by E. M. Foner
“I can’t even read it,” Dorothy complained, turning to her two friends. “Can you?”
“I’m sure it’s alright since it’s a Stryx contract,” Flazint said.
“It’s not like he could have any possible reason to cheat us,” Affie added.
“Libby?” Dorothy called out loud.
“Yes, Dorothy?” the Stryx librarian replied through the magic of the station’s infrastructure.
“My mother told me never to agree to a contract on the station without checking with you first, and I can’t even read what Jeeves is offering us.”
“That’s because my offspring chose Akkadian for his composition,” Libby replied. “I suppose it was an appropriate selection since there’s something in here about taking possession of your first-born child, and, oh dear, he seems to have lifted a whole section from the End User License Agreement for our diplomatic implants. You shouldn’t agree to this.”
“Never mind,” Jeeves sighed, and the holographic contract vanished without a sound. “I was going to use it as a teaching moment for the young ladies, but I guess nobody trusts anybody anymore.”
“Why do I get the feeling that working for Stryx Jeeves won’t be the same as working for Stryx Libby in the lost-and-found,” Flazint said nervously.
“May I clarify a few things before we begin, Stryx Jeeves?” Affie asked.
“Full disclosure is essential to forming lasting business relationships,” Jeeves replied.
“Why are you interested in going into business with inexperienced Open University students?”
“An ungrateful artificial person by the name of Chance refused to give me an acting job for which I was exceptionally well qualified, and the auction business is on hiatus so I have some free time.”
“I mean, and keep in mind I never met a Stryx before coming to Union Station, but why go into business with biologicals at all? We’re not as squeamish in Fleet as some of the planetary-based species, and I know from first level evolutionary biology that somebody has been fiddling with the chain of custody on the genetic mutations that produced intelligent species in this galaxy for the last forty or fifty million years. It’s not that I’m complaining, but don’t you have better things to do with your time?”
Flazint stuck her fingers in her ears at the mention of evolutionary biology and began muttering “Seedlings, seedlings, seedlings,” to herself in an undertone, but Dorothy was fascinated by the direct question. She’d heard rumors that Stryx science ships were responsible for the rise of dog-like creatures on so many worlds, but the idea that the AI may have directly steered the emergence of intelligent humanoid life was new to her.
“Time is not an issue with me,” Jeeves answered. “I get pressure from my elders to invest more effort into traditional Stryx studies, but frankly, I’ve always found all of that math to be a bit of a bore. Surveying the ever-changing multiverse for the sake of making lists is like herding cats.”
“But women’s clothing and accessories?” Affie demanded. “Why not manufacture spaceships, or invent artificial gravity, or time machines?”
“My elders have established guidelines for sharing technology with less advanced species, and I’m forced to admit that those rules make a great deal of sense. And if anybody ever asks you to invest in artificial gravity or time travel, I advise you to decline. As to my interest in women’s clothing, ‘Varium et mutabile semper femina.’”
“That’s not very complimentary,” Dorothy protested, after her implant translated Virgil’s saying about the fickleness of women from Latin.
“I’m sure you realize that trade on the tunnel network, like all advanced economies, is driven more by desires than needs.” Jeeves responded. “It’s the psychology of marketing that I find fascinating, predicting what will be a hit or a flop, discovering the ideal price points for maximum utilization. Some species will stick with a useful product until something quantitatively better comes along, while others change for the sake of change. Women’s clothing and accessories are one of the more dynamic portions of any economy so I’ll have plenty of opportunities to test my predictive ability.”
“When you mentioned pricing for maximum utilization, is that a Stryx term for profit?” Flazint asked cautiously.
“In a manner of speaking,” Jeeves hedged. “Economic activity is the lifeblood of the tunnel network, and our goal of maintaining a healthy balance of trade between species while promoting peace and employment opportunities may occasionally require me to invert the profit curve.”
“Does that mean you might go to our parents for money?”
