by E. M. Foner
“Isn’t that the young man who works for you in the kitchen?” Irene asked, pointing towards the table occupied by the tour guides. Harry looked up and saw Bill handing a package to Joab, who used his butter knife to cut it open.
“He must be making a delivery for the new business Flower started. I can’t wrap my head around the economics of what they’re doing based on the way he explained it to me.”
“What’s so complicated about package delivery?”
“It sounded to me like rather than charging for postage or freight cost, they buy the packages from the sender in exchange for fruit, and then sell them to the recipient for cash,” Harry explained.
“That’s an interesting business model,” Dave said. “If you’re serious about making a sale, there’s no better way than showing up in person with the goods. Back in the day, I sold more samples out of my kit than I took orders for custom units.”
“What did you sell?”
“Pretty much everything at one time or another. I was a professional salesman, not somebody who got stuck doing it because the business didn’t have anybody else. I was a millionaire before I was forty, though that was e-bucks, not creds.”
“What did you spend it all on?”
“Whatever junk anybody tried to sell me,” Dave replied with a laugh. “There’s nobody easier to sell to than a salesman.”
“I would have thought the opposite,” Harry said. “You know all the tricks.”
“There aren’t any tricks, other than timing your closing proposition. What made me a great salesman was that I always believed in the products I represented, and when I found something I could believe in even more, I moved along. But I never sold real estate, and it was timeshares that ruined my personal finances. It seemed like such a great idea, owning a share of different places where I’d want to spend a few weeks a year. My goal was to own a slice of enough different condos that I could always live where the weather was nice.”
“That sounds like a good plan,” Jack said. “What went wrong?”
“Pretty much everything. As Earth’s population kept dropping, the businesses managing these places had to keep on raising the maintenance fees on the members who didn’t default. By the end, the value of the individual timeshares was zero, and the management was happy to get anybody who would cover the fees. On top of that, I underestimated the cost of flying from place to place every other week. Then my health started giving me problems, and with all the doctor visits, scheduling became a nightmare. I had fun for a decade or two, but I burned through all of my savings.”
“And now you get to travel the galaxy without ever leaving home,” Nancy said. “I read an old novel about wealthy people who lived permanently on luxury ocean liners, crossing back and forth between Europe and North America.”
“Why would anybody do that?” Harry asked.
“Supposedly the food was very good.”
“If everybody is finished, why don’t we take a look through the displays as a group so we won’t have to wait for strays when the tour starts,” Jack suggested.
“How about the gift shop?” somebody asked.
“Don’t worry. If there’s one thing I’m sure of it’s that nobody gets off this planet without going through the gift shop.”
The time for their tour to start came and went without the guide appearing. Jack delegated Harry to check the restrooms while he went to ask at the table where Joab had last been seen. The baker was too old to bend low enough to look for feet in the stall with the locked door, and he was about to give up when he heard a loud beeping.
“Are you okay in there?” Harry called, knocking on the door.
“I just got killed again,” a voice complained. “Go away.”
“Is that you, Joab?”
“No.”
“It is you. Open the door and let’s get going. You owe us a tour.”
The toilet flushed, and then the reluctant guide came out, still looking down at the portable game system he held in his hand. “I forgot how much I hated this thing,” Joab said. “It’s addictive. I broke it the first time by throwing it at a wall. It’s your fault for bringing it back to me.”
“Our fault?”
“Well, your ship, so it is your fault, sort of.”
“Just put it away,” Harry suggested. “You’re going to fall into an excavation if you try walking backwards, talking, and playing games at the same time.”
“I can do this,” the guide insisted.
Three hours later, Harry had to admit that the kid had done a reasonable job of giving a tour without ever looking up to watch where he was going, and somehow Joab even managed to answer their questions. The endless beeps coming from the game even came in handy when they entered the underground portion of the site, a network of tunnels that had only recently been excavated.
“That’s it,” Joab informed them when the group arrived back at the gift shop. “Any other questions?”
“Are there retired workers living near the dig site?” Nancy inquired. “We like to spread the good word about living on board Flower when the opportunity arises.”
“It’s an active excavation site, so the only non-workers are children and family members. Since the world is sponsored by the Stryx, they offer free transportation to anywhere on the tunnel network for employees who complete their contracts.”
“Flower is going to be disappointed,” Dave said.
“Don’t worry,” Harry told him. “Flower mentioned that her favorite part about visiting interesting places with lots of humans is she can fill the shuttle seats in both directions.”
Fourteen
The Frunge blacksmith called his part-time apprentice over to the display table. “They want a demonstration of the mace. I’ll hold up the target and you try not to miss this time.”
Bill choked up on the mace while Razood used a grease pencil to draw a small circle in an unmarked area of the badly pitted surface of a metal-clad practice shield. Summoning up all of the instructions that his employer had drummed into his head, Bill kept both eyes open and focused on the target as he followed through with an overhand swing. The wiry blacksmith allowed the muscles of his arms to absorb the shock, and then flipped the shield to inspect the damage.
