by E. M. Foner
“Unlike the Stryx, KinderZoo doesn’t give partial refunds, so we may as well stick it out for today,” Home Boy replied philosophically. “Is there anything else, or should Toto introduce our new sponsors, I mean, agency heads.”
“Is there any news about the agents who were sent to investigate the Farling threat?” Tinkerbelle asked.
“We received a report they were in a parking orbit at Corner Station, but for some reason, they haven’t contacted the embassy,” Home Boy said. “It’s the first subject I intend to broach with the new director.”
“Where did you get the idea of sending them after the Farlings?” Lion asked. “Is there some ongoing intelligence gathering at HQ you haven’t told us about?”
“We received an anonymous tip,” Home Boy confessed. “It seemed credible because it was delivered with a small sample of a drug that would compel obedience. Since we didn’t have any other training ideas, the mission to make a drug buy was a natural fit. Perhaps I was hasty.”
“Did you test the drug?” Troll asked.
“On my wife’s dog,” Home Boy replied sadly. “For three weeks, he came when I called him, stopped barking when I told him to be quiet, he even stayed off the couch.”
“Did something go wrong?” Mother asked sympathetically.
“Yes, I used up the sample,” Home Boy said with a tragic air. “I’m sure he remembers the whole thing and holds it against me, because now he’s worse than he was before.”
“Serves you right,” barked the Cairn terrier. “It’s a good thing you aren’t coming to the show, because I have a two-hundred-pound dog that doesn’t take kindly to mind control.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Toto,” Home Boy replied mildly. “Now, if there are no further objections, shall we meet the new heads of our intelligence agency?”
The hologram projected from the display desk winked, and suddenly Clive and Blythe appeared, sitting on the bridge of a decidedly alien ship.
“My code name was Mercenary,” Clive announced. He paused to take in all of the animal heads and make the mental association with the diplomats they concealed, thanks to a cheat sheet provided by the Drazens. “Due to our early lack of operational security, everybody involved in intelligence work not attending this meeting already knows that my name is Clive Oxford, so you may as well just call me Clive.”
“My code name is Control,” Blythe said in a voice that implied she meant it. With her hair pulled back in a tight bun and strategic use of make-up, she looked closer to thirty than twenty. “I’ve met most of you in person over the last three years so you probably recognize me as the co-owner of InstaSitter, but I’m sticking with Control because I like it. Although we have every confidence in Stryx encryption, it would serve no purpose to discuss specific details that you don’t require for oversight purposes. Subject to that condition, we are ready to answer any questions you may have.”
“I’d like to personally express my gratitude to you for accepting the job with its associated expenses,” Home Boy thanked the Oxfords. “Speaking of those expenses, would it violate your conditions to say something about the scale of your initial operations?”
“Our plan, which requires your cooperation, includes funding a cultural attaché position at all of the EarthCent embassies on Stryx stations.” Clive waited a moment to see if there would be a protest, even though Blythe had assured him the committee would agree to anything that came with funding. “The attaché will serve as a liaison with the ambassador, as well as providing local control or point of contact for agents in the vicinity. We have already begun recruiting agents and information analysts on a large scale, with the initial goal of maintaining one full-time agent in the field for every analyst at headquarters. The basic approach is to pair each analyst with an agent in a flat hierarchy, which will maximize our coverage during the start-up phase when we hardly know where we need to be concentrating our resources.”
“Will the cultural attachés count as agents?” Tinkerbelle asked.
“No,” Clive responded. “In addition to liaison and point-of-contact duties, the cultural attachés will be expected to spend as much time as possible socializing with the local species, especially those with whom EarthCent has yet to form official relations. There may be some overlap with regular embassy activities, so we’ll need to work out the kinks as we go along. In essence, we want to systematically build our institutional knowledge of alien cultures based on first-hand observations, rather than relying on media and Stryx reference materials.”
“So they actually will be functioning as cultural attachés, sort-of,” Toto observed. “Will this information be shared with the local embassy?”
“All reports produced by the cultural attachés will be submitted to the local embassy, EarthCent HQ and EarthCent Intelligence,” Blythe replied. “But their activities as point-of-contact, support, and control of local agents will only be reported to us.”
“Well, that sounds like a pretty ambitious program to start,” Troll said. “I think it will be a great benefit to the embassies to have a staff member who is dedicated to learning about some of the less-than-forthcoming aliens, even if it’s just part-time. Practically all of our limited resources go into providing what support services we can for transient humans and keeping up appearances with the other species.”
“In addition to the three types of full-time staffers we’ve talked about and a thin layer of management, we’ve established a training center for all personnel. Our initial recruits will receive instruction in tradecraft and some basic self-defense skills, primarily for the sake of team-building and creating confidence in the program,” Clive continued. “We may bring in some promising stringers for training as well, though for the time being, the field agents who run them will have to teach them any necessary tradecraft.”