“Never,” Jeeves said firmly. “I promise that your personal liability will be limited to your investment in sweat equity. But if you’d be more comfortable with a written contract, I had one around here somewhere...”
“Never mind the comedy routine,” Dorothy said impatiently. “Can we talk about designing clothes now? I’m really not all that interested in business stuff.”
“Very well,” Jeeves replied. “Welcome to the SBJ family. I have a large order of hats to see to, so take your time creating our next product and make me proud.”
The Stryx floated up off the deck and headed for the door, which slid open at his approach. Dorothy slaved her tab to one of Affie’s wall displays, and the three girls began paging through images of the crossover fashions that the human girl had identified in the lost-and-found.
“Pause,” Affie told the controller. “That travel cloak reminds me of ones I’ve seen in period dramas about the Empire. There’s a modern version that shows up in boutiques from time to time, but the colors are so garish that only the old women buy them.”
“I’d wear something like that but I don’t recognize it,” Flazint said. “Was it ever a Frunge fashion?”
Dorothy checked her tab. “About four thousand years ago. And they were popular with the upper classes on Earth a couple hundred years ago, both with men and women.”
“Any other species?” Affie asked Dorothy.
“The Hortens had a version with a high collar that the women sometimes wore along with a mask to hide their emotions when using public transportation. It covers up their shoulders and necklines, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they originally sold them with dresses, as a set.”
“So it’s a possibility,” Flazint said. “Did you find anything we wear in common with the Dollnicks or the Verlocks?”
“Bags,” Dorothy replied, tapping at her tab to advance a number of images. “Dollnick fashions go through periods where the females can carry more than one bag, about the only advantage of having four arms as near as I can tell.” The Vergallian and Frunge nodded their agreement. “When they only carry one handbag, it’s the size of luggage for us, but when they carry two, or even three, some of the bags are the same sizes as ours. The Verlocks have been carrying the same basic bag for hundreds of thousands if not millions of years, both the males and the females, but they go through cycles on the materials.”
“Yeah, but they have to be flame-retardant,” Flazint pointed out.
“And purses are about the only clothing item Grenouthian females bother with, which is kind of ironic when you consider they have natural pouches,” Dorothy continued.
“They dye their fur,” Affie commented. “I used to think they were born all those different colors, but it turns out that the females are always changing. We’re just lucky to be living in times when they all go for solid colors.”
“Do they match their bags to their fur color?” Dorothy asked excitedly.
“I think they do,” Flazint said. “I guess that would make them pretty unlikely customers.”
“How expensive is the dye they use?” Dorothy followed up. “Could we include it with the purse as a package deal?”
“Maybe we could do that for all the species,” Affie suggested. “It’s not something I’d go for myself, but some Vergallian women change their hair color all the time.”
“I didn’t think of that,” Doro
thy said. “Lots of human women change their hair color too. Maybe we could start a bag-matching trend.”
“Don’t even think about messing with my hair vines,” Flazint warned them.
“But you could match the trellis color if you were doing something fancy,” Affie said. “And between clasps and buckles, purses offer plenty of opportunities to get creative with metal.”
“Not to mention mesh construction and chain fringes,” Dorothy added. “Why don’t we all spend some time playing with variations on these historical handbags, and then we can get together and discuss them.”
The other two girls agreed, and the design meeting broke up, with Flazint hurrying off for a family meal.
“I didn’t want to say anything while Flazint was still here because the Frunge are pretty sensitive about heredity, but did you hear Jeeves admit that they’ve diddled with the genes of our ancestors?” Dorothy asked.
“Not denying it isn’t exactly the same as confirming it,” Affie replied.
“But he basically said that they use biologicals as catalysts to keep the multiverse moving along.”
“Not in Vergallian, he didn’t.”
