by E. M. Foner
“Yes it is, Marcus,” Chastity answered a little too quickly, and then blushed, a rare occurrence for a Doogal girl. “Do you think the band will start again soon, or are they bringing in a new group?”
“Let’s see,” Marcus said, consulting a heads-up display through his implant that was invisible to the others. “This is the mandatory long break, helps with the drinks business. If you prefer to dance continually for hours on end, we’ll have to come for one of the cover-charge periods when they play straight through.”
Blythe shot Clive a significant look at the newcomer’s invitation to Chastity and gave him their private interrogation signal.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Marcus,” Clive said, half rising from his chair and extending a hand across the table. “I noticed you dancing with my sister-in-law earlier. This is my wife, Blythe.”
“Ah, I thought the two of you looked related,” Marcus said to Blythe, as he leaned forward and shook Clive’s hand. “I was trying to calculate the odds that Chastity was on the Intrepid and we’d never met, but that I’d have missed you both doesn’t seem arithmetically possible.”
“We’re just out for the evening from Union Station,” Clive informed him. “But the Intrepid rings a bell. Wasn’t Intrepid the name of a colony ship commune from the first big contract expiration?”
“That’s right,” Marcus replied. “I’m surprised anybody remembers those times, you must be something of a historian. My parents were part of the ‘Hands and Minds,’ labor pool that signed those twenty-year contracts with the Dollnicks. Their group had an option to take their pay as a repurposed colony ship if they met all of their quotas. Of course, nobody understood back then that without a destination a colony ship is no bargain, but they made the best of it.”
“I seem to remember reading that the Intrepid commune voted to use the ship as a base for asteroid mining off the tunnel network. Is that where they disappeared to?” Clive asked.
“That right,” Marcus answered, sounding genuinely surprised that anybody had known or cared what happened to the colony ship. “It was pretty hard times for the first generation because the Dollnick ship was beat, and everything was designed for four-armed humanoids who are also much bigger than humans. The commune couldn’t put together a full ecosystem, like colony ships setting out from well-established worlds, so things kept getting out of balance and required a lot of meddling.”
“What do you mean?” Chastity asked. She wasn’t really that interested in colony ship operation, but she didn’t want Marcus to forget that she was there.
“My father told me that they were always swinging between not enough bees and too many bees, which is no fun in a closed space,” Marcus explained. “But that’s just what he was interested in, personally. There were lots of missing steps in the food chain, and they ended up needing to stop and synthesize fertilizer all the time, not to mention making up water losses from interstellar ice. In the end, the commune probably wouldn’t have survived if they had anything like a full complement, but there weren’t even two hundred thousand people on a ship built for over a million Dollnicks, so there was plenty of room for mistakes.”
“And you just happened to visit Union Station at the same time as the Wanderers?” Chastity asked.
“What gave you that idea?” Marcus said, turning fully to face her now. “We’re as much a part of the mob as any of them. The commune voted to join when I was just a kid and the mob was visiting Kalthair Two, where we were working the asteroid belts.”
“Is that all there is to it?” Clive asked. “If you come across a Wanderer mob and you have a colony ship or some other space-worthy environment, you can join up?”
“Sure,” Marcus said. “You don’t even need a ship of your own. Just an invitation,” he added suggestively, not taking his eyes off of Chastity.
“But how do you make a living with your mining operation if you spend all of your time traveling with the Wanderers?” Blythe asked. “There don’t seem to be any factory ships in the mob, and a friend of mine who’s been visiting the larger habitats in her capacity as our cultural attaché reports that most of the farming and food production is handled by mechanicals and automated systems.”
“That’s right,” Marcus replied proudly. “The commune had to upgrade the Intrepid’s systems before joining up for just that reason. The Wanderers said that if we were going to spend all of our time feeding ourselves, there wasn’t any point in coming. Fortunately, the commune was able to trade its mining stake to some sort of AI hive in return for retooling the ship.”
