Family Night on Union Station (EarthCent Ambassador Book 12)

by E. M. Foner

  Hold the seaweed, add the hot sauce

  We can’t eat it, but that’s our loss

  Don’t forget the free roll of floss

  Human Burger

  “Look,” Dorothy exclaimed as the overhead hologram began flashing ‘Human Burger,’ in English. “And you said that we wouldn’t be able to eat anything other than synthesized food.”

  “That wasn’t here last time I came,” Kevin said, obviously surprised by the appearance of a human restaurant on the Drazen station. “It looks like a chain outfit, but I’ve never heard of them.”

  It took almost twenty minutes for the couple to reach the counter due to the number of Drazens ordering. There seemed to be an infinite number of variations to the song, depending on the entree chosen by the diners, though all of them concluded with the name of the restaurant. The employees wore puffy collars and round caps, giving the impression that their faces were the filling for a bun.

  “Human Burger. How can I help you?” a pert young lady asked Dorothy.

  “I’ll have a burger I guess, but without any of the dangerous stuff.”

  The employee did a double-take on hearing Dorothy speak English, and said, “We don’t serve humans.”

  “What? It’s in the name of your restaurant!”

  “It’s not my restaurant, I work for Eccentric Enterprises. And didn’t you listen to the song? We really can’t eat it.”

  “That’s why I’m saying to just make it plain,” Dorothy repeated. “I haven’t had any real food in a week.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s not a regular hamburger with funky condiments. The patty is from vat-grown Mafletzet, which is some sort of giant alien snake, and the flour includes ground glass, which the Drazens hold in their gizzards to soften up indigestible fiber.”

  “But it smells so good,” Dorothy pleaded. “How about an order of fries?”

  “We don’t get potatoes out here. The fries are from a Drazen tuber that’s so poisonous we need regular inoculations of antidote just to work here. They didn’t tell us that back on Earth,” the girl added ruefully.

  “A soda?”

  “Not if you want to keep your teeth. The only thing on the menu that any of us can eat is the fruit salad, which we get in 55-gallon drums from Earth.”

  “How is it?” Kevin asked over Dorothy’s shoulder.

  “It comes in 55-gallon drums from Earth,” the girl repeated, making a face. “The Drazens cover it with hot sauce until it floats, and I don’t blame them.”

  “Two orders of fruit salad,” Dorothy said dejectedly.

  Hold the burger, hold the bun

  Human diets are no fun

  Eat like that, you’ll lose a ton

  Human Burger

  “Did you just make that up?” Kevin asked the girl.

  “The job interview was all rhyming and singing. I actually thought I was applying for summer stock theatre,” she confessed. “But it’s good experience for improv, they’ll pay for college if I can find one to attend, and there’s profit sharing if I last out the contract. The fruit salad will be four creds, by the way.”

  “I’ve got this,” Dorothy said, and paid the girl.

  Immediately after the coins hit the register drawer, one of the cooks behind the grill line dinged a bell and announced, “Two baby foods.”

  The counter girl retrieved the two bowls, put them on a tray, and slid it across the counter, where Kevin picked it up.

  “Human Special with the works,” an impatient Drazen behind the couple barked.

  Buns that crunch ‘cause they’re full of glass

  All the good stuff, we give a pass

  Drazen food knocks me on my—butt

  Human Burger

  “I could never work here,” Dorothy said as she followed Kevin to a table. “Not being able to eat all that great-smelling food.”

  “I couldn’t handle the singing and rhyming. At least now we know what the guy in customs was on about.”

  “Ugh. How can anything be so tasteless after a week of eating Zero-G rations?”

  “At least it’s not a paste. I wonder what these bright red waxy things are, though.”

  “I think they’re supposed to be cherries. At least the yellow wedges have substance to them.”

  “Pineapple?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Dorothy said, chewing contemplatively.

  “Mango?” Kevin suggested after another bite.

  “You’re just guessing now. I think they might have been cling peaches once.”

  “Finish up and I’ll take you to a synthesizer place I remember. It’s really not bad if you put enough salt on it.”

  “Excuse me,” said a Drazen woman, approaching their table with a heavily loaded tray and three children in tow. “Are these seats taken?”

  “Please.” Kevin added the universal gesture for ‘help yourself,’ even though the alien must have had an implant programmed for English to understand the girl at the counter.

  “Thank you,” the woman replied, and said to her children, “Sit, they won’t bite you.”

  “They can’t bite us,” her oldest boy replied bravely, taking the chair next to Kevin. “We’re poison to them.”

  “Are not,” his younger sister insisted. “I’m sweet.”

  “That you are, my love,” her mother said, running a fond hand down the girl’s tentacle. Then she distributed the burgers to her children, shared out the drinks, and dumped all of the fries out on the tray together, next to several small containers of hot sauce. Dorothy’s mouth and eyes began watering at the same time.

  “Want some?” the oldest boy teased her, wiggling a fry.

  “Gurk!” his mother scolded. “You know that the poor Humans can’t eat their own food.”

  “But it’s not our food,” Dorothy protested. “It’s your food, but rebranded.”