“Jeeves really likes playing with words, and it gives him a way to hint at stuff without getting in trouble with his elders. What else could it have meant when he said that making multiverse lists is like herding cats? He’s saying the Stryx are cat listers. Get it? Catalysters. If the word actually existed, it could imply that they work with catalysts. Biologicals.”
“You have really interesting friends,” Affie replied
Nineteen
“How can ‘bra’ be the beginning of a five-letter word for ‘pointers?’” Kelly asked.
“Brass,” Joe suggested. “Mercenaries still use it as a slang term for high-ranking officers.”
“Oh, that works.” Kelly penciled in the letters on the puzzle that Donna had printed for her on an immunization certificate. “Is that because officers point at places to attack?”
“Not unless they want to get picked off by snipers. I’m guessing the puzzle maker was referring to West Point, one of the old military academies.”
“You’re getting really good at these,” Kelly said, looking up from the puzzle.
“It’s become self-defense living with you. The other day when Paul pinged me to come and adjust the calliope for the Physics Ride, I asked Sam if he was interested in going for a fly. First he checked that his zipper wasn’t undone, and then he asked if I was talking about shopping for fishing lures or swimming in a magnetic levitation suit. It’s no wonder he prefers watching immersives in Vergallian these days. At least their language is precise.”
“I just need to complete one puzzle without errors and then I’ll stop. I’m so close this week that I told Dring not to show me his solution unless I ask for it. There’s only one open area left that I can’t quite get started on. What’s an eight-letter word…”
“I hear Beowulf barking,” Joe interrupted, hurrying for the ramp of the ice harvester. “Good luck with the Drazens and the Frunge.”
“I didn’t hear anything,” Kelly shouted after the deserter. She returned to the puzzle and concentrated on coming up with an eleven-letter word beginning with “p” for a dessert topping, the only bridge between a solved section and the final open area. Something about the clue seemed so familiar, as if the puzzle was trying to send her a message. She tried to ignore the insistent beeping sound in the background, making a mental note to ask her mother to stop sending Samuel noisy old games.
“Mom,” Samuel called, a few minutes later.
“Mommy is busy right now,” Kelly replied distractedly.
“But the oven has been beeping for five minutes. It’s driving me nuts.”
“Dessert!” Kelly cried, jumping up and running into the kitchen. The Drazen spice cookies that Hildy had made specially for their guests were just starting to smoke. She slid the cookies off onto a plate, thankful that Hildy had messed up on the alien measures and made two times as much of the toxic dough as she intended. Along with the previous batch, the Drazens would have a choice between medium-well and burnt.
“Help me with the cheese and fruit platters,” Kelly begged her son. “I got distracted with some important work and our guests will be arriving at any minute.”
“Where are the president and his mistress?” Samuel inquired, picking up one of the trays.
“Who told you that Hildy is his mistress?” Kelly demanded, following her son to the living area with both plates of cookies. “It’s not a nice word.”
“Dorothy explained it,” the boy replied. “She said it’s like a girlfriend, except the man is already married or something. Why is English so weak? In Vergallian, she’d be a ‘gillat,’ which is the girlfriend of a married man who is no longer with his wife but who can’t get divorced for reasons of state.”
“What smells like burnt Drazen spice cookies?” the gillat asked as she entered the ice harvester with a large shopping bag. The president came right behind her, loaded with packages.
Kelly abandoned the idea of questioning her son about his odd Vergallian vocabulary and shifted into diplomatic spin mode.
“I baked one batch the way the recipe said, and another batch, uh, harder, since I think that’s how Bork likes them. It would have been a shame to just throw away the extra dough. Anyway, I was beginning to worry that you two would be late and I’d have to do all the negotiating by myself.”
“After shopping, we stopped by the departure deck and changed our seating assignments for tomorrow,” the president said. “It’s nice doing something in person for a change. You’ve probably forgotten what it’s like to go through the day without the help of the station librarian, but we don’t have that option on Earth.” He carried the gift bag of wine from one of the upscale boutiques over to the coffee table and set both bottles on the tray near the cheese platter, which he knew was intended for the Frunge.
