by E. M. Foner
Sally nudged Rachel and mouthed, ‘All last night,’ indicating that the conversation was a rerun for her.
“The Grenouthian design looked very comfortable,” Georgia persisted. “Every deck was a park.”
“The Grenouthians build a fine ship, the Verlocks as well for that matter, but let me ask you this,” Flower continued, and lowered her voice in a conspiratorial fashion. “Would you buy a colony ship from a species that hasn’t colonized a new world in over a hundred thousand years?”
“You mean they’re just trophy ships?”
“Exactly. The Verlocks are too busy doing science and magic to be bothered with exploring anymore, and if the Grenouthians ever decide they want a new world, they’ll run the numbers and find that it’s cheaper to buy a custom job from us.”
“Do any of the other species build a colony ship you would recommend?” Sally asked, winking at the other women.
“Well, the Cayl build an impressive vessel, but they keep them for themselves,” Flower said grudgingly. “And here we are.”
The lift tube doors slid open and the passengers exited onto a metal catwalk above a disconcerting lake. It took Georgia a moment to realize that there was something in the human psyche that rebelled against the idea of water sloping upwards to both the left and right, where it was held against the inner hull by centrifugal force.
“The lake extends all the way around your circumference?” Rachel asked.
“I’d be awfully out of balance if it didn’t,” Flower replied. “And it runs the full length of my axis as well. You can never have too much water aboard a colony ship, I always say.”
“It’s beautiful,” Georgia said. “I wonder that it’s not wall-to-wall tour groups.”
“There are currently six hundred and thirteen visitors on the reservoir deck. I intentionally brought you all up through different lift tubes so you’re either hidden from each other by the curvature of the deck or spaced out along the axis beyond your visual acuity.”
“I heard that you have so much fresh fruit growing on board that you’re giving it away,” Rachel said.
“Samples, not bulk quantities,” Flower corrected her. “If you’ve seen enough of the reservoir deck, I have something I want to show you.”
“I thought you wanted us to tell you our interests,” Sally said, and winked at the others a second time.
“One for you, one for me,” the Dollnick AI responded. “It’s only fair.”
Flower’s choice turned out to be a model residential cabin, which all three visitors had to admit was an extraordinary value for the price. Then it was their turn again, and Rachel requested to see the library, which supposedly hosted the largest collection of printed books in human languages anywhere in the galaxy. It must have been a popular spot on the tour because a young woman was waiting at the entrance and handing out pamphlets.
“Hi, I’m Julie,” the greeter said. “Welcome to the library. We’re running a special for people here on the colony ship tour. You can take a single book to keep free of charge, provided we have at least ten more copies in stock. And before you ask, books from the For Humans collection are excluded from this offer.”
“How will we know if you have ten copies?” Sally asked.
“If you have a high-end implant, you can scan the code on the spine and the library stock will appear on your heads-up display,” Julie replied. “We actually have hundreds of copies of the most popular books, but Dewey,” she gestured at an odd-looking robot stationed behind the circulation desk, “will double-check when you leave. The books are all chipped, so if you, uh, put one in your purse and forget that it’s there, the alarm will sound when you try to exit.”
“Thank you,” Sally said, accepting a brochure and leading the others into the library. “I actually have a book in mind, so can we agree to meet back at the circulation desk in fifteen minutes?”
Georgia and Rachel agreed, and after consulting the map in the brochure, the three women headed off in different directions. When they met up again, each had found a book to take home, and they compared their selections.
“Ten Days in a Mad-House,” Rachel read off the title of the book Georgia had chosen when the freelancer handed it to the robot librarian for approval. “Doesn’t sound very romantic.”
“Somebody told me that it’s a must for investigative journalists,” she said. “I don’t like reading from a tab on the exercise bike and Larry suggested I try paper.”
“And what did you get?” Sally asked Rachel, peering at her old friend’s selection. “Prince of the Highlands? He seems a bit underdressed for Scottish royalty, but it’s nice to see that your taste hasn’t changed.”
“Don’t show me yours, let me guess,” Rachel said, dramatically placing a hand over her eyes. “Her Alien something-or-another, and the cover will have a picture of a blue-skinned male with six-pack abs and a woman kneeling at his feet.”
“I’ll have you know that she’s standing next to him with their baby,” Sally retorted.
Dewey confirmed that the women’s selections were all overstocked, and as they exited the library Julie handed them a flier, this one promoting discounted medical services for tour participants. “The doctor is in,” the girl called after them, just as a door on the corridor opened and a woman in her mid-thirties emerged.
“Ellen?” Georgia addressed her.
“I see from the ID that you’re with the paper but I can’t place you,” the other reporter replied.
“Georgia Hunt, I used to be the food reporter on Union Station. We sat at the same table at the last awards dinner.”
Ellen grimaced. “I don’t really remember much of what happened that night. Did you get reassigned?”
“I’ve gone freelance,” Georgia told her proudly. “Hey, can I buy you a meal and pick your brain? You were one of my inspirations to become an investigative journalist.”
“Even after the awards ceremony? I’m afraid I was pretty blotto.”
