Career Night on Union Station

by E. M. Foner

  “Can I help you?”

  “My hammer is missing and somebody told me to try the lost-and-found.”

  “Did you drop it when you were killed?”

  The woman looked at Samuel like he was crazy. “No,” she replied slowly. “If I had been killed, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “So you were too busy fighting to pick it up again,” Samuel surmised as he headed back down the counter for the intake bin. “I’m pretty sure I saw a weird war hammer in here.”

  “Then it’s not mine because my hammer is just a regular hammer,” the woman said.

  “You took a regular hammer into a LARP? No enchantment or anything? I’m pretty sure that the only hammer I saw was a weapon. Hang on a sec.”

  “I’m just going to go out and come in again,” the woman announced, having reached the conclusion that Samuel was an artificial person who was relegated to working in the lost-and-found because he didn’t quite have all of his marbles. “You hit your reset button and we’ll start over from the beginning.”

  “Sorry, what?” Samuel asked, having missed that last part as he ducked below the counter again. “Here it is,” he said, straightening up with the hammer in his hand, but the woman had vanished. He was vacillating over whether to return it to the bin or keep it out when she reentered the lost-and-found.

  “Hi, I’m Mink. I lost my hammer.”

  “Back again? I was worried you changed your mind because your hammer is cursed or something. That seems to happen a lot, but we won’t know until I run it through the cataloging system. Is this yours?”

  “Yes,” the woman said, breathing a sigh of relief. “It was my father’s hammer and I really didn’t want to lose it. Wait. Where are you going?”

  “We have to make a record of everything that gets claimed,” Samuel informed her, walking down the counter to the cataloging system. The woman mirrored his steps on the other side, keeping her eyes on her hammer. “Any last name?”

  “Mink is it.”

  “I’ve never heard that one before,” Samuel said, putting the hammer on the turntable and imparting a gentle spin. “I know a Lynx, though.”

  “It’s short for Minka. I grew up on a Drazen open world.”

  “Claw hammer, manufactured on Earth,” the cataloging system reported.

  “It’s being claimed by Mink,” Samuel said, and handed over the hammer, handle first. “What do you use it for if it’s not a weapon? Those claws look pretty nasty.”

  “They’re for pulling nails. Haven’t you ever built anything?”

  “All of the time. My other job is in a ship repair facility. But I’ve never seen a hammer like that before.”

  “Did you grow up on the station?”

  “Born and bred,” the teen replied proudly. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Go ahead,” Mink said cautiously.

  “When you talk about pulling nails, do you mean…” he grimaced and tapped the nail of his left thumb with his right index finger.

  “Of course not!” the woman exclaimed. “I’m a carpenter.”

  “Like a ship’s carpenter? But they weld everything.”

  “Not on wooden ships, they don’t. And I’m a regular carpenter. I build houses for people to live in.”

  “You must mean from wood,” Samuel declared, as if he had solved a difficult puzzle. “I visited Earth a few years ago and my dad pointed out that some of the houses were built from wood, though it seems to me they were usually covered in plastic or metal to keep them from rotting. My grandmother had wood floors in her house.”

  “We use wood for building on all the open worlds. Well, not Frunge open worlds,” Mink corrected herself, “but I’ve never been to one of those. We use nails for construction because they’re fast and they work. Plus, with a hammer like this, you can always remove them,” she concluded, mimicking drawing a nail out of the counter.

  “Neat. But what are you doing with a wood hammer on the station? You wouldn’t use nails in furniture, would you? And nobody builds with wood here.”

  The woman shrugged. “I’ve never been to a Stryx station before and friends of mine got a rush job doing some work for the embassy. I tagged along as their laborer. You know, to fetch and carry, throw stuff in the recycling bins. My friends do a lot of prefab installations.”

  “That’s my mom’s embassy. You must be on the construction crew for the conference room.” Samuel grinned sheepishly. “Sorry about all the confusion earlier. It’s just that the lost-and-found has turned into the official destination for dropped items in role-playing games and I assumed that belt you’re wearing was some kind of battle harness.”

  “Just a carpenter’s belt,” Mink replied. “I hadn’t been wearing it on the station because I’m not doing any carpentry and it’s heavy, but after losing my hammer, I learned to either bring it all or leave everything in my room.”

  “Why did you bring your hammer to the job?”

  “Oh, I had to demo the counter.” Mink noted Samuel’s puzzled look, and said, “I meant I had to demolish the counter, not show it to people. It was made out of some kind of composite material that the station librarian said was recycled from pressed and treated solids, whatever that means. It was glued and screwed so I had to knock it apart.”

  “You’re still tearing out the old stuff?”

  “Demolition was the main part of the job,” Mink told him. “The new panels and millwork are custom fitted so it should all snap together. We’re expecting everything to arrive tomorrow.”

  “That will make my mom happy. Sorry again for the confusion.”

  “It was worth having a story to tell,” the woman said with a smile, and slid a five-cred tip onto the counter. “See you around.”

  Samuel checked the out-take bin next to the turntable again in hopes that there would be something to catalog that he’d missed earlier, but the Verlock girl who worked the shift before him had cleaned it out. Then he took his time meandering back down the counter to his stool, and just before he reactivated his tab, a familiar face entered the lost-and-found.

