ages. Humans working on our worlds live longer and healthier lives than they would on Earth, and those statistics are based primarily on mercenaries and their families, so it could only improve for farmers and craftsmen.”
“But our people have only had modern technology for a few hundred years,” Aabina countered. “Why would we even consider going backwards, not to mention moving to worlds governed by queens?”
“Somebody has to be in charge, and you don’t need to be a fan of Grenouthian documentaries to know how badly the governments on Earth were botching the job before the Stryx opened the planet.”
“That’s the problem with you advanced species,” the Vergallian ambassador’s daughter said. “You’re always harping on humanity’s failures and not giving us any credit for our successes. Just look around the trade show and you’ll see what we can accomplish living under our own sovereign governments.”
A man carrying a canvas bag stuffed with trade show swag stepped up next to Aabina and said, “You tell him, Miss,” as he wrapped several cookies in a napkin. Then he looked at the Vergallian girl’s face and his jaw dropped. “Aren’t you on the wrong side of the argument?”
“I’m with the EarthCent embassy. Are you finding everything you need today?”
“Yes. Well, actually, I could use a replacement belt for an old Frunge conveyer but the vendors here all want to sell me new equipment.”
“Try the booth in the far corner that has a windmill turbine on display,” Aabina said. “They’re from one of our communities that leases a Frunge recycling facility and they deal in used and remanufactured equipment. If you don’t have any luck, the Eccentric Enterprises circuit ship will be arriving in a few days, and the Dollnick distributors on board stock millions of replacement parts for heavy equipment.”
“That’s great news. I know that the Dollys on Flower will have the parts because we’ve dealt with them before, but they skipped our world on the last circuit. Thanks for the cookies,” he added, and then stepped around an approaching Verlock on his way out of the booth.
“Humans,” Samuel complained to Aabina. “All you care about is the free stuff.”
“Busy?” the Verlock inquired.
“Is that you, Wrylenth?” the EarthCent ambassador’s son asked, peering at the photo ID the Verlock was wearing.
“Samuel McAllister,” the bulky alien replied ponderously. “Why are you working in the V
ergallian booth?”
“It’s my co-op job. Did the Open University place you with one of the news services?”
“EarthCent Intelligence.”
“I’m working for our embassy, Wrylenth, and I better check on the other booths before the lunch crowd shows up,” Aabina said, offering the Verlock a human-style handshake. “If there’s anything you need, just let me know. I’ll see you later, Samuel.”
“The Vergallian ambassador’s daughter?” Wrylenth asked after she left.
“Yes,” Samuel confirmed. “Aabina.”
“Which embassy is her co-op job?”
“Ours. I mean, yours. I mean, EarthCent’s. I used to take pronouns for granted but they’re getting pretty confusing.”
The Verlock took a minute to process this information and then fished a tab out of his large belt pouch. “Conducting survey,” he said, minimizing his word count to save time.
“How long will it take? I’m the only one working the booth.”
“Five hours?” Wrylenth suggested.
“Five minutes?” Samuel counter offered.
“We’ll play it by ear,” the Verlock ground out. “What are your strategic goals?”
“Do you mean for the Empire of a Hundred Worlds in general, or for our embassy’s booth rental here today?”
“Trade show.”
“We’re trying to build a contact list of people who would be interested in attending events at our embassy promoting open worlds.”
“The Vergallian embassy?”
“Yes.”
“Vergallian open worlds?”
“Yes.”
“There aren’t any.”
“No, but there are a number of forward-looking queens who are interested in—”
“Stop,” Wrylenth cut him off. “We’re under surveillance.”
“What? Where?” Samuel demanded, looking around the crowded trade show floor. He thought he saw a figure ducking behind a Dollnick a few booths over but he couldn’t be sure. “What species?”
“Can’t talk now,” the Verlock said. He put his tab back in its belt pouch. “Protocol. Must return to base.”
“But we don’t even know if they’re watching you or me, I mean, the Vergallians or EarthCent—or the Verlocks,” Samuel added in frustration as the other co-op student shuffled off. He spun back toward the booth where he’d spotted the possible agent earlier, and this time he saw Vivian tapping away on her student tab. Then she looked up again and blushed. A second later, he answered her incoming ping.
“Pretend you didn’t see me,” she said over his implant.
“Are you still mad about finding Aabina in my bedroom?” he subvoced in return.
“Yes, but that’s not why I’m spying on you.”
“You’re spying on me?”
“Not you-you. I’m spying on the Vergallian booth.”
“For EarthCent?”
“For the Drazens. Have you already forgotten who I work for?”
“But we’re the good Vergallians,” Samuel protested. “We’re trying to help.”
“That’s for the analysts to say, I’m just carrying out surveillance.”
“When do you get off work? We could grab dinner.”
“I’ve got another ping. I’ll talk to you later.”
Samuel watched as his girlfriend broke off her surveillance to hurry in the direction Wrylenth had taken earlier. He made a mental note to inform Vergallian embassy security that the Drazens were spying on the booth, and then ate another one of the cookies and started on an apple from the fruit bowl.
The noise on the trade show floor surged as the late morning sessions began letting out, and experienced convention attendees flooded the Nebulae room to see if they could manage a free lunch from the snacks on offer. Samuel hurried to put out a tray of pre-wrapped sandwich halves and one of the party platters. The booth was immediately mobbed as a result.