“You were brilliant, though. Rachel?” she called to the older woman, who had continued on a few steps and was laughing with Sally. “Do you mind if I drop out of the tour for a while and meet up with you later?”
“I’ll ask Flower to ping you before I head back if you haven’t caught up with us yet,” Rachel said.
“It was nice to meet you,” Sally added. “Be kind if you write an article about Colony One.”
After consulting with Flower, the pair of reporters headed for the food court next to the bazaar and ended up at a lunch counter run by a towering four-armed Dollnick. It was only late morning and neither woman was particularly hungry, so they ended up ordering coffees and dessert.
“Did you come to Flower for the tour?” Georgia asked her companion.
“No. I was on board for part of her first circuit to write a series of articles. Flower and I are old friends.”
“That was just before I was hired by the paper. It must have been exciting.”
“It was different,” Ellen admitted. “Are you here working on a story?”
“I just tagged along to meet Sally Nugget. My goal was to write a hard-hitting piece about financial fraud, but it turns out that Colony One is her philanthropy. She’s very nice, and I’m making enough writing about food to cover the bills, so I’ve decided to start investigating all of the ship foreclosures going on instead. I never knew anything about the whole trader ecosystem before I started traveling with Larry and—”
“The Larry who’s standing for the council?” Ellen interrupted.
“Yes. One of the women I was with is his mother.”
“Then she must be Phil’s wife. Are you writing about the election?”
“I messaged the freelance editor, Roland, but he replied that they already had somebody on it.”
“Me,” Ellen said. “I’m just finishing up a piece about the Advantage system that so many of the young traders are using and I’ll be shifting to election coverage as soon as I return to Aarden.” She examine
d the younger woman more closely. “It’s your first time to Rendezvous?”
“Yes. This whole trip has been my first time away from Union Station since I left Earth.”
“Rendezvous can get pretty crazy, with tens of thousands of traders showing up, and multiple events going on at the same time. I could use some help covering the election if you’re willing to accept a ‘written with’ credit and the standard assist rate.”
“Are you serious? I’d love that. I’m shocked that you’d trust me.”
“Roland doesn’t hire fools and I’ve read some of your restaurant reviews. Reporting on speeches is easier.” Ellen took a forkful of pie, and Georgia noticed that the older reporter had a tremor in her hand.
“Are you alright?” Georgia asked, and then her memory flashed to the sign above the door Ellen had emerged from on the corridor that ended in the library. “You just came from the med bay.”
“Yes. The doctor is a Farling, we met when I was here reporting Flower’s first circuit. He offered to treat me then but I turned him down because I didn’t think it was a big deal. I came back today to see if his offer was still good.”
“Is that why you look a bit depressed? Did he refuse you?”
“No. He took samples from me and he needs to reprogram some nanobots to do the fine work. It will take him a few hours in his spare time, so I’ll have to come back.” Ellen shook her head as if she had promised herself to move on from that decision for the time being. “Did you say you were starting to investigate ship foreclosures?”
“Larry told me that they’ve been increasing this past year and Rendezvous seems like the ideal place to ask around. He said it was never a problem when most traders were buying second-hand ships direct from the Sharf, who held the mortgages, but I guess investors on Earth bought the notes somehow and now it’s a mess.”
“You can say that again,” Flower contributed via an overhead speaker. “There have been attempts to repossess Sharf two-man traders parked on my docking deck, but I send my bots to see the repo men off. You should talk to the owners who are still on board.”
“Were the foreclosures legally executed?” Georgia asked.
“Perhaps according to Earth laws, but I don’t operate under their jurisdiction. Besides, what kind of bank loans money to somebody who can’t repay it? From my perspective, the whole operation is fishy, and I told the representatives from MORE that if I see them again on my ship, I’ll slap them in the brig.”
“They’ll complain to EarthCent,” Ellen said.
“Let them waste their time if they want,” the Dollnick AI said dismissively. “And if you know any traders who require financial sanctuary, I’ve got plenty of low-cost parking space.”
“Can you contact the traders on board whose ships have been foreclosed on and tell them that reporters from the Galactic Free Press would like to meet them?”
“Consider it done,” Flower replied. “I’ll even give them time off from work if you’d like to do it while you’re here today.”
“You gave them jobs?” Georgia asked.
“A few of them have laid out their blankets in the bazaar and are doing business there, but most of them had already disposed of their goods at a loss in a desperate attempt to raise cash for their payments. And from what I saw, their inventories overlapped so badly that they were basically all competing to sell the same merchandise.”
“Advantage,” Ellen said. “The gist of my article is that the real purpose of the Advantage platform is to create losses for independent traders. I couldn’t tie it directly to the rash of foreclosures, but I know that some of the repossessed ships are being transferred to a package delivery service based on Earth, and some of the traders who lost their ships signed on as operators.”
“Follow the money,” Flower advised them. “If you can put the mortgage consolidators in the same room with the people behind Advantage and the owners of the new package delivery service, you’ve got a story. Just get it done before the election.”
“But that’s in just another week,” Georgia protested.
