Soup Night on Union Station

by E. M. Foner

  “Identical,” the slightly smaller bunny confirmed. He passed a copy across the table to Aisha, while the executive producer handed the other to one of the attorneys, who extended it to Jonah.

  “Jeeves?” Jonah subvoced.

  “It’s an old Grenouthian lawyer’s trick,” the Stryx explained. “Those cases they’re carrying are actually thermal plastic document printers and they do the necessary editing via their implants. If I had been eavesdropping, I could tell you that the contracts reflect exactly what we discussed and that the rest is boilerplate copied from Aisha’s last contract, including the clause about maternity leave.”

  “I’ll need to show this to my father,” Jonah said, drawing an exasperated sigh from all five bunnies, who were hoping to avoid a close reading of the fine print.

  “Then all that’s left to settle is the show’s title,” the producer said. “We’ve been kicking around a number of ideas, so tell me if any of these grabs you.” The Grenouthian glanced down at his tab and read, “Let’s Make Recipes, Cooking with Aisha’s Future Brother-in-Law by Marriage, Let’s Make Food, The Human Kitchen Comedy Hour, The All Species Cookbook Comedy Hour, The—”

  “Excuse me,” Aisha interrupted. “I seem to notice a trend developing. Do you have any title suggestions that aren’t a blatant attempt to piggyback on Let’s Make Friends or the comedy documentaries you produce about Earth?”

  “Sticking with proven concepts is what makes the entertainment industry great,” the director said. “If you think you can do better—”

  “Cooking with Jonah, Cooking for All Species, Food Night on Union Station,” Aisha rattled off.

  “Stone Soup?” Jonah suggested. “You know, like the story?”

  “Stone Soup,” the producer repeated. “Fewer words means they can be bigger in the ads. I’ll tell you what. We’ll run my ideas and your ideas past a few focus groups and see what wins out.”

  Seventeen

  “Is there something wrong with the lighting on this deck?” Kelly asked her husband. “It’s not much brighter than the night lights in Mac’s Bones.”

  “I seem to remember hearing that Fillinducks always settle systems with red dwarf stars,” Joe replied. “Give your eyes a minute to adjust.”

  “How come you’re moving so confidently?”

  “My old implant has a night vision option from my mercenary days. I’d be surprised if your diplomatic implant doesn’t support it in one of the menus.”

  “I’ll pass,” Kelly said. “I don’t want to end up relying on cybernetic technology like those vanished species we saw during our Libbyland vacation. Give me your arm.”

  “You’re not worried about me ending up as a cyborg?”

  “I’m sure you had the proper training so you should be immune. Oh, look. There’s a bright light up ahead.”

  “That’s probably the reception, then. Have you ever been here before?”

  “Me? Before we won the cookbook bid the Fillinducks wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole. I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

  “Ambassador,” a voice called from behind them. Joe looked back and easily recognized Bork, thanks to the Drazen ambassador waving with his tentacle.

  “It’s Bork and Minka,” Joe informed his wife. He halted to allow the other couple to catch up.

  “That’s a relief,” Kelly said. “This invitation was so sudden I didn’t have a chance to check if any of the other ambassadors were coming. I was worried it would just be the two of us in a room full of Fillinduck trios all wondering what we did with our better third.”

  “Ah, I hoped it was you, but this lighting is atrocious,” Bork greeted them.

  “So it’s not just us for a change. Do you have any idea what this is about?”

  “It’s been a few years since the Fillinducks invited us to one of their surprise parties,” Minka replied. “They have a cultural aversion to planning ahead for social events, something to do with the difficulty trios have coordinating a time that’s good for all of them. I did see a mention on the Grenouthian shipping news earlier today that the Thark ambassador had returned to Union Station.”

  “The Tharks have an ambassador?” Kelly frowned. “I remember now, but I don’t think I’ve seen him since I was crowned Carnival queen, which must have been twenty years ago.”