“I’ve followed along pretty well up to this point, and I’m deeply impressed by both your plan and your willingness to finance such a large operation,” Home Boy interjected. “In fact, it goes far beyond what I imagined might be possible. But I lost you on agents running stringers.”
“Stringers in the journalistic or intelligence world are also known as casuals,” Blythe explained. “They’ll be humans who are sympathetic with our goals and who may be paid for piece-work, but they’ll have their own careers or occupations outside of our agency, and they may go for years at a time without producing any intelligence of note. Our field agents will focus on creating networks of independent traders and bartenders, who tend to hear the latest rumors, but they’ll also enlist humans who live in or travel to places where we have a need for information. Currently, if a human sees something that could be vital to our interests, all they can do is gossip about it. We want everyone to know that there’s a new human agency that wants to hear about what’s going on out there, and may even pay them for their trouble.”
“It sounds a little like you’re trying to recruit all of humanity to serve as spies,” Mother complained. “Isn’t this what they call mission creep?”
“I don’t see why we need to worry about scope as long as they’re willing to pay for it,” Troll pointed out.
“We’re not trying to recruit all of humanity,” Clive assured Mother. “And we don’t have infinite funds, something my wife will address in a moment. But there’s a big difference between operating an intelligence agency on a galactic scale and the old national espionage services that flourished on Earth a century ago. Since EarthCent lacks a military, we can’t piggyback on their resources or draw from their ranks for agents. And since the only successful human entertainment channels are focused on sports programming, we can’t rely on foreign correspondents or investigative reporters to provide early warnings of intergalactic developments. The first analysts we hired are already learning how to monitor the alien news feeds around the clock, but of course, that’s mainly valuable as a barometer of how the more important species are getting along.”
“It took me three decades of reading reports
from our ambassadors to learn that lesson,” Home Boy concurred. “No matter how important an event might be to us, we’re just a small, primitive species without an empire, a military, or the cure for the common cold. The only human event to lead the galactic news in the forty-three years I’ve worked for EarthCent was the auction of Kasilian treasures held on Union Station last year.”
“Did I hear something about your funding running into limitations already?” Troll asked cautiously. “We really hoped that the Intelligence branch might become self-funding through the trading activity of its agents.”
“Let me address that question,” Blythe replied, looking somewhat irritated for the first time. “I understand that EarthCent has been functioning under tremendous fiscal constraints, but recruiting traders to use their own ships and skills to support themselves while functioning as career agents is neither viable nor ethical. All career EarthCent Intelligence personnel recruited on my watch will receive both a salary and matching contributions to Stryx-managed retirement funds. If they use their own spaceships in the course of their work, we will pay expenses and depreciation.”
“I don’t understand,” Home Boy objected. “Unless you’re hoping to convince the Stryx to provide funding, how long can you hope to carry the expenses yourselves?”
“Do you all remember the Raider/Trader craze of a few years ago?” Blythe asked in reply to his question.
The ambassadors replied with a chorus of, “Sure,” “Unfortunately,” and “Hated it.”
“After the hype about military confrontations died down and most of the young men quit playing, the Trader part of the game continued to have great success, and it still draws tens of millions of new players from most of the known species every cycle. The reason the Verlocks subsidize the real-time tunneling communications charges that make the game possible is that they are cleaning up on selling market data to trading concerns across the galaxy.”
“So you intend to go into competition with the Verlocks?” Pill Bottle asked. “I’ve had pretty extensive dealings with them over the years, and I can assure you that they would view such competition as an act of aggression.”
“No, the game is their rice bowl,” Blythe replied. “It’s also a bigger and much more complex business than we’re capable of launching or funding at this time. But we do intend to develop commercially viable intelligence products and sell that information to businesses. Once we’ve built out our network of human resources, we may also experiment with selling courier and security services for human businesses, in addition to the standard industrial espionage.”
“I’m not sure I like where this is headed,” Mother cautioned. “You’re telling me that we’re going to be actively trying to steal industrial secrets from the other species?”
“Absolutely,” Blythe replied. “Any industrial espionage we can manage on our own will be fine by the Stryx, and the other species as well, for that matter. Most of them are engaged in proxy wars, using economic output in the place of fleets and weapons. Yes, many of the advanced species have space armadas and one day humanity will likely need one as well, but that’s primarily to ensure the safety of their merchants and explorers outside of Stryx space. And it’s why sending a couple of untrained agents into Farling space was not a bright beginning for our agency.”
“Their instructions specifically prohibited them from going deeper into Farling space than the overlap at the Stryx tunnel exit,” Home Boy protested.
“We understand that, but those border volumes of space, where there’s a tunnel termination but no station, aren’t really viewed as Stryx space,” Clive responded. “The Farlings certainly wouldn’t do anything that would anger the Stryx, like preventing a ship from entering the tunnel, but you have to remember that the Farlings don’t live under observation like we do on the stations. What happens in Farling space is their business. That’s why they can manufacture and sell harmful drugs that are illegal in Stryx space.”
“I am worried about those agents and I accept full responsibility if something has gone wrong,” Home Boy stated.
