Wanderers On Union Station (EarthCent Ambassador Book 6)

by E. M. Foner

  “What happened to the questions I prepared?” Kelly shouted at Clavitts, who was getting a quick repair job from the make-up artist. “It’s supposed to be about cooperation and learning new things about each other, but you’re making it into a war!”

  “I’m just following instructions from the booth,” Clavitts replied. “It never would have occurred to me to draw attention to the fact that the Dollnick was pretending to pick insects out of the Frunge’s hair vines and eating them. It’s like a bad school cafeteria up here.”

  “Fantastic!” the Grenouthian director proclaimed, coming up to Kelly’s side, and pointing at the instantaneous ratings. “Two percent of the live audience for the first broadcast of a show may not make you rich in this galaxy, but you won’t starve either.”

  “You’ve ruined it!” Kelly hissed venomously at the startled bunny. “I don’t care about your stupid ratings. I wanted to help people.”

  “The producer made some last minute changes to try to pick up the energy,” the director said nervously. “It’s normal to feel this way about a new show, but you’ll get used to it. Didn’t you get the revisions?”

  “I certainly didn’t,” Kelly responded angrily, as the director began counting down the commercial break. “What’s next? A food fight?”

  “And we’re back,” Clavitts declared, putting on his showman’s smile. “Before we turn the questioning over to the contestants, let’s see what they can win.”

  Clavitts swept an arm towards the side of the stage, which was the cue for an attractive young bunny who was related in some way to the producer to bring out a floater with the featured Earth exports. This week it was aged single malt Scotch in hand-blown glass bottles. The Frunge licked his lips and the Drazen looked interested for the first time.

  “That’s eighteen-year-old single malt, my friends,” the host declared, glancing at some print scribbled on the palm of his hand and speaking rapidly. “Kissed by the ocean breeze, this Speyside single cask whiskey is just one of the wonderful products exported by Earth.” He paused, shaking off an instruction from the booth and uttering the catch line decided on by the EarthCent marketing guru, “Just ask a human.”

  “Time for the lottery,” the Grenouthian girl piped in a reedy voice. She extended to Clavitts a fishbowl that contained eight balls, one for each of the contestants on the show. The young bunny wasn’t supposed to have any lines, but the producer in the booth had instructed her to take the container from the table and speak the four words, just to remind Clavitts who was boss.

  “Right,” Clavitts declared, casually reaching into the bowl. He pulled out a ball and dramatically threw it to the floor. There was a flash of light, and a hologram of the Vergallian contestant appeared, turned about, and walked over to the real Vergallian, where the two merged. It was a new effect that the producer had recommended trying, and the Grenouthian crew all breathed a sigh of relief when it came off properly.

  “Who do you choose to question?” Clavitts asked the Vergallian woman.

  “The Drazen,” she replied. In accordance with the assistant director’s hastily imparted instructions before the show, she pointed dramatically at her choice. “For myself and for all of the Vergallian women, I want to know why Drazen men think they’re attractive?”

  The studio audience stomped their feet, whistled in derision, laughed and howled. Kelly looked at the director in horror, who pointed at the instantaneous ratings. They had just spiked up and were now climbing steadily.

  Clavitts turned reluctantly to the Drazen, attempting to maintain a cheery smile. The Drazen’s tentacle was sticking up like an angry club behind his head, and Kelly couldn’t believe that his glare didn’t vaporize the Vergallian woman where she stood.

  “Your answer, sir?” the host prompted, the first time in the show he had addressed anyone formally.

  “Well, we didn’t always think so,” the Drazen replied icily. “It wasn’t until we joined the tunnel network and were able to compare our score cards with males of other species that we found ourselves on top, so to speak.”

  Kelly cringed and looked to Joe in the audience for support, but he was busy explaining something to Dorothy. The director’s eyes were glued to the ratings meter, and Clavitts was starting to look like he’d been trapped in a bad barter. He reached back into the bowl helpfully proffered by the assistant, and flung a new ball to the floor. A hologram of the Drazen stepped out of the flash and walked directly to its enraged source.