“So what do you do when you’re not dancing?” Chastity said in a teasing voice, lifting one of his wrists as she spoke. “I take you for the professional type. Maybe a scientist or a lawyer?”
“Are you trying to curse me?” Marcus laughed nervously and made a motion like he was throwing salt over his shoulder. “I’m not even thirty yet, much less forty. What would I want with such tedious hobbies at my age? Come on,” he said, rising from his chair and fluidly pulling Chastity after him, as if the whole maneuver was a rehearsed dance move. “The band is coming back out and I want to get a space in the first rotation.”
Chastity cast a look of puzzlement back at her sister, who merely raised an eyebrow and mouthed the word, “Bum.” Then she let Marcus sweep her off in a series of dips and twirls, just his way of warming up before the music started.
“Well, that pretty much agrees with what we’ve been hearing from Lynx and the trainees that Joe and Woojin have been running back and forth to give them a little taste of field work,” Clive commented. “It seems that the Wanderers have developed a post-employment society, and most of them don’t work at anything at all.”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Blythe objected. “I never would have believed it if we hadn’t been here ourselves, but Marcus basically told us that all he does is play.”
“He’s pretty good at it,” Clive observed. “I suppose that even though the mob includes humans and some other backwards species, taken as a whole, they’d qualify as an advanced society, and automation has replaced the need for most labor.”
“But what’s the point of getting up in the morning, of raising a family, if all you’re going to do is live off of the labor of mechanicals and the technology of previous generations?” Blythe asked, more perplexed than angry. “It’s like they’re on some sort of perpetual party-cruise, and nobody ever presents a bill!”
“You knew what to expect before we came,” Clive reminded her. “Tinka said that the Drazens consider the Wanderers to be a benign parasite, a dumping ground for individuals who just don’t want to work. But still, you’d think they’d need to produce something in order to keep their mob going. The drone ships that Stryx Dreel gave them to create temporary tunnels are self-maintaining, but the colony ships we passed during the taxi ride all look like cast-offs and obsolete models that must require regular investments for upkeep. I wonder where the money comes from?”
“Maybe it’s like a cult and the new members who join have to give up all of their assets,” Blythe suggested. “The story Marcus told, where the commune had to give up the mining claim they developed to overhaul the Intrepid before they joined? Maybe that covered repairs for some of the mob as well.”
“I guess we can ask him when they get back. He didn’t seem particularly secretive about anything.”
“Still, you’d think they’d have to get money from somewhere,” Blythe speculated, drawn in by the puzzle. “I guess they’re making some good creds off of the Union Station tourist trade right now, at least, the taxi drivers and the bartenders are doing well. But where does Marcus get the money to eat and drink, or is that just free as a birthright on his own ship?
“We’ll just have to get the answers the old-fashioned way,” Clive answered with a smile. “By spying, assuming that Chastity isn’t interrogating young Marcus as we speak.”
“There’s something funny about the whole setup,” Blythe said, standing up
. “Especially the way the other species and the Stryx regard the Wanderers as a mere nuisance. It can’t just be that they know how to have a good time. Come on, now. We haven’t danced in ages.”
“I can’t do this tango thing,” Clive replied, remaining in his seat. “I’d step on your feet and then I’d sprain my bad knee trying to do one of those lunge moves.”
“We’ll move over a couple sections,” Blythe said. “There’s something like a waltz starting in about five minutes, according to the map. All I ask is that you hold my waist, my hand, and pretend to lead.”
Five
“Isn’t this a bit over the top for a potluck reception?” Lynx asked, as she helped Kelly push the food trolley from the docking bay towards the lift tube of the Wanderer flagship. The vessel was the size of a small moon, though cylindrical like Union Station, and the internal layout bore a surprising resemblance to the standardized Stryx station, albeit on a much smaller scale. “I would have thought that the keg and the case of wine were more than sufficient.” She gestured with her head at the two men who walked ahead of them, Joe guiding a keg on a hand truck, and Woojin carrying a full case of wine.