“My sources inform me that the faction running to keep the Traders Guild out of the Conference of Sovereign Human Communities is likely to win the election,” the colony ship’s AI continued. “They’re well-funded and have been preparing their campaign for months.”
“You’re spying on the Guild?” Ellen asked.
“I’m listening in on people who are spying on the Traders Guild,” Flower explained. “It’s one of the advantages of being me.”
Sixteen
“Down, Semmi! I’m sorry,” John apologized to a trader who the gryphon had just mugged for a chilidog the man had barely tasted. “Let me buy you another.”
“She’s yours?” the trader asked, and began laughing so hard that he spilled half of the draft beer he held in his other hand. “You don’t owe me a thing, brother. I’ll be using this as the basis for my tall tale tonight. A human adopting a Tyrellian gryphon? I’ve never heard of such a crazy thing.”
“I’m just babysitting,” John protested, but the other trader had already turned away to order another chilidog.
Semmi burped and favored her temporary guardian with a “Feed me more,” look that would have terrified a lesser man.
“I thought we agreed that you’d behave yourself if I let you out of the ship,” John scolded the gryphon. “Do you want to spend the next week in your crate?” At the word, “crate,” Semmi let out a whimper and curled up on the ground, making John feel like he had kicked a kitten. “Come on, then. I need to register before the deadline.”
As the pair made their way through the crowd, John had to admit to himself that walking with a winged alien lioness that stood higher than his waist had its advantages. When they reached the registration tent, there was a line snaking around the corner, but one after another, all of the people waiting pleaded with John to just go ahead. When he reached the registration table, Semmi yawned, gave him a wink, and curled up for a catnap.
“Yes?” the old man behind the table inquired.
“John. I’m registering as a candidate.”
“How many years a trader?”
“Sixteen.”
“Are you a member of a party?”
“Since when do we have parties?”
“Since this year, but if you didn’t know that, you’re running as an independent.”
“Of course.”
“Do you want anything after your name on the ballot?”
“EarthCent Intelligence,” John said, and the conversations in the line behind him suddenly trailed off.
“Excuse me?”
“I have a side job as a handler for EarthCent Intelligence. I run agents. Lots of traders have side jobs.”
“Oh, you’re that John. I’ve heard of you. And you’re sure you want to reveal it on the ballot? Are you recruiting?”
“Always, but that’s not the reason for full disclosure. I’m running for the council because I want the Guild to join the Conference of Sovereign Human Communities. It’s only fair people know up front that I’m with EarthCent Intelligence so there won’t be any accusations of election interference. I’m running for me, not my employers.”
“All right, I know better than to contradict a man with a gryphon.” The registrar tapped something out on his tab, then held it up to capture an image of John’s face. Then he handed over a piece of yellow ribbon and said, “Tie that around your arm and you’re all set. If you want to write a bio to go with the picture, your face is your password for accessing the edit mode.”
“Thanks. Did registration just open?” John asked, indicating the line behind him. “It looks to me like there are at least three times as many candidates as I remember having to vote for in the past.”
“Everybody else is here to register for the first night of the Tall Tales contest. The speeches by council candidates are basically a warm-up act to make the storytellers look good.”
“Thanks,” John said, nudgi
ng Semmi with his foot as he turned to go. Ignoring the beer tents, he led the gryphon to the fair, where thousands of traders had spread their blankets. Some were there to make deals, but most of the older traders were only showing one or two items, usually of alien manufacture. Judges were circulating looking for the most interesting artifacts, questioning the owners about how they were acquired, and taking images.
Semmi proved to be worth her weight in gold as an attention magnet, and John found himself wishing that he had added “Gryphon” rather than “EarthCent Intelligence” to his ballot entry.` He had an excellent memory for faces and was able to greet dozens of traders by name, not counting those who he had paid for information over the years. By the time dinner rolled around, Semmi had mooched so much food that she wasn’t hungry, and when John suggested she might want to get some exercise, the gryphon lumbered into the air and began flying laps around the Rendezvous grounds. Not having begged any food for himself, John got into line for the bar-b-que.
“Are you speaking after the cookout?” asked a man whose nose looked like it had been broken in a fight and never been set properly.
“If there’s time,” John replied. “The registrar hinted that the Tall Tales contest has priority. I take it from the ribbon that you’re running?”
“I’m Phil’s son, Larry,” the other trader introduced himself and offered a handshake.
“John, EarthCent Intelligence. I’ve done business with your father a few times over the years, a good trader.”
“Since you’re not wearing a playing card with a picture of you pinned to your shirt, I’ll assume you’re one of the good guys.”
“Are you saying that the candidates running against joining CoSHC are giving away whole decks of cards?”
“Yup. The opposition is prepared and they’ve spent some serious creds on swag.”
“So how many of them are there? Fifty-two?”
“They’re running exactly thirteen candidates, one per seat.”
“While our side risks diluting the vote over too many candidates,” John said with a frown. “Maybe I should withdraw my name. I didn’t discuss my plans with anybody beforehand, because in past elections, everybody ran as independents.”