  “And who do you…” Clavitts began to ask, but the Drazen cut him off sharply.

  “Vergallian! Under the rules of the show, I demand a yes or no answer. Have you already spent over a hundred thousand creds on cosmetic surgery in your attempt to pass as upper caste?”

  “That’s a trap question, there’s no right answer,” she protested vehemently, baring her nearly perfect teeth. “I demand he withdraws it!”

  “There’s a first time for everything!” the Drazen cried, mugging for the camera. The Vergallian realized she’d been tricked into a double entendre, whipped a dagger out of her boot and hurled it at the Drazen’s head. It shattered the mirror which the Grenouthian production crew had introduced to make the holo-stunts work. She grabbed the dagger from the other boot and her eyes searched the stage for the flesh-and-blood Drazen, who had wisely ducked out of sight.

  “We’ll be right back after a commercial break,” Clavitts shouted over the crowd noise. The director gave the all-clear, and a crew rushed on stage with a new mirror. The assistant director, who had collected signed disclaimers from the contestants backstage, leapt in front of the Vergallian woman and began a hurried explanation of the small print. Before the mirror was replaced, she had accepted a sedative and returned to her seat.

  “This is a disaster,” Kelly shouted at the director. “I won’t have anything to do with it.”

  “We’re up to an eight share!” the director shouted back, pointing at the display. “We’re a hit.”

  “It’s a nightmare and I’m leaving,” she proclaimed. Nightmare?

  Kelly began to pinch herself energetically, and after that failed, seized a bottle of water and poured it over her own head. As Clavitts started in again with a new question, Joe appeared out of nowhere and grabbed her arm.

  “Joe, I had the worst nightmare yet,” she sobbed, focusing thankfully on his face. “The bunnies turned my show into a—why are we still standing in the studio?”

  “It’s not a nightmare, Kelly,” Joe said, getting hold of both of her hands and pulling her towards the exit. “Dorothy’s waiting for us in the corridor. I think we’d better go home.”

  Fourteen

  “Stop following me!” Samuel demanded. He turned around and faced the little Vergallian girl who had been dogging his footsteps in Mac’s Bones all morning. Both children had finished their recent rotation in the cast of LMF, and Aisha had placed her foundling in Libby’s kindergarten, with Kelly’s son. Banger, the young Stryx who was Samuel’s work-play assignment, hovered uncertainly at the boy’s side. Ailia looked like she was about to burst into tears.

  “Sh’eeda insrook,” she said pathetically. Ailia wished she could persuade Aisha to bring her to work every day. The Vergallian girl had promised the human woman that she knew how to sit quietly and stay out of the way. It was what she’d been doing for the last two years, but the younger Mrs. McAllister had insisted she remain home and play. Ailia still had trouble understanding all of the different names the humans went by, and it seemed crazy to have two Mrs. McAllisters living in the same home.

  “Speak English!” Samuel ordered peremptorily. Then he turned to Banger and asked, “What did she say?”

  “Be my friend,” Banger rasped in his developing artificial voice. “I think we should.”

  “Zhshint!” Samuel declared, one of the Vergallian words for “no” he had picked up. It seemed to him that the language had too many words for everything, another fact the boy held against the new guest in their home, who
also monopolized his father’s attention with all of her questions. Kelly had explained to Samuel that Joe knew the Vergallian language from a previous job, though she wouldn’t go into detail about it, and that the girl was alone in the galaxy and needed their help.

  Ailia sat down on the deck and pouted, though she felt better since the boy had used the soft form of “no” that actually meant something closer to the positive form of “maybe,” with the intent of “no moving towards yes,” implied by the intonation.

  Beowulf flopped on the floor beside the girl and eyed her cautiously. He remembered being strongly biased against Vergallians, but Joe, Woojin and Clive all seemed to like the little girl, so he was willing to suspend judgment for the time being. The girl smelled tired to him, and even without the emotional trauma of her nurse abandoning her, she was having trouble adapting to the twenty-four-hour day the humans maintained. Beowulf nudged her with his massive head and rolled his eyes up towards his back. Did she want a ride?