“Put your card in the fishbowl and win a free dinner for two at your choice of restaurant in the Little Apple,” he repeated whenever a new face appeared. It was clear that the visitors were more intent on eating than talking, so he settled for playing the good host in the hope that they would remember the booth and come back to talk later.
“Do you have anything to drink other than wine?” a woman asked.
“Sorry, I forgot,” Samuel said. He opened the cooler again and pulled out a bus pan packed with bottled juices and Union Station Springs water. “I have cups too if you prefer.”
“No, this is fine,” the woman said, grabbing two bottles of water. “One for later,” she added apologetically.
“There’s more where that came from. Just remember, the Vergallian embassy is here to serve.”
“Serve who?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Do you have tuna fish?” a familiar voice asked.
“Mom! What are you doing here?”
“Trying to get a quick bite to eat. I’ve promised the Grenouthian network an interview and then I’m chairing a panel so I don’t have time for a restaurant.”
“Let me check the cooler,” Samuel said.
“Bring the whole tray,” his mother called. “These sandwiches are going fast.”
“Are embassy outreach booths always this busy?” he asked his mother after he returned with the sandwiches. Kelly didn’t answer because she was too intent on trying to find the edge of the plastic wrap on the triangular cut sandwich. “Here, let me get that before you smoosh it all together.”
“Thank you, Sam. I can’t even imagine what the Vergallian embassy’s discretionary budget must be. Bakery cookies, sandwiches, bottled juice, and party platters? What you have on offer right now is more than we spend catering official events.”
“Here,” he said, giving his mother the unwrapped tuna sandwich. “I wouldn’t have spent all this money myself but Aainda’s embassy manager did the ordering. The Gem came and dropped off this cooler in the morning, and they said they’d be back to restock as soon as it fell to thirty percent of capacity. It must have sensors inside.” He noted that his mother was wolfing down her food and unwrapped another half of a tuna sandwich for her. “I heard your keynote address was a huge success.”
Kelly pointed at her mouth to indicate that she was too busy chewing to respond, so Samuel circulated with the fishbowl again, gathering another crop of business cards and holocubes. When he got back to the sandwich trays, his mother was gone. The feeding frenzy lasted throughout the lunch hour and two resupply missions from the Gem caterers, who didn’t even bother putting the second delivery in the cooler since the sandwiches were going so fast. By the time the chimes announced the start of the afternoon sessions, the EarthCent ambassador’s son felt like he had run a marathon.
“Bob Steelforth, Galactic Free Press,” a tall, thin man announced himself.
“You don’t have to introduce yourself, Bob. I was standing right in front of you at your wedding, if you’ve forgotten.”
“Just following standard operating procedure,” the reporter said. “I don’t remember if Judith and I ever thanked you and Vivian for giving up your couples rings for us to use for the ceremony. I haven’t taken mine off since.”
“You can’t, unless Judith uses hers to draw it off,” Samuel reminded him. “It’s Verlock memory metal.”
“I forgot about that. Do you have time for an interview?”
“If you don’t mind asking questions while I’m cleaning up.”
“I’m in no hurry,” the reporter said, snagging a broken cookie before Samuel could throw it away. “I’m on a panel later this afternoon and I don’t want to go straight there from covering another session.”
“Which panel are you doing?”
“Rumors. We’ve been hearing so many of them at the paper lately that Chastity is talking about starting a new desk to cover them. Hey, is it possible it’s your people again?”
“My people?”
“The Vergallians. You’re the ones who tried to
manipulate us into voting to leave the tunnel network not too long ago. Don’t you remember? Our managing editor originally came to Union Station as a political organizer who was unwittingly working for Vergallian Imperial Intelligence.”
“I forgot about that,” Samuel admitted. “I was only seven. Has the newspaper been around that long?”
“Chastity started it right afterwards. This latest rumor about the president of EarthCent quitting and your mom taking over has that same feel to it, and then there’s the whole business with Gryph selling Union Station. The bigger the lie, the more likely people will believe it.”
“I don’t believe it, but if Vergallian Imperial Intelligence is involved, I wouldn’t know anything about that. I’m working for the diplomatic service and my ambassador’s world is in one of the anti-Imperial factions. You know how complicated their politics get.”
“Not as complicated as the Open University’s co-op program,” Bob said. He peered at the label on the last unopened bottle of juice, which turned out to be papaya-cranberry. “Do you want this?”
“It’s all yours. Does the Galactic Free Press hire co-op students?”
“Not yet, but I heard a rumor that we’re going to start. When I tried to get an interview with Daniel this morning, he fobbed me off on a Vergallian girl who gave me enough material for two articles. She’s brilliant.”
“Aabina. She aced the EarthCent civil service exam. What did you want to ask me about?”
The reporter took a swallow of the papaya-cranberry juice and made a face. “Who comes up with these combinations?”
“Beats me.” Samuel took a close look at the label on a juice container he was about to drop in the glass recycling bin. “Blended from the finest reconstituted molecules and bottled by Union Station Springs. I think it may be one of Libby’s businesses.”
“Then it’s probably good for me,” Bob said resignedly and took another swig. “So what can you tell me on the record about the Vergallian embassy’s goal in coming to the trade show?”