  “Sam?” the newcomer asked, limping up to the counter.

  “Harry!” the ambassador’s son enthusiastically greeted his latest excuse to procrastinate starting his homework. “I haven’t seen you since the last ‘Let’s Make Friends’ reunion. You were a cast rotation behind me, right?”

  “I think so, but they had already raised the age for humans,” the teenager replied. “I’ve seen you around the Open University campus a couple of times, but you always looked busy, so I didn’t want to interrupt.”

  “Don’t worry about that. But why are you limping?”

  “LARP.”

  “Did something go wrong with a noodle weapon or did you twist your ankle?”

  “Neither.” Harry put one hand on the counter and then lifted a leg straight out like a ballet dancer performing an arabesque in reverse. “As you can see, I lost my shoe.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Half-hour, maybe? I came right here after changing. I’ve been playing a sun-cult priest and it’s a bit embarrassing walking around the station dressed for the part.”

  “I didn’t see any shoes in the intake bin, though I’ll look again,” Samuel offered. “We usually get the drops pretty fast when you get killed.”

  “I didn’t get killed. An orc patrol forced me to hide in the swamp, and when I climbed out, one of my shoes got sucked off.”

  “By a holographic swamp? Did you try fishing for it?”

  “Couldn’t get my hand deep enough without sticking my face in the mud, and you know how realistic those LARPs are. I was trying to slip into a castle a few weeks ago by swimming underwater through the moat and I couldn’t hold my breath long enough. It really felt like I was drowning as I died.”

  “Rough,” Samuel sympathized. “If you want to hang out and wait for the shoe to be brought in, I’m not doing—”

  “There it is,” Harry declared as a maintenance bot w
ith a shoe dangling from its pincer floated into the lost-and-found. He intercepted the robot before it reached the counter and relieved it of the shoe. “I’d love to hang around but I’m running late,” he said, straightening up after restoring his missing footwear to its proper place. “Is there a fee?”

  “Bot didn’t reach the counter so it’s like it never happened. See you later.”

  Samuel climbed back onto his stool and resignedly called up the homework assignment on his tab. An hour later, he was still struggling to quantify the parameters of the first problem in a mathematical form that made sense when Baa entered the lost-and-found.

  “Daydreaming over your tab, young McAllister?”

  “Doing my homework.”

  “I saw more staring than doing,” the mage replied. “If you’re not too busy, I seem to have lost something.”

  “Anything for a patron,” Samuel said, happily setting aside his tab. “Start guessing.”

  “I do NOT guess, I simply have trouble remembering certain things. That purse on the top shelf looks awfully familiar.”

  “That one?” Samuel asked, and then took the lift platform up to retrieve it. “Heavy,” he commented, weighing the purse in his hand. Then he checked the shelf for the location code and headed down the counter to the turntable, Baa tailing along on the other side.

  “That’s the one, I’m sure of it,” the Terragram said. “My time is valuable, so why don’t we skip the foolishness with the cataloging system and I’ll give you a big tip.”

  “Last time you said you’d give me a big tip you told me to floss after eating.”

  “And was I wrong?”

  “Purse from location PR 7-20,” Samuel told the cataloging system. “Being claimed by Baa.”

  “Shuga bullion carrier,” the disembodied voice announced. “Unable to verify claim.”

  “Do you have security footage?”

  “Never mind, never mind,” Baa interrupted. “I was just testing you. I can’t be too careful with the people I take into my confidence.”

  “Just let me put this back, then,” Samuel said, returning to the lift platform and restoring the purse to its location. On the way back down, he noticed that the mage had somehow activated his student tab and was reading his homework assignment. “Hey. That’s private.”

  “Your life is even sadder than mine if a simple containment field calculation is your idea of personal information. Besides, you’re going about the solution all wrong.”

  “I’ve been having trouble keeping up with the math lately,” the teenager admitted.

  Baa smiled broadly, a strangely disconcerting sight. “I’d be happy to help you with your homework.”

  “In return for what?” Samuel asked suspiciously.

  “Oh, nothing special. Just a little help with a problem of my own.”

  “Does it involve killing anybody or becoming a zombie myself?”

  “Please, I can do my own killing and make my own zombies without volunteers. I just need a little help persuading a girl to do some work for me and you’re ideally situated.”

  “Will it get me in trouble with Vivian?”

  “A man who has his priorities straight. No, your girlfriend will neither know nor care.”

  “So you didn’t come here today just to try to con the lost-and-found out of something that never belonged to you.”

  “Never is a long time, both of which are terms you couldn’t possibly understand,” Baa said, and tapped her finger on the tab. “What level have you reached in mathematics?”

  “You mean like, partial differential equations?”

  “I hope that’s not what I mean or you may as well give up now. You go to school with Verlocks. You must have an idea where you grade on their academy scales.”

  Samuel’s ears turned pink. “Advanced beginner,” he mumbled.

  “Thirteen point zero zero eight,” Baa said. “There’s a fifth dimensional angular component as well, but if I give you that, they’ll know you cheated. You can figure out the units yourself from dimensional analysis.”

