Alien Night on Union Station (EarthCent Ambassador Book 2)

by E. M. Foner

  When Joe woke up with his first hangover since before his marriage, they were already approaching the station. He checked his shoulder bag and discovered that the omniscient Stryx had forgotten to bring the tap.

  Fourteen

  Kelly had never visited any of the Frunge decks on the station before, and Joe told her she was in for a surprise. When they first exited the tube lift, Kelly thought there had been a mistake, and they were arriving on an ag deck set up as a Grenouthian warren for the giant bunnies. Then the rows of bushes burst into activity, and she saw that they were actually Frunge kids playing a slow-motion version of freeze tag, or some similar game.

  “I’ve been reading up on the Frunge,” she told Joe, as they picked their way through the mob of children, following a brown pebbled path that led straight away from the lift. The dinner invitation from the Frunge ambassador had enclosed a hand-drawn map on parchment that might have appeared in a children’s book. The map included brown paths, round green treetops, and a red X which indicated either the ambassador’s residence or buried treasure. “The children don’t get their first hair cut until they come of age. Supposedly, the tradition extends back to their pre-history when blending in with the vegetation helped keep them safe from predators.”

  “What if the predators were herbivores?” Joe objected, which struck Kelly as a rather good point.

  “I didn’t get that far,” she confessed. “It wasn’t really that interesting of a book. The author was obsessed with genetics and cross-breeding, and a lot of technical stuff about soil nutrients. But I’ll bet you didn’t know that in times of famine, the Frunge can still take root through their feet and get by on nothing but water and photosynthesis.”

  “I can’t say it’s ever come up,” her husband replied, as they took a side branch off the main path immediately after a large rock that looked like a fake prop from an old science fiction movie. “Did your book have anything about dinner etiquette?”

  “No. I even asked Libby to check for a tourist’s guide to any of the Frunge worlds, but she said they discourage outsiders from visiting them at home. I know from Shaina and my visits to the Shuk that their biggest export items are blade weapons and wing sets. Kind of weird for a tree-like species, don’t you think?”

  “I tried those wings on shore leave when I was still young and stupid,” Joe replied. “They’re kind of great if you aren’t afraid of heights, which I am. And I owned a Frunge cavalry saber for a number of years, bought it in one of the Vergallian systems. I can’t imagine a Frunge flying with wings or riding a horse into battle, so I guess some ambitious shrub just got into the business a long time ago, and it caught on with them for some reason.”

  “This must be it,” Kelly announced, consulting the map as they arrived at an elegant structure that blended in perfectly with its surroundings. The corner posts of the house looked like living trees, and in place of walls, there were rows of vines trained on strings suspended from above. No door was visible, but when the humans approached along the plainly marked path, a section of the wall vines parted with a gentle rustling sound.

  “Welcome to my garden. I am Ambassador Czeros,” spoke the Frunge who had apparently been waiting for their arrival, or perhaps the living house had informed him of their approach. Then the ambassador ritualistically bowed in the direction of each corner of the house, reciting a long formula that was translated, “My ancestors also extend their greetings to our visitors from Earth.”

  Kelly nudged Joe and together they recited the formula Shaina had taught her. “May the rains nourish your seedlings, may the sun harden their bark.”

  “How nice of you to say so,” the Ambassador replied, sounding genuinely pleased. “Of course, we have neither rain nor sun here, and the children you no doubt saw playing were germinated on one of our worlds, but small matter. It’s the sentiment that counts.”

  “It’s a human tradition to bring a bottle of wine to dinner,” Kelly said quickly. After the Gem champagne fiasco, Joe had convinced Kelly that they better start bringing their own drinks to diplomatic events. She motioned to Joe to present the ambassador with a gift bag from the best wine store in the human section, containing one of the more expensive vintages. “I couldn’t find out from anybody whether or not you drink beverages with alcohol, so I hope it doesn’t offend you.”