“Speaking of Earth, Donna stopped by earlier with a package that just arrived in the diplomatic pouch,” Kelly told her live-in guests. “She said you only ordered it last week and you’re lucky it got here so quickly.”
“Great!” Hildy attacked the box, unpacked a small spray canister, and studied the label for a moment before relaxing. “It checks out, nitrous oxide propellant. I heard that some of the makers use weird chemicals and I didn’t want to take any chances. I carry it myself when I ride the subway back home.”
“It’s some sort of weapon?” Kelly asked. “I can’t imagine the Drazens or the Frunge will be impressed by anything that we produce back on Earth.”
“They’re here, Mom,” Dorothy called as she entered the ice harvester. “The two Drazens with Bork look like rich business-types, and the Frunge with Czeros looks like Flazint’s great-grandfather.”
“Are you staying to meet them?”
“Can’t,” Dorothy replied. “I only stopped in to drop off my backpack. I’ve got a meeting with Shaina and Brinda about lining up retailers and then I’m going with David to a thing, so don’t wait up.”
The tall girl vanished as suddenly as she had appeared. Her mother shook her head and said to the president and Hildy, “When I was her age, all I wanted was to get into a good college.”
“When I was her age, all I wanted was to meet girls like her,” the president replied, receiving a fist in the ribs from his mistress. “But it’s true,” he protested.
“And look where it got you,” Hildy scolded automatically. The president smiled happily and Kelly shot the public relations expert a questioning look. “Alright, that might not have been the best comeback in this particular case,” Hildy admitted.
There were a few friendly barks from the patio area and then the tramp of feet sounded on the ramp of the ice harvester. Both Bork and Czeros had insisted that Kelly not go to any trouble for their meetings with the president, and they assured the EarthCent ambassador that her home-grown hospitality would impress the guests more than a fancy resta
urant. Plus, as Bork pointed out, communications security was now better in Mac’s Bones than most public places.
“Ambassador Czeros. Ambassador Bork. Thank you for coming,” the president addressed the aliens.
“Allow me to introduce two old friends,” Bork said, ushering the Drazen male and female accompanying him forward. “This is Winka, who is Director of the Drazen Museum of Science and Technology, and the sorry specimen to my left is Glunk, who failed the diplomatic boards three times before giving up and starting his own business. Winka. Glunk. I present the President of EarthCent, Stephen Beyer, Ambassador Kelly McAllister, and EarthCent’s public relations director, Hildy Greuen.”
“And this old tree is Vrazel, who manufactures wing sets and other recreational products,” Czeros introduced the elderly Frunge.
“I’m not petrified yet,” Vrazel growled, pushing his way past the Frunge ambassador and shaking hands stiffly with the president, Hildy and Kelly. “I wanted to personally thank you for helping Czeros with his drinking problem, Ambassador. Our families share deep roots.”
“Oh, forgive me,” the president said, looking suddenly embarrassed. “I put out a couple of bottles for you gentlemen without thinking.”
“Nonsense,” Czeros replied, striding over to the coffee table and examining the wine. “An excellent vintage to celebrate the departure of my drinking problem.”
“The inspector general is gone?” Kelly guessed.
“Off to bother some other innocent diplomat no doubt. Though the truth be told, she wasn’t that bad to be around after she had a few drinks and let her vines down—what she had left of them with that ridiculous buzz cut.”
“So let’s all have a seat, enjoy a little snack, and then I can start begging,” the president suggested cheerfully.
The aliens made themselves comfortable on the overstuffed furniture, and Hildy transformed herself into the presidential hostess, locating goblets for Czeros and his companion, and donning rubber gloves to expertly mix some Divverflips for the Drazens. Once the cheese, fruit, and un-burnt cookies had been properly dispatched, the aliens sat back with their beverages and waited for the president to make his pitch.