  Samuel turned about abruptly and set off for the training area, where an advanced group of EarthCent Intelligence recruits were getting an introduction to tech-ban combat from Joe and Woojin. Banger hesitated for a moment, dipped in apology, and then set off after his human friend.

  Ailia looked at the hound, trying to read his intent. Her people were all horsemen, and the mother she could barely remember had first set her on a pony on her third birthday. But she’d never ridden alone, and she didn’t see a saddle or guiding leads on Beowulf. Still, she could feel him willing her to try, so she gently climbed onto his back while he sprawled on the floor, and took ahold of the loose fur and skin behind his neck.

  Beowulf rose slowly, exercising more caution than he’d ever employed before in his young life. He was accustomed to carrying loads for Joe in his mouth or in saddle bags, and sometimes Aisha took him to the Shuk when she was stocking up on supplies, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep the girl balanced. Fortunately, riding must have been in her genes, because she kept her seat without even pulling on his hair. He followed Samuel and Banger at a gentle walk.

  “Now, let’s say he’s coming at me with a knife,” Woojin said to the trainees. He slipped the dagger from his belt sheath and tossed it to Joe, who caught it by the bone handle. The former mercenary officer had no regrets about leaving his fighting days behind, but he enjoyed the challenge of teaching basic self-defense to the variety of types that EarthCent Intelligence attracted, and it helped establish trust with the agents heading into the field.

  “Not the knife,” Joe grumbled. He looked at the weapon sourly. Charging Woojin with a knife always ended in a wrist-manipulation that left him sore for days, no matter how gentle his friend tried to be. “Hey, look behind you, Wooj. It’s the Vergallian girl riding Beowulf!”

  Woojin shook his head sadly at Joe for even trying such a lame trick. For some reason, the trainees all went along with it, pointing and smiling at something behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Samuel and Banger angling past the training area on their way to Dring’s.

  Joe saw his friend’s attention shift and immediately attacked. A second later, Woojin was holding Joe’s wrist locked, demonstrating the twist and flip in slow motion.

  After the initial demonstration, Woojin directed the trainees to pair up and practice the move with their rubber knives. When he finally gave in to curiosity and looked over his shoulder, he saw that Ailia was riding erect on Beowulf’s back, following the boy and the young Stryx.

  “First time in my life that trick should have worked and you refused to look,” Joe complained, rubbing his wrist. “I’m proud of the way Beowulf is helping the girl. I wish my boy was a little gentler with her.”

  “Never had any kids of my own, but I’d say they’re both doing fine,” Woojin reassured him. “The fact she’s still following him around must mean he’s doing something right.”

  Samuel and Banger reached the mound of scrap that shielded Dring’s area from the rest of Mac’s Bones and headed into the camouflaged tunnel. A minute later, Joe and Woojin saw Ailia duck her head, and the second pair disappeared. The instructors turned back to their trainees, who were doing their best not to poke each other’s eyes out with the rubber daggers.

  “You can’t come in without Dring’s permission,” Samuel said, holding up a hand to stop the girl and the dog when they emerged from the tunnel. Ailia caught the gist of his meaning, but Beowulf just shook his head at the boy and continued towards the gravity surfer at a sedate pace. Samuel stamped after them in annoyance.

  “I’m sure Dring will welcome them if he’s here,” Banger said, which gave his friend a new idea.

  “Nobody’s home,” Samuel declared, coming to a halt. “Me and Banger are going back.”

  The girl twisted cautiously on Beowulf’s back and asked, “D’neenah?”

  “Zhshint,” Samuel replied dismissively, unconsciously getting the tone just right to express, “probably not.”

  “Pa’ash,” Dring declared, coming around the corner from his vegetable garden. The Maker had developed into an epicure of carrots, and had bought the plot of sandy soil and the box used to contain it after the caber tossing competition. He claimed his produce tasted better than the Shuk-bought vegetables, and supplied the McAllisters with his surplus.