  A screeching groan came from the four corners of the house simultaneously, like a branch ripping away from a tree in a storm. The ambassador cringed and immediately went to each of the corners, murmuring words of conciliation. Kelly began to suspect that rather than being representative of his ancestors, the corner posts were his direct forbears. The ambassador returned to the center of the room looking a bit shaken, by which time Joe had wisely wrapped up the gift in his jacket.

  “I’m very sorry about this,” the ambassador apologized. “Cultural misunderstandings will happen, and my ancestors are traditionalists. I, myself, have no qualms about handling, you know, in the course of my duties at the embassy, but I would never bring it home. Please follow me out to the veranda where our dinner is waiting. It is the Frunge custom not to eat within our homes,” he concluded, with a significant nod to the nearest living corner post.

  “Did you get what all of that was about?” Kelly whispered to Joe, as they followed the ambassador out of a fresh opening at the back of the room.

  “I’m betting the old trees are offended by paper bags,” Joe whispered back. “Imagine if you were an old horse and somebody brought you glue. Come to think of it, if you took root when you got old and had to live off of artificial light, fertilizer and drip irrigation, you might not be in the mood to watch anybody eating real food, either.”

  There was a metal table on the veranda with two plastic chairs for the humans, since the Frunge always ate while standing. The ambassador introduced Kelly and Joe to his family, who all made polite acknowledgement, but didn’t appear to be very interested in the humans. Czeros took his place directly across from Joe, and then he said something which the implants translated as, “Little logs have big ears and old logs have sharp eyes.” Then he pantomimed unwrapping an invisible package and removing something from within.

  Kelly and Joe watched the performance with rapt attention without getting the point. The ambassador sighed, looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then holding an invisible tube firmly in one hand, began twisting an invisible screw into the hollow space with the other.

  “Got it,” Joe said, and began furtively moving his hand inside the bundle he had made of his jacket and the gift bag. When there was a slight crinkling sound and all heads pivoted in his direction, he whispered to Kelly, “Cover me.”

  “I’ve been looking forward to this evening very much,” Kelly proclaimed loudly, as Joe extracted the bottle and handed it to their host. “I hope it marks the beginnings of better understanding between our peoples.”

  “Ah, an excellent year,” the ambassador remarked, examining the bottle. “You know, we may have more in common than you think. My staff informs me that you have been allying yourselves with those treacherous Drazens, but I can assure you that they have no appreciation for fine wine. In fact, I’ve heard they purchase our irrigation run-off from the Stryx to use in a fermented beverage.”

  The Frunge children made some disturbing noises at this statement, and the ambassador’s wife said, “Please, Czeros. Don’t talk about such things at the dinner table. You’ll ruin our appetites.”

  “Speaking of dinner, where are those confoundedly slow servers with our food?” the ambassador’s voice rose to a shout. “And hurry with those glasses and a bottle opener so I can remove this SYNTHETIC CORK!” Joe and Kelly got the message and exchanged winks.

  A rather dignified looking Frunge appeared, bearing a small tray with four glasses, a bottle opener, and a bottle of human wine from the ambassador’s private collection. He was quickly followed by another Frunge, wearing some sort of livery, and bearing a silver platter of what looked like raw meat.

>   “Vat grown,” the ambassador assured Kelly, having caught her expression. “Don’t worry, we prepared something special for you. My butler said there was a minor problem with the order, but it will be out in a minute.”

  “Please don’t wait for us,” Kelly said graciously, since the young Frunges were plainly fixated on the silver platter with its mound of meat.

  “Thank you,” the ambassador said, giving his family the go-ahead to begin. He opened the wine bottle Joe had presented, filled four glasses, and passed two across the table. When Kelly, Joe, and his wife all had glasses, the ambassador toasted them, “May your sap flow quickly.”

  “Bottoms up,” Joe replied, assuming the toast required a response, but not willing to gamble on a horticultural shot in the dark.