“I asked Bork for advice, and he told me to bring as much as we could manage, so maybe he’s counting on us to cover for the Drazens as well,” Kelly replied. “It’s the first bring-your-own diplomatic event I’ve ever attended, but everybody says the Wanderers do things differently.” She shot Lynx a sidelong glance. “How about you? Are you all rested up after your big night?”
“I slept eleven hours,” Lynx replied with a groan. “I might not have made it if Wooj hadn’t called last night and offered to come by and help. How can two-year-olds be so relentless? Does Blythe make them nap all day to prepare for the sitter?”
“I should have loaned you Beowulf,” Kelly said. “He used to be uncomfortable around small children, but since he came back, he seems to prefer their company to us old folks. He can spend hours herding the twins, and they can spend hours trying to get away from him. It’s really kind of fun watching them play together.”
“Come on, I think we’ll all just fit.” Joe beckoned them from lift tube capsule, where he propped the hand-truck with the keg in the corner and Woojin set the case of wine on the capsule floor. “Just push it in towards the other corner there, and I think the door will close.”
The four humans and their improvised catering operation did just fit into the capsule, and Kelly told the lift, “Envoy’s reception.” Nothing happened.
“What’s wrong with the lift?” Lynx asked. “Do you think we’re over capacity or something?”
“Maybe it doesn’t understand English,” Joe suggested, and tried repeating the request in a few of the languages he’d picked up in his mercenary days.
“Envoy’s reception, please,” Kelly tried again, wondering if they had hurt the feelings of whatever AI handled the Wanderer ship’s infrastructure by omitting the magic word in their prior attempts.
“That will be fourteen creds,” a neutral voice told them. A panel next to the door slid aside, revealing something like a Stryx mini-register.
“They’re charging us to attend their reception?” Kelly asked incredulously.
“Are you addressing me?” the voice responded.
“Uh, yes, sort-of,” Kelly replied. “We represent the EarthCent embassy on Union Station, and we were invited to the official arrival reception on this ship. It seems, well, odd, that our hosts would charge us for attending.”
“I can’t speak for the biologicals, I’m just a working lift tube,” the voice replied plaintively. “Do you think power and maintenance are free? Would you prefer transportation with components operating beyond their design life? Will fourteen creds make that much difference to your embassy’s budget?”
Kelly was struck dumb by the depressed-sounding AI and its litany of complaints. She looked to Joe, who shrugged, and began fishing in his pocket for his programmable cred.
“How about five creds in untraceable cash?” Lynx inquired.
“That will be fine,” the voice responded, suddenly chipper. Lynx inserted a five-cred coin in the slot. “Next stop, Envoy’s reception. Keep a hand on your change purse and don’t invite anybody home with you,” the lift tube advised in a friendly manner.
In less than a minute, the capsule arrived at its destination and the EarthCent delegation emerged into a cavernous hall that could easily hold thousands of humanoids, though it was only half full at the moment. Hundreds of round tables with cheap plastic tablecloths were peopled with gaudily dressed members of at least two dozen species. Kelly was immediately struck by the lack of an official greeting line, but before she could plan their next move, Joe nudged her and pointed.
“Look there,” he said, indicating an overdressed Frunge followed by twenty or more liveried serving men. The Frunge turned his head to acknowledge the greetings of a table full of his compatriots, and Kelly saw to her surprise that it was Czeros. Even more shocking, he appeared to be stone sober, steady on his feet and nary a tremor in his hair vines.
“And there’s Acria,” Lynx said, pointing out the current Vergallian ambassador, who was circulating with a whole train of wait staff she must have borrowed from a banquet hall on the Vergallian deck. All of a sudden, the food trolley that Lynx had thought was overkill began to look like a diplomatic faux pas.
“This looks less like bring-your-own than bring enough for everybody else,” Woojin commented. “I wonder why the advanced species all go along with it.”
