Party Night on Union Station (EarthCent Ambassador Book 10)

by E. M. Foner

  “Could you give us a ballpark figure for, say, reaching just the Hortens?” another ambassador asked.

  “All of the alien species on the tunnel network vastly outnumber us, you know,” Hildy said, faltering slightly. “And the final cost depends on the instantaneous viewership, which the Grenouthians adjust for through use of some sort of advanced polling technology.”

  “You’re talking millions of creds, aren’t you?” Ambassador Zerakova asked.

  Hildy grimaced and made a small gesture pointing upwards.

  “Tens of millions?”

  “Maybe,” Hildy said, though her tone made it clear that she expected it would be more.

  “So when you were talking about asking the local alien businessmen to share in the costs, you really meant convincing them to pay for the whole thing,” Svetlana said.

  “Pretty much,” Hildy admitted. “Earth never had an advertising platform that reached trillions of sentients. The charges are actually very reasonable on a per viewer basis.”

  “You had me excited about that idea for a moment,” Ambassador Fu grumbled. “You’re talking about ads that cost more than EarthCent’s budget forever.”

  “How about barter?” somebody suggested.

  “Barter is better,” a number of ambassadors who were posted to Stryx stations responded reflexively.

  “What do we have that the Grenouthians want?” Kelly asked.

  “Source material for more documentaries,” the president suggested. “It’s really a big business for them.”

  “But haven’t they already bartered for copies of all of Earth’s major media libraries in return for licensing their own archival content?” one of the local EarthCent staff asked.

  A number of groans were heard around the room, along with something that sounded like, “Damn bunnies outsmarted us again.”

  Kelly spotted a young man with his hand up. “Yes, Leon?”

  “The documentaries about Earth are educational and I think that everybody should watch them, but the archival footage of alien wars that’s taken over the mainstream news networks is totally negative,” the teenage correspondent pointed out. “You can hardly turn around in this city without seeing a holographic projection of super-violent alien stuff from who knows where or how long ago. At least somebody should make sure that little kids aren’t seeing it.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about what the Earth networks were broadcasting before the Grenouthians opened up shop here and began supplying content,” Kelly said. “Was it really better three or four years ago?”

  “I was kind of busy with my education back then, but I think it was mainly violent stuff about humans,” Leon admitted.

  “So let me offer you Hobson’s choice, young man,” Ambassador Fu stated. “Would you prefer around the clock broadcasts of alien violence from history, or continual reporting on human violence from the present?”

  “Hobson’s choice is something or nothing,” the teenage reporter retorted. “Choosing between human violence and alien violence is more of a dilemma.”

  “You’re correct, of course, but you’re also avoiding the question,” Ambassador Fu replied.

  “Well, human violence may seem more real to kids, and in that way more scary,” Leon said thoughtfully. “But seeing advanced species fighting endless wars destroys hope for the future, and that’s every child’s most precious possession.”

  There was a long silence after this answer, before the president remarked quietly, “From the mouths of babes.”

  “Did anybody else see the Grenouthian documentary about balls last night?” Ambassador White asked from the audience. “It was on around two in the morning, but I still haven’t gotten over my tunnel-lag, so I was up.”

  “That’s why I wear sunglasses inside,” somebody near her commented.

  “Did you say a documentary about balls?” Kelly asked. “Like, ping-pong balls, and beach balls, and…”

  “Dancing balls,” Ambassador White interrupted. “I bring it up because from start to end, it was the most complimentary documentary about humans that I’ve ever seen.”

  “That it was,” another EarthCent diplomat with bags under his eyes confirmed. “And the weird thing was how many important Grenouthians had cameo appearances, talking about how much they would love to attend a human ball if they ever had the opportunity. You’d think if it was that important to them, they’d just throw their own.”

  “But where did they get the material?” Kelly asked. “Nobody has balls anymore, unless you’re talking about some rich people playing make-believe in resort towns. I imagine the Russian czars or the English royals might have allowed an early movie maker to document a ball, but that would have been grainy black-and-white film without the sound.”