  The butler reappeared and started a whispered conversation with the ambassador, while the second Frunge deposited another silver tray on the table in front of Kelly and Joe. The food bore a ghostly resemblance to the take-out banquet they’d been served at the Drazen ambassador’s home, except it looked they were only getting bits and pieces that had been recovered from the garbage. Kelly was surreptitiously examining a broken hamburger patty for bite marks, and Joe was prodding at what appeared to be a mound of pizza toppings, when the Frunge ambassador finished conferring with the butler and hastened to explain.

  “I’m told that on your Earth there is a competition for uninhabited land between the, er, trees and the grasses. Is this translating correctly? On the Frunge home world, there was a similar competition in our ancient past which was settled by a mutual non-aggression pact. Although we Frunge evolved into the dominant species, we honor the memory of our ancestors through abiding by the spirit of the pact. I hope you understand,” the ambassador concluded awkwardly, then helped himself to a piece of raw meat from the rapidly diminishing pile that was feeding his family.

  “No grasses?” Joe murmured to Kelly out of the side of his mouth.

  “No grains. That’s sushi,” she mouthed back, pointing sadly at a series of little heaps on the tray, that now resolved into sushi rolls with every grain of rice stripped away. Along with bunless burgers, crustless pizza and a puddle of watery tomato sauce that looked like it had been rinsed off of spaghetti, the entire meal that had been sanitized of cereal crops. Joe stopped hoping that beer would appear on the menu and began to eat.

  “I should have brought our daughter,” Kelly said brightly, as she tried to cut into a burger with her fork. “She’s only four and she hates eating the, uh, you-know-what part of the pizza. I’m sure she would have enjoyed meeting your children. We see so few Frunge in the human sections, just in the Shuk.”

  “Yes,” the ambassador spoke noncommittally. Then he jabbed the last piece of meat on the Frunge platter with his fork, yanking it out of harm’s way as the implements of his voracious offspring stabbed at empty air. The children quickly asked to be excused, which was granted, and the ambassador’s wife apologized for not feeling well and followed them out. So the dinner company was reduced to the ambassador and the two humans.

  “I hope we haven’t made your family uncomfortable, Ambassador Czeros,” Kelly ventured. “We professional diplomats sometimes forget that the very sight or smell of each other can be difficult for those who aren’t accustomed to inter-species contacts.”

  “Please call me Czeros,” the ambassador replied and belched contentedly. “My people and my family are far too provincial, and this living in the constant presence of our ancestors has long been a serious brake on our progress. For example, would you believe that we’re one of the few species on the station that doesn’t use InstaSitter? The ancestors refuse to countenance it, and since we have no tradition of babysitters, I have to sit at home every night or be the bad guy for abandoning my wife to do all of the work. This is the first time I’ve ever invited anybody here, and you can see how well that worked out.” He wrapped up his plaintive speech with a gesture at the mangled remains of the take-out food.

  “Oh, we really appreciate all of the trouble you took,” Kelly protested mechanically. “I’m sure some hosts would have thrown it all away and just offered up what you were having.”

  Czeros barely seemed to be listening to Kelly as he refilled Joe’s wine glass, and tossed off the untouched contents of his wife’s glass. Then he gave himself another refill, and continued mournfully.

  “I thought that working my way up to ambassador was the way out, a chance to see the galaxy. I should have become a trader,” he groaned, drained his glass, and reached for the corkscrew and the second bottle of wine.

  Kelly kicked Joe under the table and made the universal “drink up” gesture at him. A half a bottle of wine more or less had little impact on Joe, so she wanted him to keep pace with the Frunge. If Kelly had been a spy, seeing the Frunge load up on alcohol might have fit her plans, but she was hoping to have an intelligent discussion with the alien, not to sit and listen to drunken recitations of broken dreams.

  “Was there anything in particular you wanted to discuss when you invited us?” Kelly prompted the ambassador, in hopes it wasn’t too late to salvage some diplomatic gains from the evening. The Frunge had finally succeeded in messily uncorking the second bottle, and as he poured himself and Joe another glass, Kelly could see from the stray crumbs floating in the wine that the cork had been natural wood.