“Close,” he said, examining the new dent and perforation that fell right on the grease line. Then the Frunge blacksmith handed the shield over to his potential customers, game designers who joined the ship at Bits.
“So, even though the raised ridges on the mace head aren’t that sharp, they punched through the metal,” the taller customer said, running his finger across the dent.
“The steel cladding was stretched to the failing point in a small area,” Razood confirmed. “Personally, I can’t imagine why anybody would choose to fight in full plate armor for exactly that reason, but I understand it was popular with wealthy knights at one point in your history.”
“Better a dent in your armor than a hole in your body,” the other game designer observed.
“Not necessarily,” the blacksmith told him. “Imagine you’re in the middle of a battle and you now have a dimple of metal plate crushed into your body and you can’t even take the armor off. And no matter how well balanced a suit of plate armor, it’s going to put limits on your mobility. I saw a Grenouthian documentary about a famous battle that took place on your world less than a millennium ago. Thousands of armored men were basically immobilized in waist-deep mud, and many drowned or were slaughtered with ranged weapons. In the end, the best defense is a good offense.”
“We’ll take the mace,” said the taller man who had requested the demonstration. “As to the price, can you sharpen your pencil a little?”
Razood looked down at the grease stick he had used to draw the target. “It works fine as is.”
“I meant, could you come down on the two-hundred-cred price? My team has a three-hundred-cred budget for new maces to model for the next game update and we were hoping to buy a spiked ball mace as well.
”
“Some people call them flails,” the other game designer put in.
Razood looked to Bill. “Do you know what they’re talking about?”
“I’m not a weapons guy,” the apprentice protested.
“Can I borrow your grease pencil?” the first man asked, and he rapidly sketched a new weapon on the back of the shield. “There’s the handle, a chain about as long as my forearm, and then the metal ball with spikes.”
The Frunge was clearly perplexed as he studied the drawing. “Are you sure it’s supposed to look like this?”
“They were really common, at least on playing cards. Hey, do you have that library book with you, Geoff?”
“I think it’s still in my pack,” the other game designer said. He slid the strap off his shoulder, unsnapped the flap, and rummaged around inside. “Here you go.”
The team leader flipped through the pages and quickly located several color photographs showing examples of the war flail he was talking about. If anything, Razood appeared even more puzzled than before.
“But these couldn’t possibly have functioned as weapons,” the blacksmith said slowly. “There’s no way to control the heavy iron ball on the chain. You’re more likely to injure yourself or your shield-mate with one of those spikes than to hit an enemy with it.”
“But the pictures are from a museum collection,” Geoff protested.
“What does the description say, Bill? I can read Humanese, but that font is a bit strange.”
“Replica war flails of various types,” the apprentice read.
“Check the descriptions of other pictures in the book.”
Bill began skimming through the surrounding pages, reporting on the captions as he went. “Most of the photographs give a place and date where they think the weapon was manufactured, and some of the fancier pieces are identified as dress armor or gifts that were never intended for use in combat. And here’s a suit of armor that was assembled from multiple sources, but those spiked ball things are the only ones listed as replicas.”
“Just as I thought,” Razood told the Bitters. “Some artist must have decided that a spiked ball on a chain would make a fine weapon to add to a painting, but I doubt they ever saw a battlefield.”
“Are you sure?” the team leader asked doubtfully. “They’re in a lot of games. Could you make one? I can pay three hundred creds for the mace and a spiked war flail.”
“It would be more practical with a long handle and just enough chain to let the business end swing, maybe two links connected to a shorter shaft with spikes, rather than a heavy ball.”
“That sounds like a weaponized version of an agricultural flail used by peasants,” Geoff said. “There are pictures of what you just described in the book.”
“The thing is, we’re adding these weapons to the game by request,” the team leader confessed. “The spiked ball flail was at the top of the list for the upgrade.”
“I’ll make one for you on two conditions,” Razood offered. “First, you don’t tell anybody where you got it. Second, if you need to map the ball in motion for the physics engine of your game, ask Flower to send a maintenance bot to swing the flail for you.”
The two game designers exchanged a look. “We can live with that,” Geoff said. “How long will it take you?”
“If you don’t want a fancy handle, it’s just a question of tapping an iron ball with holes and cutting some threads on small spikes to screw in. I have plenty of hand-forged chain around that I make for fun in my spare time. How heavy do you want the ball?”
“I guess if you could make it look like those replica pictures, that would be best,” the team leader said. “Do we pay a deposit?”
“For a custom order like this that has no market value, I’ll have to get the full amount upfront. But you can take the real mace with you today and I’ll have the replica done by the end of your week.”