  “I want to learn how to solve the problem, not be given the answer.”

  “Then start taking remedial math courses and maybe in a few decades you’ll be ready,” the Terragram stated flatly. “Personally, I can’t imagine why you’d want to waste your time that way.”

  “Can’t you at least explain it in words so I’ll have an idea what I’m missing?” Samuel asked, but something in his voice gave away the fact that he already knew the answer to that question.

  “Mathematics is the language of engineering. I could translate the functions and transforms involved into long strings of words, but doing so would waste more time than I’m willing to invest while leaving you none the wiser. I’m surprised your station librarian even let you sign up for the course.”

  “I’m auditing,” the ambassador’s son admitted, turning off the tab. “I knew I wouldn’t pass the competency test but I wanted to see what it was all about.”

  “Don’t waste your time in school banging your head against the wall,” Baa told him. “I’ve spent enough time around primitive species to know that strategic thinking is critical to making the most of your short lives. Do you want to be a career student?”

  “No! I want to do useful work.”

  “Then start taking courses that will enhance your natural abilities and stop trying to force yourself into a mold that doesn’t fit. Do you even enjoy Space Engineering?”

  “I did the first two years.”

  “The introductory courses,” Baa scoffed. “How many containment field theory courses have you taken?”

  “Just the one I’m auditing now.”

  “Quit while you’re ahead.”

  Samuel felt himself wilting under the ongoing assault, but then he rallied and demanded, “What’s it to you?”

  “You’re the one who asked for help with his homework,” Baa pointed out, “and I did my best to hold up my end of the bargain. Now it’s your turn.”

  “So what do you want?”

  “Look,” the mage said, pulling up one of the loose sleeves of her housecoat. “Do you see that?”

  “Everybody knows that your arms are feathered.”

  “Look closer,” Baa said, sticking the arm out over the counter.

  “They’re pretty nice feathers,” the teen said, wondering if the mage was trying to hypnotize him. “I guess I never noticed all the swirls before. What’s wrong with the green ones?”

  “Split ends. It’s from wearing this stupid housecoat all the time.”

  “So take it off,” Samuel said. “It’s not like your presence on the station is a secret anymore, and I’ve seen you in LARPs wearing a vest.”

  “I promised the Stryx to keep my arms covered in the corridors. My presence upsets many of the older individuals of the advanced species, and LARPing is primarily a sport for younger people. I want you to get your sister to design me a garment that won’t ruffle my feathers.”

  “Is that all? Why don’t you just ask her yourself?”

  “It’s embarrassing,” Baa said. “A Terragram mage doesn’t ask primitives for favors.”

  “You just asked me.”

  “No, we made a fair exchange. You could suggest it to her as a way to get on my good side. After all, she used my bracelet without permission while I was sleeping.”

  “I guess I can do that,” Samuel said, though something about the whole exchange struck him as odd. “But why don’t you just design something with sleeves that go on easy yourself? It can’t be that complicated.”

  “That just goes to show how little you know about godhood,” Baa retorted. “Why should I bother when there’s somebody else to do the work for me? Besides, being super-intelligent takes a lot of calories. Even in a primitive species like yours the brain consumes at least twenty percent of your available energy. I can tap into the station grid to do enchantments when I’m working for Jeeves, but designing clothes for myself would force me to w
aste extra money on food to gear up my intellect for a task I’ve never had the need to exercise before and probably never will again.”

  “Never is a long time.”

  “Don’t get smart with me,” the mage shot back, though she let out a laugh at the same time. “It seems you have a gift for picking up the important points of a conversation and you clearly aren’t intimidated by superior aliens. If you really want to do useful work, I recommend something that involves interspecies negotiations. Will you fulfill your end of the bargain?”

  “I’ll ask Dorothy,” Samuel confirmed. “She’ll probably do it since she really enjoys a challenge.” He watched as Baa carefully worked the sleeve back down over her arm, against the grain of the feathers. “What if you just wrapped something around your arms before dressing? Then you could wear anything you wanted.”

  “Our feathers aren’t just here to enhance our beauty, they’re a big part of our natural thermodynamic control system. Any protective wrapping would prevent them from erecting and I would have to shed the heat from my arms elsewhere. It’s another reason not to overtax my brain,” Baa concluded, and gave her arm a final shake to settle the loose sleeve. “Now, it’s time for me to go back to work before somebody notices that I never clocked out.”

  “You’re cheating Jeeves?”

  “He leaves office management to his partners,” the mage said over her shoulder as she headed for the exit.

  Samuel picked up his tab again, and after a final look at the homework assignment, he gave the screen a disgusted swipe and navigated to the Open University catalog, where he was soon immersed in reading descriptions of course concentrations on offer.

  Jeeves was waiting for Baa in the lift-tube capsule.

  “You owe me a favor, Stryx,” the Terragram mage said. “I’m not volunteering to participate in all of your little schemes just because you increased my cut of the profits. You and your Humans are making a good business out of my enchantments.”

  “I’ll add you to my favors-owed list,” Jeeves said, affecting a tired voice. “And don’t forget you promised to behave yourself this evening. My reputation is on the line here.”