  “You speak Vergallian?” Samuel asked in surprise, not having figured out yet that he was beginning to learn it himself. “Now everybody is going to know what she’s saying except for me.”

  “You’re too young for implants, Samuel, and you have Banger to translate the words you miss. But your mother told me you might be bringing your new friend by one day, and I have something for her that will help.” Dring spoke first in English and then repeated himself in Vergallian. “Would you like to come in?”

  The friendly shape-shifter ushered the children and the dog into the gravity surfer and made directly for the bench next to the little pond. The top of the bench tilted up as he approached, and the children saw that it covered a narrow storage box. Dring rooted around for a moment before coming up with an odd flesh-colored device that looked a little like a lower jaw without the teeth.

  “T’inda,” he said, extending it towards the girl. “A gift,” he repeated for Samuel’s benefit.

  Beowulf lowered himself carefully onto his belly, as if he had been a camel and not a war dog in his previous life. Ailia clambered off, scratched him fondly behind his ears in thanks, and then approached Dring, who fit the device over her ear.

  “It’s a language trainer for species with external ears,” he explained. “I’ve set it to Vergallian, so it will start by translating almost everything you hear, but as you use English, it will learn the words you know and only offer translation if you tap it on the back there.”

  Ailia’s tired face lit up with joy when she realized the device would do something similar to the in-ear plugs the Grenouthians had supplied to the child actors on the LMF set. Aisha had asked to borrow or buy one of the ear plugs from the Grenouthians, but they explained that it was only a receiver, and that the translations the children heard during the show originated from the booth.

  “Now I’ll understand everything you say,” she declared, turning to Samuel with shining eyes.

  “What?” the boy said, having missed the words in the middle of her sentence. While Banger translated for him, Dring rummaged around in his bench-box and brought out another ear cuff.

  “T’inda,” he said, extending it to Samuel. “I’ve set this one to translate Vergallian to English. You might offer to share it with Aisha.”

  “Who cares what a girl says,” the boy bluffed, turning his head so Dring could fit the ear cuff for him. Then he remembered that part of his job was teaching Banger good human manners, so he added, “Thank you,” and then stuck out his tongue at Ailia.

  “Now that we all understand each other, shall we play a game?” Dring asked.

  The youngsters agreed enthusiastically, including Ailia, whose fatigue had be
en washed away by the doggy-back ride and the language-teaching device.

  “Why don’t we all sit down in a circle,” Dring continued, settling back a bit on his haunches. He never sat in chairs on account of his tail, which remained with him through the various shapes he assumed. Samuel kept Banger between himself and the Vergallian girl. “I know a game called ‘Memory,’ and the rules are very easy. Shall we play it?”

  “Who goes first?” Samuel asked, arriving immediately at the heart of the matter.

  “Hmm, that’s a good question,” Dring replied. “I believe it goes, Human, Vergallian, Stryx, Huravian, Maker. Does that sound right?”

  Beowulf looked suspicious about the order, but he held his peace, and Dring continued.

  “Each player gets to ask the person two places to their right a question about something they remember, and that person has to answer. Are you ready?”

  All of the sentients, with the exception of Dring, surreptitiously counted two spaces to their right to see who they would get to quiz. Beowulf and Banger also counted two back the other way to see who would be asking them questions. Beowulf broke into a large doggy smile.

  Samuel looked at the dog distrustfully. After all, Beowulf had practically gone over to the enemy by giving Ailia a ride. Then he thought of something.

  “Beowulf,” Samuel said. “Do you remember the flyer Grandpa sent me?”

  Beowulf nodded in the affirmative. How could he forget the foam stunt plane that seemed to attack him from behind no matter which direction the boy threw it. Sneaky, that’s what the thing was. If it hadn’t been a present, the dog would have chewed it to pieces. Fortunately, the boy had lost sight of it on one throw, and the plane skidded under the ice harvester before rising up to wedge itself behind the old escape hatch. Samuel had never found it.