  “I never had anything like this growing up,” the Drazen woman responded. “It’s so delicious that I would have remembered.”

  “What I meant is that we can eat burgers and fries when they’re made from our food rather than your food. We invented them, after all.”

  “What’s the Human saying?” chorused the children, who obviously lacked implants.

  “She feels bad about not being able to eat their food, just like in the song I translated for you,” the mother said.

  “Hrumph,” Dorothy muttered, not wanting to get into an argument.

  “That reminds me,” the mother continued, pausing to rummage through her belt pouch and bringing out a coin. “Go put that in the poor Human’s tip jar, Gurk. I saw in a documentary that they need to send money home for their relatives who aren’t fortunate enough to find a job working for an advanced species.”

  Nine

  “You’ve been disqualified,” the Vergallian clerk declared, pushing the registration chit back at Samuel. “Somebody filed a complaint.”

  “This is the first I’m hearing about it,” the ambassador’s son replied in flawless Vergallian. “According to the regulations of the Regional Junior Ballroom Championships, no contestants shall be disqualified without a hearing before a full board meeting of the regents.”

  “As you’re familiar with the regulations, I’m sure you’re aware that there’s an exception if the complaint is accompanied by incontrovertible evidence that a contestant is over the age limit. You’re welcome to compete in the Regional Open Ballroom Championships—for adults.”

  “But he won’t be seventeen for three more months,” Vivian protested.

  “You’re talking about Human years. The rules committee is required to prorate the ages of aliens according to their life spans, and the multiplier for your species is…” the clerk paused, and his left eye darted back and forth as he scanned through a document on his heads-up display, “three, which I think is a generous understatement.”

  “Do I look forty-eight years old to you?” Samuel demanded.

  “Rules are rules,” the clerk replied. “Your entry fee
has already been refunded to your programmable cred. Next?”

  “Don’t give him the satisfaction of getting mad,” Vivian whispered. “We can’t force our way into a dance competition if they don’t want us.”

  “I’m only angry on your account,” he said, giving Vivian his arm in proper Vergallian style and leading her back towards where their families were waiting. “I know how much you wanted to win, and I think we would have had a chance this year, even though we haven’t been practicing as much lately.”

  The girl came to a halt, forcing Samuel to stop as well. “I only kept competing because I thought you wanted to. I love to dance, but I’d rather be studying tango with Aunt Chastity and Chance. The only thing I like about Vergallian ballroom style is that the heels are so high I can look at you without straining my neck.”

  The two teens stared at each other for a moment and then burst out laughing. But their families were waiting just a few paces away, so they regained control much more quickly than would have been the case otherwise.

  “What’s so funny?” Jonah demanded of his twin. “Did they put you at the end of the list for the first round again?”

  “We’ve been disqualified,” Vivian replied, struggling to keep a straight face. “Samuel’s too old. Our ages have been prorated for life span.”

  “What?” Kelly exploded. “I’m going to go have a word with those jerks, and if they don’t want to play fair, Ambassador Abeva can find herself another first contact mission to join.”

  “Wait,” her son protested, grabbing her arm. “Hold her, Dad. It’s okay, Mom. Vivian and I were only competing to make each other happy. We’ve both had enough of it.”

  “Finally,” Blythe said, hugging her daughter and giving her a kiss. “You don’t know how sick of Vergallian music we all are. And I was beginning to worry we’d have to take you to the Farling for toe surgery if you kept on wearing those shoes.”

  “The shoes are the only part I like, Mom,” the girl replied, drawing a supportive wink from Chastity.

  “I’ll miss getting everybody from both families together for a night out,” Donna said. “You’re all so busy now.”

  “We have plenty of picnics in Mac’s Bones,” Joe pointed out.

  “She’s right,” Kelly said. “It’s different to get together as a group and actually go somewhere.”

  “I heard that a bowling alley just opened up next to the Shuk where there used to be an archery range,” Stanley suggested. “I’m kind of curious to see how the station spin affects the game.”

  “What’s a bowling alley?” Jonah asked.

  “It’s easier to show than to explain,” Stanley replied to his grandson. “How about it?”

  “If we’re ever going to go bowling, let’s do it now while the shoes are still new,” Joe said.

  “What does that mean?” Chastity asked, bouncing on her heels to calm her fidgeting baby.

  “You’ll see when we get there,” Stanley repeated, encouraging the group to move in the direction of the lift tubes. “I’m buying.”

  Everybody squeezed into a single lift tube capsule, where Joe and Stanley engaged in their usual argument over who would pick up the check, finally compromising on the former paying for refreshments and the latter for the lanes. At the same time, Kelly attempted to explain bowling to everybody who hadn’t grown up on Earth, but her own memories of the sport were confused, and she found that the main thing that stuck with her was the noise.

  The counterman looked up when the group entered the bowling alley and did a double-take. “What do you know? You’ll be my first human customers since I left Earth. I’m John Cote, and I want to welcome you to Union Station Candlepins.”

  Stanley took the opportunity to introduce the whole crew before asking, “How long have you been open here?”