After the game designers paid and departed, Bill asked, “How come you refused to forge cheap swords and axe heads for role-playing when I suggested it, but you’re willing to make a completely imaginary weapon?”
“You just answered your own question.”
“I did?”
“It’s imaginary, nobody with any intelligence could possibly mistake it for real. My code prevents me from producing low-quality weapons that could actually find their way into combat.”
“When’s the last time the Frunge fought a war with medieval weapons?” Bill followed up.
“There was a period in our history when we had a number of tech ban worlds, like the Vergallians, and you never know when some enemy will deploy superior technology that prevents your modern weapons from working,” Razood said. “Muscle-powered weapons practice remains a large part of basic training for our military and reserves. Don’t you need to get going?”
“I’m supposed to help Harry in the cafeteria today, but he probably doesn’t have much for me to do if you want me to come back this afternoon.”
“This job will only take me a few hours and I don’t want you learning bad habits. I’m going to start by visiting the booth in the bazaar where they sell those antique firearms and check if they have a small iron ball I can use rather than making one from scratch. Say hello to Jorb for me, and maybe I’ll see you at supper.”
“I’ll be there serving,” Bill promised, and headed off for his martial arts lesson at the Drazen’s dojo. A couple of new students from Bits were there, and Julie arrived just on time, so Bill didn’t get a chance to talk with her until after the session. Jorb beat him to the punch.
“How are you progressing at singing?” the Drazen asked Julie.
“I have to thank you for that. Rinka is a sweetheart, and I’m having a great time.”
“You sound better already, and I noticed that your breathing has improved as well, but I meant, are you making progress about me?”
“We haven’t really discussed you,” Julie said. “I’m working my way around to it.”
“I’m sure she knows I sent you, but she’s too refined to say anything,” Jorb said. “We need to come up with a plan to meet by accident in a public space with chaperones.”
“How is it an accident if you make a plan?”
The Drazen groaned and pulled on his tentacle. “Just come up with a place to take her some evening and she’ll know how to act. Bill will come with me, we’ll meet, and you’ll introduce us.”
“Like a club?” Bill asked, suddenly worried about his role. “I don’t know how to dance or anything.”
“Not a club, it can’t be a place with drinks. The ag decks are too wide open and there may not be enough people around, and restaurants are out for first meetings because of the whole food thing.”
“What whole food thing?” Julie asked.
“You know, domestic implications and all that.”
“Why does it have to be so complicated?” Bill asked.
“Talk to Razood if you want to hear about complicated courtships,” Jorb said. “The Frunge are the worst on the tunnel network. They can spend years in contract negotiations before holding hands.”
“How about game night at the library?” Julie suggested.
“Role-playing games?” the Drazen asked suspiciously. “It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“We have a collection of old board games from Earth, especially ones that build your vocabulary or knowledge.”
“Wordplay is perfect. When’s game night?”
“Next Thursday.”
“That far off?” Jorb complained. “Alright, it will give me a chance to come up with a song, just in case she asks. Sorry, but I’ve got to run now if I want to be early for my gig getting beat up by teenage girls at the finishing school.”
“Did you understand half of that?” Bill asked Julie as they headed for the lift tube.
“Not really,” the girl admitted. “It’s funny when you think about it. The thing that reminds me that Jorb and Rinka are aliens isn’t their tentacles, it’s their co
nversation, and that’s with my implant giving me perfect translations.”
“Home,” Bill told the lift tube capsule, which obligingly set off without seeking clarification. “I’m going to take a long shower and maybe even a short nap before I go in to work at the cafeteria. What’s the rest of your day like?”
“Shower, diner, singing practice, theatre. I have to check with Flower three times a day just to figure out where I’m supposed to be. I’m beginning to envy people with full-time jobs.”
“Can you believe the director has us standing in for cartoon characters?”
“Anime,” Flower said over their implants as the two exited the lift tube capsule on their residential deck.
“I still don’t get why it’s necessary,” Bill said stubbornly. “It’s going to be embarrassing to have the director and the writers telling us to move around and pretend to be doing stuff.”
“Between you and me, the director insists on calling you stand-ins because he’s worked in a union environment where the only other option would be to call you principal animation actors.”
“What’s the difference?” Julie asked.
“About fifty creds an hour, plus residuals when the production is broadcast or copied through legitimate means,” the Dollnick AI explained. “We’ll only be using your vector representation for scaffolding.”
“What does that mean?”
“It saves a great deal of computational time to capture your motion in blank form for the animation artists to dress up. Think of yourselves as living mannequins.”
“So now you’re saying we’re going to have to act out the whole cartoon but we aren’t going to get credit?”
“Anime, the term applies to both the characters and the finished animation, and no, you aren’t going to have to act out every last movement.”
“She just qualified my statement,” Julie said, poking Bill in the shoulder. “Is she talking over your implant too? Whenever Flower starts using precise language like that it means she’s putting something over on me.”
