by E. M. Foner
“Why would you care what sort of beds people sleep on or what kind of chairs they sit in?”
“I’ve only had a short time to study up on your species, but I’ve found the documentaries produced by the Grenouthians to be quite informative,” Flower said, triggering a groan from all of the humans, excepting Em, who had fallen asleep. “While there’s nothing I can do to make you care about your health or appearance, I do take issue with factors that may impact your productivity while we’re working together. Furniture plays a role in the back problems and poor posture which is endemic to your species, and I can’t be expected to approve of bad ergonomic designs simply because they are fashionable.”
“This is important to you?” Blythe asked.
“Everything that takes place inside my ship is important to me.”
“We sympathize with your logic, but I’m concerned that any unnecessary constraints you put on the crew will have a negative impact on our ability to recruit quality people for the mission,” Daniel said seriously. “You wouldn’t want to lose out on some first-class engineers because you won’t let them choose their own bedding.”
“Humans don’t have any first-class engineers—” Flower began, but the rest of her words were lost in a piercing whistle.
Lynx clamped her hands over the baby’s ears, but Em strangely enough slept through the brief interruption, and the rest of the delegation exchanged looks, wondering if the Dollnick AI was introducing a carrot and stick approach to her negotiations.
“What was that?” Clive demanded.
“Third period lunch,” Flower replied, sounding a bit defensive. “The alarm system in the school runs on a dumb controller set up by the principal and I guess I forgot to disable it.”
“When was the last class?” Lynx asked.
“Around two thousand years ago. I know, I know, but the number sounds much smaller in Base20. Alright, I’ll let individuals make furniture choices for their own cabins, but nothing changes in common areas without my approval.”
“Done,” Blythe said. “What about ag deck space?”
“What about it?” the AI replied cagily.
One by one, the negotiation team worked through the items on their list, sometimes getting more than they’d hoped, other times being forced to capitulate to Flower’s stubborn opposition. Finally they returned to the issues that they’d skipped over after reaching an impasse, with Blythe, who had done most of the negotiating, requesting that Flower restate her case for each from the beginning.
“We’ve barely been at it for three hours and you’ve already forgotten?”
“Our memories are less than perfect,” Daniel said diplomatically.
“Very well. It’s humiliating enough that I have to give a bunch of Humans a say in how I conduct operations without having their appearance reflect badly on my image. In addition, uniforms will give the crew a sense of cohesion, and without them there will be no way for members of other species to differentiate between a janitor and the so-called captain.”
“You mean we all look alike.”
The AI affected a sniff.
“EarthCent doesn’t have uniforms,” Blythe protested. “Our intelligence agency has informally adopted mercenary fatigues, but—”
“Black pajamas?” Flower interrupted incredulously. “Unacceptable. And don’t even suggest T-shirts with a logo or ‘CREW’ printed on the back. I’m a colony ship, not a concert or a charity event.”
“It’s just that the designs you’re insisting on are—alien to us,” Daniel said. “I could understand if you had to look at them all day long, but you’ve already explained that your imaging capacity is limited to infrared in most areas of the ship, so you won’t even see the uniforms.”
“I’ll see them on the bridge and in the common areas. Don’t forget that I was designing crew uniforms while your people were stealing the skins off of hapless animals and draping them over your shoulders.”
“How about if we send you imagery of the military uniforms from old Earth governments and you choose something?” Blythe offered.
The ship’s AI remained silent.
“Why don’t you tell her about SBJ Fashions?” Lynx suggested, giving Daniel an intense stare. “I’m sure that Flower won’t be offended by the fact that your wife is a part-owner.”
“Why would I be offended?” Flower asked. “All of the advanced species give a great deal of weight to family relations in their contracting processes. Does SBJ Fashions have any experience designing clothes for Dollnicks?”
“They actually do cross-species,” Daniel said, picking up on Lynx’s hint. “I think you’ve already met the main shareholder, Stryx Jeeves.”
“The Stryx form business partnerships with Humans? I was not aware of this.” Flower paused for several seconds, likely checking the veracity of Daniel’s claim. “I found Jeeves to be an eminently reasonable individual for such a young AI, so perhaps we can work something out.”
Blythe rolled her eyes at hearing Jeeves described in such moderate terms, but was so relieved at finding a possible solution to the uniforms issue that she let it go, and moved on to the next stumbling block.
“About the sports teams, Flower. You can’t expect Humans to adopt all of the Dollnick customs that you—”
“I’m not asking them to play paddle-cup-mitt-ball,” the AI interrupted irritably. “I’ve been going over the recreational data I received from your station librarian and I think that softball would be ideal. At least, the uniforms were acceptable.”
“But the people we recruit won’t be accustomed to their employer dictating how they have to spend their free time,” Daniel argued. “I’m sure that some of them may be interested in forming a recreational league, but we can hardly force them.”
“Why not?”
“Eccentric Enterprises isn’t an official governmental entity. And the game requires a certain physical—”
“That’s why I suggested chess teams for those who don’t wish to participate in more active sports,” Flower interrupted again. “Idle minds make even more trouble than idle hands.”