  “Just three days,” John replied. “I didn’t do any pre-publicity on the human deck because I wanted a chance to get the word out with the aliens first. How did you hear about us?”

  “Come to think of it, I must have seen something in the correspondence stream for Eccentric Enterprises. I’m one of the outside auditors.”

  “I guess a bowling alley on a space station qualifies as eccentric,” Kelly commented.

  “Eccentric Enterprises,” Blythe said, stressing the name. “Have you forgotten already?”

  “Wait. Is that the franchising outfit you set up for the President?”

  “He didn’t want to call it ‘EarthCent Enterprises’ because everybody would have confused it with the diplomatic arm. It’s all run from Earth, but we’re providing financing and business intelligence.”

  “Sounds like I owe you thanks for my startup loan,” John said. “After thirty years of doing business on Earth, I couldn’t believe how fast everything happened after I made my proposal to Eccentric.”

  “Why did you want to get the word out to aliens before advertising to humans?” Kelly asked.

  “Well, that’s a long story, but I’ll make it short. I inherited an old candlepin alley from my folks, and I just couldn’t bring myself to shut it down, even though business got worse and worse every year. I stopped maintaining half of the lanes, turned off the lights on that side of the building to save money, even cannibalized the unused pin setting machines to keep the active lanes going. But I would have given up a couple of years ago if not for the Dollnicks.”

  “The Dollnicks bowl?”

  “No, well, some of them, but it’s not their main interest. Turns out there’s a game they play back home that has to do with setting up pins. A group of Dolly managers from the radioactive materials recycling plant came in one night and asked if I would let them have a go at it, sort of a friendly competition. I turned off the pin setters and let them set up for the local league, and you never saw such fast frames in your life. Everybody had a great time, which is where I got the idea to pitch Eccentric.”

  “To improve Earth’s visibility with aliens through bowling?” Chastity asked, sensing a human interest story for the Galactic Free Press.

  “This is just a pop-up alley, a proof of concept before we roll the franchise out to alien worlds, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

  “I understand pop-up retail shops to test market ideas, but how do you open a temporary bowling alley?” Kelly asked.

  “Go ahead, kids,” the owner addressed the teens, whose attention was focused on the active bowlers. “You’re on lanes fifteen and sixteen. I wish I could give you four lanes, but the rest are all reserved. And don’t forget to stick your feet in the Drazen foot wrappers before you start. Do the same before you leave or you’ll have to cut them off at home.” Then he turned back to Kelly and continued his story. “I couldn’t justify renting enough space on a Stryx station for a bowling alley because I’d have to charge a hundred creds an hour for a lane. By doing it in temporary space, the station manager cut me a serious discount.”

  “I meant installing the lanes and the equipment.”

  “There is no equipment, that’s the whole point. The Dollys pay to set up the pins and roll the balls back, though a posse of Drazens came in here last night and challenged them for the positions. But when it comes to pin setting, four arms beats two arms and a tentacle every day of the week.”

  “Can I invite Mikey?” Fenna asked her mother.

  “That’s a good idea,” Aisha said. “Are you going to have Libby ping his house, or should I try?”

  “I’ll ask Libby,” the girl replied, and turning away so she wouldn’t bother the grown-ups, called for the station librarian’s attention without a trace of self-consciousness.

  “So how did you get the lanes in so quickly?” Joe asked. “I’ve never seen as much wood in one place on the station.”

  “It’s not real wood,” John admitted. “The Frunge would have made a fuss, and there’s no point starting out in business setting anybody’s hair vines on end. It’s a quick-drying cement that the Drazens use for leveling their version of shuffleboard courts, but it’s print
ed to look like wood, and according to the supplier, the finish will hold up for decades as long as everybody uses the foot wrappers. The lanes are in line with the station’s spin, so physics doesn’t cause problems, and you can barely notice the curvature over sixty feet.”

  “You seem to know a lot about alien cultures for somebody who lived on Earth until recently,” the ambassador observed.

  “I mentioned that business was slow, but I still had to be there twelve hours a day, so I might have spent too much time watching Grenouthian documentaries,” John allowed. “Anyway, the foot wrappers are calibrated for the right coefficient of friction, and they save the whole hassle of having to stock and sanitize rental shoes, not to mention carrying all of the sizes for aliens.”

  “Would you like to do an interview for the Galactic Free Press?” Chastity asked. “I could see it as a weekend feature.”

  “Let me think about it,” the owner replied. “I wouldn’t want to get overrun by humans to the point that the aliens stop coming. The whole point of opening on the station is to tweak the business model.”

  “How about I send a reporter to do the interview, but I promise to sit on the story until you’re ready. I’m the publisher.”

  John glanced away at a group of rambunctious Grenouthians who had just entered the bowling alley and were hopping towards them. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll come over to your lanes to talk when I finish up here, but I’ve got to take care of these bunnies first. They reserved a lane each and they bowl continuously for hours on end. I think they’re trying to wear out the Dollnicks.”

  “Nice meeting you,” Joe said for everybody, and they headed over to their designated lanes. The kids already had their feet wrapped and were trying to figure out what to do next by watching the other bowlers, all of whom seemed to be playing different games.