  “Trade treaty, military treaty, blah, blah, blah,” Czeros reeled off pathetically. “More money? More bragging rights?” He gave his chest a thump so hard that it rustled his vine-like hair, and then he lowered his voice to a mournful whisper. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. Give me half a reason and I’d defect to anybody but the Drazen.”

  “It can’t be that bad,” Kelly began, but Joe poked her arm to get her attention, and drew a finger across his throat to cut her off. She was going to ignore him and continue anyway, but then she saw that the Frunge ambassador had tipped the bottle up to his mouth, and whatever he wasn’t chugging was running down the bark of his chin. Still looking significantly at Kelly, Joe tapped his left wrist with his right forefinger.

  “I could have been a singer,” Czeros announced wretchedly, tossing the empty bottle blindly behind him, where it clunked loudly off one of his ancestors. “But no, I had to maintain the family honor. Honor!” He sobbed out the word.

  “Well, we really have to be going,” Kelly rose, putting on her best professional smile. “Thank you for the lovely dinner, and I hope we see you again soon.”

  “Thanks,” Joe added, and grabbing Kelly’s elbow, steered her rapidly back through the house with its living walls and half-dead ancestors. Behind them there was a loud screeching, which might have been the ambassador beginning to sing, or perhaps he was receiving a scolding. The broken bits of translation didn’t make it clear.

  “I’ve seen guys like him a thousand times,” Joe told Kelly, as they hurried down the path back to the lift as fast as dignity would allow. “I thought it was a little funny that his family and staff disappeared so fast. Perfect gentleman until he gets to the third glass, then, pow!”

  “Do you think he was serious about wanting to defect?” Kelly asked reflectively.

  “Sure,” Joe replied. “At least at that moment. But really, who would want him?”

  Fifteen

  “Well, this is rather boring, isn’t it?” Blythe remarked, as she pouted at the main viewer. The two enormous fleets were arranged in virtual space like a pair of thin, opposing discs. It was the biggest Raider/Trader battle ever, with tens of thousands of players on each side, and more arriving by the second. The two largest bodies of ships were from Earth and Horten, making them the purported opponents, but each side was now accompanied by more allied ships than the main bodies contained.

  “It’s getting out of control,” Paul admitted. Human-piloted vessels kept reporting in to Patches, who had taken over direct control of the Mac’s Bones squadron since Paul had been elevated to an Earth fleet wing commander. Blythe was filling in as the we
apons officer in order to earn the combat credit for her game profile, but she didn’t see the point of wasting virtual ammunition that would need to be replaced. Most of the participants on both sides agreed with her, so the standoff was largely static, with a few rich boys skirmishing around the edges.

  “What are you going to do when the numbers reach the hundreds of thousands, or the millions?” Dring inquired unhelpfully. “I’ve spent a bit of time studying military developments over the years, and your game is clearly diverging from the natural evolution of force, which always leads to the construction of ever larger and more powerful ships. But what motivation do gamers have to invest their Trader gold in developing capital ships when there can only be one captain?”

  “You’ve got a point,” Paul sighed. His eyes never stopped sweeping the opposing wall of ships for a weak point, but the formation may as well have been a giant wet blanket. Reserves clumped behind the front lines and shadowed the movements of the opposing reserves to keep the forces in balance. And new ships kept arriving on both sides. “Players are willing to put their ships under the control of a squadron commander or a fleet officer, that’s been clear for months. But I’ve never heard of more than five players adding their Trader gold together to build up a single vessel.”

  “And in the real universe, capital vessels are generally financed by governments or trading guilds,” Dring continued his lecture. “So the financial support for a ship with a crew of a thousand may be paid for by a million, or a ship with a crew of a million may be paid for by a billion. Why, some people would call Union Station itself a capital ship, with this Stryx fellow Gryph in charge, and over a hundred million crew.”

  “I can’t take another four hours of this,” Blythe said fiercely and turned to Paul. “You’re the Nova battle master or whatever it’s called. Do something!”