“We are currently on our way to Corner Station to meet our stray agents and bring them in,” Clive replied. “Our information suggests that they are fine, but that they encountered an unexpected delay.”
“Unexpected advance,” Blythe corrected him.
“Well, this was all very interesting,” Lion said. “Shouldn’t we vote on accepting cultural attachés since it affects us directly?”
“Good point,” Troll seconded the idea. “We are a committee after all.”
“Very well,” Home Boy concurred. “All in favor of accepting a cultural attaché who will be recruited and paid by EarthCent Intelligence, raise your hand. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. Very good. For the record, that’s seven in favor, none opposed. Only sitting committee members get to vote.”
“Fine,” Blythe said sharply. “Just wait and see if we invite you to any of our committee meetings.”
“I think somebody should point out that we are putting a lot of eggs in the Union Station basket,” Mother said. “The trade show, the spy school, it’s even the home office for our generous new management team.”
“We got a deal on the rental for the training camp, and a part-time instructor as well,” Blythe reported. “Of course, if you have an equivalent facility you’d be willing to pay for…”
“I was just pointing it out,” Mother replied meekly. “I think Union Station is a wonderful choice.”
“So I see no reason to reconvene this committee before there’s something important to discuss,” Home Boy concluded, his mind on Blythe’s private admonition that she wouldn’t pay for a secure channel every month. “I suggest we meet after the trade show on Union Station takes place, perhaps some of you who attend will have a chance to meet in person.”
“And I’m looking forward to seeing you all next time without the animal heads,” Mother added, as time ran out and the holograms dissolved.
Thirteen
Lynx was still a little unsteady on her feet following nearly two weeks of comatose inactivity in Zero-G, but after sucking down a couple tubes of protein-fortified fruit juice, she felt ready to face the world. Well, maybe not the world, but at least their contact man. A.P. told her that a short time before she woke up, they had received an open transmission inviting them to attend an auction at the Corner Station convention center. Since the invitation purportedly came from Lynx’s grandmother, A.P. assumed that it was sent by their contact and not a random advertisement.
Chance benefitted from Lynx’s extended vacation from consciousness because it allowed her time to reconstitute her dead back-up cell to the point that it would keep her on her feet for a few days without needing to swill a bottle of high-proof booze for fuel every couple hours. A.P. revived Chance when the Prudence broke parking orbit to approach the station, and she immediately contacted the Stryx AI administration to begin negotiations for financing a new power pack.
“They want me to get a job,” Chance complained to Lynx when the two of them met on the bridge. The Stryx station manager had just taken over navigation and was guiding the ship towards a docking berth on the core. The feeling of gravity slowly increased as Corner Station’s manipulator fields began spinning the ship around the axis of the core to match the station’s rotational velocity. “I’m not the kind of artificial person who can punch a clock, you know. I have to be free. What difference does it make to them if I’m a few years behind on the mortgage payments for this body? They know I’m good for it.”
“Have you ever made a payment?” A.P. inquired.
“I almost did, once,” Chance said defensively. “But there was this hat I just had to buy, you should have seen me in it. Man, I wish I knew what happened to that hat,” she added mournfully.
“How long has it been since you were recognized as a sentient being?” Lynx asked curiously.
“Six years, two months, thirteen days, nine hours, fourteen mi
nutes,” Chance responded immediately. “I could give you a more accurate time if I had access to your implant, but I can’t speak quickly enough to get the seconds right.”
“How about you, partner?” Lynx followed up.
“Oh, it’s been a while,” A.P. replied vaguely. “I’ve never missed a payment because I let the Stryx pull the money from my account. In fact, I paid off my first body well ahead of schedule.”
“Whoop-de-do,” Chance mumbled.
“I don’t get how you could just ignore your payments like that,” A.P. admonished her. “You gave the Stryx your word of honor when you accepted the money. Without them, you’d just be running as a program in some crude human-built robot, and it would take you all day to answer a question like, ‘What’s your favorite color?’”
“Silver,” Chance replied sulkily. “You don’t have to lecture me, I got enough of that from the Stryx before I left their space. I just get bored, you know?”
“What kind of job do you think you’d like?” Lynx asked the artificial person, who was beginning to remind her of some adolescent girls she used to hang out with in the casino food courts while her father made a living at the tables.
“I don’t know, maybe something in fashion?” Chance replied, winding a lock of long hair onto her index finger. Lynx pictured her chewing gum at the same time and couldn’t help smiling.
“Docking sequence completed,” the Stryx station manager announced over the ship’s comm. “Welcome to the business class facility of Corner Station. Nose filters are not necessary in your docking area as long as you remain in the sections designated with a green stripe. A full service inspection is scheduled for 11:45 AM, local human time.”
“Business class? Full service inspection?” Lynx responded incredulously. “I don’t have that kind of creds. Is it too late to move us to the trader dock without incurring charges?”
“Your docking fees and maintenance have been prepaid,” the Stryx informed her. “However, if you wish to be moved and skip the service…”