  “He came to Dring’s ball, but I don’t think he ever left the card room, unless it was for a quick line dance,” Joe told her. “What’s the relationship between the Fillinducks and the Tharks?”

  “The Fillinducks were once their vassals back before either species joined the tunnel network,” Bork explained. “You probably know that the Tharks nearly destroyed themselves in a civil war, which was made almost inevitable by their warrior culture and its elevation of an exaggerated form of honor to the highest value. I believe the Fillinducks have always been grateful that the Tharks were too proud to allow their vassals to participate in the fighting.”

  “It’s hard to picture those happy little fellows as fierce warriors, though I have to admit that their reputation came in handy when they saved us from that Vergallian hijack and kidnapping,” Kelly said.

  “Sometimes, the fittest members of the species selected by history are the ones who don’t draw a weapon at every perceived insult. Don’t you have a saying about the meek inheriting the Earth?”

  “We do, but we’re still waiting.”

  “Certainly sounds like a party,” Joe said, as they approached the open doors through which both light and sound spilled out into the corridor. “I wonder if I should have brought beer?”

  “The Fillinducks are always excellent hosts once they make up their minds to stage an event,” Minka told him. “I’m sure they’ll have both food and drink that’s suitable for Humans.”

  When they entered the reception, Kelly couldn’t help wondering if the Fillinducks had taken over some sort of playground for the party. Half of the floor space was taken up by large alien apparatus that might have been gym equipment for children. There were enormous bubbles stuck to every surface, as if somebody had attempted to do a load of laundry by filling the machine with detergent.

  “Welcome to our little embassy,” the Fillinduck ambassador greeted the newcomers. “Make yourselves at home, but please don’t pop the Rinty bubbles. Our guest of honor is around here somewhere, and I know he’s looking forward to talking to you, Ambassador McAllister. I hope you can honor his request.”

  “Do you know what it is?” Kelly asked.

  The Fillinduck gestured for her to come closer, and bending down to her height, whispered, “I believe he has a recipe he wants to get into the cookbook.”

  “I’ll see if I can find us something to drink, Kel,” Joe said, as the Fillinduck ambassador turned away to greet Czeros, who arrived stag, as usual. “Why don’t you look for the Thark and get whatever it is out of the way so you can relax?”

  “You know me better than I know myself,” Kelly responded, and began searching for the short ambassador in a sea of taller aliens. Once her eyes adjusted to the improved, though still dim lighting, she realized that the guests at the reception seemed to be self-segregating into diplomats versus other station celebrities. She homed in on the two largest backs she recognized, those of the Grenouthian and Verlock ambassadors. As soon as she squeezed past Srythlan, she found that her bet had paid off. The Thark ambassador was standing on a chair regaling his diplomatic audience with tales of his travels.

  “—and I replied, ‘But I thought you were the emperor!’”

  The circle of ambassadors exploded in laughter, foot stomping, and belly slapping, and Kelly thought that Crute was going to break his own ribs, he was hugging himself so tight.

  “No more, no more,” Ortha begged the Thark through tears of mirth. “You’re killing us.”

  “That’s what she said,” the Thark rejoined, bringing about a fresh gale of laughter, during which Kelly saw Aainda holding onto a fistful of the Grenouthian ambassador’s shou
lder fur to keep herself upright. “Anyway, the Bungees threw me in a dungeon, and if my grandson hadn’t finally broken away from his game console and come to rescue me, I’d still be in there eating sea rats and swapping jokes with the Stryx on the other side of the wall.”

  “With the Stryx!” Crute wailed at this final punch line, and dropped to his knees with a thud.

  The Thark ambassador must have known that it was best to leave the audience begging for more. He hopped down from the chair and made a series of gestures in front of the kneeling Dollnick, as if he were giving Crute a blessing or confirming him as a knight. The other ambassadors, all of whom were themselves accomplished raconteurs, realized it would be suicide to go on next, and opted to look for food instead. The Thark walked straight up to Kelly and immediately got down to business.

  “I hear you won the cookbook monopoly.”