“Flower,” Lynx cooed, and then repeated the name again, “Flower.”
“What?” the AI demanded impatiently.
“Oh, I was just getting tired of listening to all of you amateur traders argue so I thought I’d teach Em a new word,” the cultural attaché replied innocently. “Flower.”
“If you have any practical suggestions, we’re willing to hear them,” Clive said.
“Fine. The problem is that both parties are trading promises rather than tangible goods,” Lynx said, rising from her chair and approaching the large display wall. “All we’ve really done to this point is make concessions to each other about the things we don’t really care about. Can you display an image of a softball team, Flower?”
A double row of players dressed in immaculate uniforms appeared on the front wall.
“Now can you display an open market to the right?”
An image from a market on some distant world materialized, with assorted aliens standing in front of blankets piled high with exotic goods.
“That’s better. Now, Daniel. On a scale of one to ten, how important is it to you that Flower accepts the idea of an open market that includes vintage goods.”
“Used merchandise,” the AI grumbled.
“It’s less a matter of including vintage goods than specifically excluding them,” the associate ambassador temporized. “I could understand if it was weapons—”
“I don’t mind weapons,” Flower interjected.
“Just give me a number, Daniel,” Lynx urged him.
“It’s about the traders being able to make their own decisions,” he insisted. “You were a trader for ten years. Would you have put out your blanket in a market that put a bunch of restrictions on what you could sell?”
“All the time,” Lynx replied bluntly. “The trader’s way is go along to get along or to move along.”
“I s
tand corrected,” the associate ambassador said. “Five.”
“Hah!” Flower exclaimed. “And I don’t want my decks turned into some kind of cut-rate bazaar.”
“And how important is this whole teams business to you, Flower?” Lynx demanded. “Give me a number.”
“Ten.”
“Seriously? Out of all the potential problems, most of which I’m sure you can anticipate from your extensive experience with ferrying other species, forcing our people to play softball or chess is your make-or-break issue?”
“I meant it in Base20,” the AI replied sulkily.
“So you’re both assigning the same importance to these trade items,” Lynx continued, indicating the two images on the display. “Do you want to flip a coin?”
“I can generate a random number and assign heads or tails,” Flower offered. “Which do you want?”
“No way,” Daniel said. “How about we trade even?”
“You get the bazaar and I get the teams?”
“We can’t force anybody to play, but we can encourage leagues with bonuses or prizes. Just remember that everybody who joins the ship will expect the same freedoms they would have on any open world, outpost, or back on Earth.”
“Like littering,” the AI commented.
“What?”
“You heard me. I didn’t know there was such a thing until I started studying up on Humans. Even Dollnick newborns know better than to foul their own nests, but left to themselves, Humans would throw their trash in the corridors in front of their quarters and wait for a bot to clean it up. I have better things to do with my bots than assigning them to play nanny to slobs.”
“Is this why you’re insisting on sanitation officers?” Clive asked.
“I told you already that I can’t endure a mess, and proper monitoring will be helpful for nipping any bad tendencies in the bud. The sanitation officers could slip in and check the rooms during the morning stretches in the corridors.”
“I thought we agreed to pass on the group calisthenics.”
“I assure you that it’s standard practice on all colony ships that I’m aware of, not just ours. The Drazen colony ships even have special bars outside every cabin for tentacle stretches.”
“I may be open to stretching if you’ll yield on the amusement park,” Clive offered. “I have it on good authority that Dollnicks are fond of roller coasters, and I understand that you maintained a recreational deck for young Dollys.”
“Young what?”
“Sorry, young Dollnicks.”
“I provided wholesome recreation and exercise equipment that was better than rides,” Flower said, and the panel covering the front wall of the classroom lit up with a dizzying scene of thousands of four-armed aliens exercising like their lives depended on it. “My recreational deck was a huge success with the crew.”
“When was the scene recorded?” Blythe asked.
“Just before my crew abandoned me. Wait, are you insinuating…” Flower fell silent for several seconds while Blythe and the others waited quietly, trying hard not to feel sorry for the Dollnick AI. “Would you mind if I talk with my Stryx mentor for a few minutes? Here, I’ll give you something to watch.”
The wall-sized display screen shifted to the Grenouthian news feed, and the negotiating committee members looked at each other in disbelief.
“What was that all about?” Daniel asked. “I thought we were making pretty good progress there towards the end.”
“I can’t get over how badly I prepared for this,” Blythe said. “All of our intelligence about Dollnick colony ships indicated that Flower would insist on a percentage of any profits and demand laborers for maintenance. Instead she’s quibbling over healthy cafeteria selections and mental health services.”
“It’s not going to be easy to find a qualified captain willing to put up with Flower’s level of interference,” Clive added. “In fact, it’s not going to be easy to find a qualified captain, period. It’s looking like we’re going to have to choose somebody who can command the crew’s respect while sharing the real power with a, uh, difficult AI.”