“You’re blocking the path,” rumbled a deep voice, and the humans quickly turned to see the Verlock ambassador making his way into the hall. Behind him came a whole phalanx of serving bots from the Verlock embassy, bearing what appeared to be the entire contents of a well-stocked cafeteria. Ambassador Srythlan, with whom Kelly had formed a cordial relationship, inched by the humans, as his much faster serving bots spread out among the Verlock tables.
“Ambassador,” Kelly addressed him. “Could you spare a minute? It seems to me that I may have misunderstood the invitation. Are the invited diplomats supposed to bring enough food for all of these people?”
“The Verlocks have a saying,” the ambassador replied like molasses, maintaining his slow progress into the hall. “Feed the mob elders or your home world will feed the entire mob.”
“Hold on a minute, everybody,” Kelly said, ushering the little knot of humans further to the side. “Libby?” she subvoced. “Can you hear me?”
“Certainly,” the Stryx librarian replied over her diplomatic implant. “Is there a problem at the reception?”
“I don’t think we brought enough,” Kelly said. “I don’t really understand what’s going on here, but I certainly don’t want to be responsible for this mob showing up at Earth!”
“Don’t worry,” Libby reassured her. “The Wanderers won’t visit a Stryx protectorate without permission. It’s the Naturals League members who have to tread lightly. Besides, you’re only expected to supply the elders of your own species, and there may not even be any at the reception.”
“Thanks, Libby,” Kelly replied, and turned back to her companions. “We’re off the hook on the Verlock saying. It doesn’t apply to sentients in the remedial program.”
“I’ve been doing a rough count of the tables, and it looks like a quarter of the aliens being waited on are either Horten or Drazen,” Woojin said. “It’s strange to see them getting along so well.”
“Thick as thieves, I would say!” Bork paused to deliver this judgment, allowing the veritable train of chefs and kitchen bots he headed to stream past, bearing steaming cauldrons of traditional Drazen soups. “We got lucky, though. There can’t be more than two thousand of them here. I’m told that the elder representatives of some mobs reach into the tens of thousands.”
“Why didn’t you warn me?” Kelly asked. “I wouldn’t have accepted the invitation.”
“And cause a diplomatic incident?” Bork shook his head. “Wanderers
are a nuisance, but compared to supporting a population of non-productive citizens or watching them starve, the mobs are a bargain.”
“You mean the advanced species use them as a sort of a dumping ground for undesirables?” Kelly asked in an undertone.
“Not exactly,” Bork answered. “Nobody is exiled to the Wanderers, but they are a natural magnet for the malcontents and layabouts, those who are less interested in raising the next generation than raising a glass. We view them as a sort of a safety valve, but they’ve been around forever, and there are certain proprieties to observe. If you’ll excuse me, I have egos to flatter.”
The Drazen ambassador waded into the crush and approached the nearest table populated by his kind, where he put his acting experience to good use playing the part of a gracious host.
“There should be some humans here,” Lynx said. “Chastity’s friend told her that a human commune on the Intrepid colony ship joined up a couple decades ago.”
“Maybe that’s not enough time to rank as an elder,” Kelly speculated. “The title doesn’t seem to be age-related, though. Some of the guests are younger than the ambassadors and their staffs.”
“There, in the back,” Woojin pointed. “Looks like a single table of humans to me, though we won’t know for sure until we get close.”
“You’re on point,” Joe said. He followed with the hand truck after the ex-officer carrying the case of wine. Kelly and Lynx got the food trolley moving, and were surprised to find that they were able to thread through the crowd without difficulty.
As Woojin had pointed out earlier, the elders were heavily salted with Drazens and Hortens, but there were large numbers of Verlocks, Dollnicks and Vergallians, and even a contingent of Cherts. The only species she missed from her usual diplomatic circles were the Grenouthians and the Gem. The former were probably all too industrious to join up, and the latter had likely been excluded by anti-clone bias.