  “Yes, we hope to go final at the end of this week,” the EarthCent ambassador replied.

  “So soon? Then it’s true you won’t be publishing in Universal.”

  “That’s correct. The initial print edition will be in English, but the electronic version will be released in all of the tunnel network languages simultaneously.”

  “Did you include any Thark recipes?”

  “I’d have to check with Aabina and I hate to contact her at home,” Kelly said. “Hold on a second. Libby?” she subvoced, knowing that the other species were often put off if she spoke out loud to the Stryx in their presence.

  “The draft doesn’t include any recipes from the Tharks,” the station librarian answered Kelly’s unasked question. “Donna did send several messages to their embassy, but the Tharks don’t bother staffing when the ambassador is away.”

  “Our cookbook editor, who is also my embassy manager, tried to reach out to you several times,” Kelly said apologetically. “I don’t know if the message was passed along.”

  “It’s why I cut short my tour and returned to the station,” the Thark said. He dug in the pocket of his vest and brought out a battered English catalog. “You can use any of these for our entry. Use them all if you have room.”

  Kelly examined the pamphlet. “This is a catalog of homemade soaps from Anne’s Boutique.”

  “Yes, of course. I don’t believe any of our foods are safe for Human consumption, so including my favorite Earth export seems like the right thing to do.”

  “But these are soaps, and it’s a cookbook,” Kelly said slowly.

  “Obviously, and this catalog gives the recipes and techniques in great detail. All of the ingredients are one hundred percent natural and certified organic, whatever that means. Here,” the ambassador continued, pulling a pale green bar of soap out of another pocket. “Take a lick.”

  “I, uh, I just ate. Can I take this catalog with me? I need to get the editor’s approval—”

  “The message I got stated that entries from ambassadors would be published without having to go through a vetting process,” the Thark cut her off, an edge of steel entering his jolly voice.

  “Yes, of course,” Kelly backpedaled. “I’m just concerned there may be copyright—”

  “I checked with our legal experts and recipes can’t be copyrighted under Human law. Change a word here or there in the instructions and create your own illustrations if you can’t get explicit permission from Anne. I’ve made all of these recipes myself, but I like to support the creator by buying the original product when it’s available.”

  ”You won’t be offended if we put in a note that the original purpose of the soap is for washing up?” the EarthCent ambassador asked tentatively.

  The Thark broke into a wide smile. “You can write whatever you want as long as the recipe gets in there with my name and a picture.” He pivoted and looked up at Joe. “Is this your husband?”

  “Ambassador,” Joe said. He passed his wife the glass of white wine he’d found her and then moved his beer to the other hand to offer the Thark a handshake. “Long time, no see.”

  “Right, it would seem long in comparison to your lifespan.” The Thark turned back to Kelly and inquired in a stage whisper, “Is it considered rude to compliment a Human on his wrinkles?”

  “It won’t bother Joe, but don’t try it with me,” she said, though she wasn’t at all confident that her implant had properly translated the ambassador’s question. The Tharks were a wrinkly species, though she supposed it was possible that the ones she had seen up close were all getting on in their years.

  “That’s a fine set of knowledge lines you’ve got there, Joe,” the Thark ambassador continued in his normal voice. “I heard that my grandnephew is underwriting insurance for your rental fleet.”

  “Tunnel Trips,” Joe said. “I only have a small ownership stake for legal reasons involving the Stryx lease for Mac’s Bones.”

  “Just as long as you understand that all bets are off on certain encounters that take place inside Stryx tunnels when one of the passengers of the rental craft is carrying a Vergallian homing beacon.”

  “I didn’t even know that was possible, but I’ll check the small print on the policy slip when we get home.” He felt Kelly’s grip tighten on his arm, and realized that the Thark wasn’t speaking hypothetically.

  “Our off-world betting parlor has the odds on Ambassador Aainda up to even money,” the Thark continued. His voice sounded quite loud in the sudden silence, since all of the diplomats in the immediate area had stopped talking as if on cue and were leaning into the conversation. “Personally, I think that my idiot son-in-law is underrating her chances, especially given the informal alliance she’s pulled together.”