The news feed disappeared, leaving a blank display, and Flower rejoined the conversation. “I heard that, but my mentor says I have to let it go. My mentor also says that I should stop worrying about getting everything perfect up front and give you a chance to make your own mistakes. My mentor reminded me that I’ll be here long after you’re all gone and I can always do a deep cleaning.”
“That’s great,” Daniel said. “I just remembered a minor issue I forgot to bring up earlier during our usage fees discussion. I asked our station librarian to get me pricing on Stryxnet bandwidth so the crew could maintain contact with me on Union Station, but she said I’d have to work that out with you. Does that mean you’ll be acting as the purchasing agent for us?”
“I keep an open Stryxnet channel at all times. I will provide bandwidth as required at the standard rates.”
“A permanent open channel?” Blythe asked. “That must cost you a fortune.”
“It’s part of my deal with the Stryx,” Flower admitted. “I find it useful to talk with my mentor from time to time, when things get to be a bit much.”
“Like therapy,” Lynx ventured.
“Acknowledging you have a problem is the first step to recovery,” the Dollnick AI replied haughtily. “Do any of you have any more questions? I believe I’m approaching my Human limit for the day, though I’m working at building up my tolerance.”
“We’ve agreed that our station librarian will be crediting your account with regular payments, and that you will also receive a yet-to-be-negotiated share of any profits generated by Eccentric Enterprises through onboard activities,” Blythe said after checking her notes.
“Fifty percent of the gross,” Flower stated. “And I keep the books.”
“We have no objection to your keeping a copy of our accounting system, all of the back office work for my own business is handled by our station librarian for a percentage. But fifty percent of the gross would make it impossible for us to create any new businesses.”
There was another long moment’s silence, and the Dollnick AI said, “Twenty-five percent.”
“Of the net,” Blythe insisted. “A good chunk of the gross expenses for rent, utilities and such, go to you off the top. We can’t pay you a percentage of money that we’re paying you.”
“Fine. Anything else?”
“Ow-er,” Lynx’s baby pronounced, smiling at the new sounds produced by her own voice. “Ow-er. Ow-er. Ow-er.”
“That’s a pretty good trick,” Flower said, suddenly sounding a lot more cheerful. “Nice doing business with you all. I’m sure you can find the lift tube on your own.”
“Does anybody else get the feeling we’ve been had?” Blythe asked as they filed out of the classroom.
“I don’t know,” Lynx mused. “She seemed pretty nice to me, and Em is an excellent judge of character.
“So you and Em wouldn’t mind spending more time with her?” Clive asked.
“What does that mean?”
“I’ve been going through potential captains in my head and your husband is the only candidate I can come up with who attended a military college, led men in the field for nearly thirty years, and has experience with aliens at a high level.”
Sixteen
Kelly placed the tray of wine glasses on the coffee table in front of the couch, and forcing her voice as low as it would go, ordered, “Move.”
Beowulf thumped his tail once on the cushions but otherwise ignored her. She tried scratching his exposed belly for a minute, which drew some more tail-thumping, but the dog’s eyes remained steadfastly closed.
“Joe,” she called in the direction of the dining room area where her husband was putting out the poker chips and snacks. “Your dog won’t listen to me.”
“Did you offer him anything?”
“I scratched his belly.”
“That only works when they’re you
ng. Beowulf is old enough now to hold out for food.”
“The women are bringing the snacks for the book club. I don’t have anything handy.”
Joe tore open an imported bag of pretzels and dumped the contents out in a bowl in one smooth movement. The dog reached him before the last piece of twisted baked dough was out of the bag.
“Thank you,” Kelly said, and absent-mindedly checked the couch for dog hairs. Before he had been reincarnated as a pure Cayl hound, the old Beowulf had left enough hair around the ice harvester to weave a blanket if the ambassador had been so inclined, but seven million years of careful breeding by the aliens had taken care of that particular problem. “Are you sure we won’t be disturbing you? Why not move the game out to the patio area?”
“I thought I’d listen in to you discussing Bleak House. You know it’s one of my favorites.”
“That is my plan as well,” Dring announced, entering the ice harvester and setting a bowl of garden fresh vegetables on the side table. “Let me help you with that.”
The Maker and the ambassador’s husband worked together to remove the expansion leaves from the old-fashioned dining room table. Next they slid the ends together until there was a narrow gap in the middle of what was now a small, almost square table. Then Joe went out and retrieved the round tabletop he kept behind the ice harvester for poker games, a carbon fiber construction which weighed no more than the dictionary that Becky Sharp had thrown from the carriage window on departing school. Back in the dining area, he folded out the twin J-channel strips he had recently epoxied to the bottom and lined them up with the gap. Finally, he and Dring reached blindly under the table to push the ends together, locking the circular tabletop in place.
“It’s not perfect,” Joe commented, giving the edge of the table a shake, “but it beats crawling under there on my old knees and clamping it in place from the bottom.”
“An adequate engineering solution,” Dring agreed, moving to stand in his accustomed spot.
“Our InstaSitter showed up early,” Woojin said as he stepped over the threshold just ahead of his wife. “Is there anything we can do to help?”