  “You’re taking bets on Aainda doing something?” Kelly asked.

  “She’s our proxy for a larger sequence of events. I believe there are twenty or so related prop bets on the board, including a few tied to the publication of the cookbook. Ah, I see our host summoning me. I expect he’ll want me to give a speech.” The Thark winked at the McAllisters and scurried away.

  “What was the ambassador talking about, Joe? I don’t understand gambling talk.”

  “You know the Tharks will make book on anything. We can swing by the off-world betting parlor on the way home and see what they have up on the big board. I’m not sure what to make of his comment about Vergallians in the tunnel, though. Did Samuel say anything to you?”

  “You know how closed-mouth he is about the work he’s doing for Aainda. There’s Blythe and Chastity. They should know something.”

  “Hey, future in-laws,” Blythe greeted them. “Quite the shindig the Fillinducks are putting on.”

  “Why were you invited?” Kelly asked the sisters, and then realizing how the question sounded, clarified with, “InstaSitter? The Galactic Free Press? EarthCent Intelligence?”

  “Believe it or not, Blythe and I were both invited because we underwrote the cookbook bid,” Chastity replied. “We didn’t realize that every alien on the station with a get-rich-quick scheme would conclude that we must be the biggest suckers of all time. Still, some of the business plans are kind of interesting. Have you seen Bob yet?”

  “Bob Steelforth? Is he covering this event for the paper?”

  “The Fillinduck embassy sent press credentials for a single reporter at the last minute, and Bob’s our senior Union Station correspondent. He was working on a story about the Alt delegation so he may be late.”

  “The Alts have arrived already?” Kelly turned to Blythe. “Did I miss an update from EarthCent Intelligence?”

  “They aren’t here yet, but we’ve gotten a number of reports about their envoys showing up on the most unlikely alien worlds.”

  “Where are your husbands?” Joe asked the sisters. “If I can still go out past my bedtime, a couple of young bucks like Clive and Marcus can make the effort.”

  “Clive is attending an ISPOA conference on Horten Eight and I don’t expect him back for another week,” Blythe said.

  “And Dorothy has stolen my husband for the foreseeable futur
e,” Chastity added. “Your daughter has Marcus choreographing routines for every possible situation that might come up on the cooking show so the bunnies will have multiple options to choose from when they’re editing. I swear I heard Marcus muttering something about a pasta dance over breakfast this morning.”

  “So Jonah signed the contract?” Kelly said. “Aisha didn’t tell me, but I didn’t see her today, and I guess that explains where Dorothy’s been.”

  “He signed last night,” Blythe confirmed. “The Grenouthians are already pushing him to start shooting so they can have a few shows ready in time for the cookbook launch. The producer even asked me if we could delay the release by a few weeks, but I told him that my mother wouldn’t stand for it.”

  “I think that Farling is trying to catch your attention,” Joe muttered in his wife’s ear. She glanced in the direction he indicated and saw a giant beetle sidling towards them. When her gaze made contact with G32FX’s multi-faceted eyes, he pointed to the right with all the limbs on that side of his body and changed course towards a high stack of Rinty bubbles.

  “G3-something,” Kelly told them with a sigh. “He seemed a bit paranoid the one time I met him. I better go see what it’s all about.”

  “Tell your daughter I want my husband back in one piece,” the publisher of the Galactic Free Press called after her.

  When the EarthCent ambassador reached the mound of bubbles where the Farling had disappeared, she heard a voice say, “Don’t come any closer. Just admire the Rinty bubbles and pretend to be talking to yourself.”

  “Do you think anybody will really fall for that?” Kelly demanded. She made a show of examining the multicolored surface of a bubble that on closer inspection, proved to be a continuous swirl of fractal patterns that made her feel like she was being sucked into a vortex.

  “Trust me, you have a reputation for one-sided conversations, though the more generous interpretation would be that you’re always talking with the Stryx.”