  “The production values weren’t quite up to par for the Grenouthians, almost like it was a rush job,” Ambassador White replied. “I think I recognized most of the ball scenes from pre-immersive movies, and there was a segment about masquerade balls that used extended excerpts from the recent remakes of ‘Romeo and Juliet’ and ‘Phantom of the Opera.’ I’ve never seen the Grenouthians treat any documentary subject with such a positive bias before.”

  “Could the Grenouthians have been reacting to news reports of this conference, or even preemptively trying to control the results of this session?” Ambassador Monaro asked. “I know I checked the program guide for upcoming documentaries before leaving the station for Earth, and there weren’t any new releases scheduled this week.”

  “But why balls?” Kelly asked. “If the bunnies wanted to throw us a bone, they could have produced a documentary about our gardening. I’ve met with Grenouthian businessmen from the station who have visited Earth, and the one thing they all agreed on was the sculpted gardens. I remember one bunny in particular who got lost in a labyrinth at some restored country estate and said he hired the designer to create a maze on their recreational deck.”

  “I’m more interested in knowing why they would do anything to get on our good side,” Ambassador Fu said. “I’d like to say that I get along well with the Grenouthian ambassador on my station, but the truth is, I don’t even know his name. I’ve just been calling him ‘Ambassador’ since I was appointed.”

  “Are the Grenouthians concerned about the Vergallian rumors?” somebody asked. “We may not have any significance as military allies, but we probably look just like Vergallians to a giant bunny, so they might think we have good intelligence sources in the Empire of a Hundred Worlds.”

  “If the Grenouthian ambassador I know wanted us to share information about the Vergallians, he would summon me to their embassy and demand that I provide it,” Ambassador Fu responded.

  “Maybe they’re worried about competition,” Ambassador Enoksen suggested. “The Grenouthians probably assume that EarthCent has some control over the human media, so maybe they’re buttering us up before asking that we rein in the Galactic Free Press.”

  “The total readership of the paper isn’t even a rounding error compared to the viewership of the Grenouthian networks,” Kelly pointed out. “You’re talking about hundreds of millions versus I don’t know how many trillions.”

  A man with a press pass identifying him as a Galactic Free Press correspondent got up and said, “We get along fine with the Grenouthians. In fact, my editor said that they’re paying half of our expenses for this conference in return for sharing in our coverage. They didn’t send any of their own correspondents.”

  “So we’re not important enough for the Grenouthians to send a reporter to our first Conference of Ambassadors, yet they produced a documentary to get on our good side?” Ambassador Fu asked. “Something doesn’t add up.”

  “I think the reason the Grenouthians skipped covering the conference themselves is that they didn’t expect any good visuals,” the reporter said. “The galaxy doesn’t need to see immersive footage of diplomats sitting around and talking.”

  “Especially human diplomats,” Amba
ssador White contributed from her seat next to the reporter.

  “What does EarthCent Intelligence make of the Vergallian situation?” Leon asked.

  “That’s, uh, pretty far off topic for this session,” Kelly replied. “Does anybody have any more questions about the Grenouthian documentaries?”

  “What does EarthCent Intelligence make of the Grenouthian documentaries,” the Children’s News Network correspondent followed up immediately.

  “They liked the one about human spies in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries,” Kelly said, hoping to avoid getting dragged into a discussion about classified intelligence. “You wouldn’t believe how much money the old Earth governments used to spend on espionage, especially the hardware. Those black budgets would have bought a lot of commercial time on the Grenouthian network.”

  Fourteen

  “I would have preferred to just stay home for the weekend, but the spa certificate was a gift from the production crew, and you know how sensitive Grenouthians can be,” Aisha explained to Dorothy. “It must have cost them a fortune since it’s the beginning of a major alignment.”

  “Which species?”

  “Grenouthians, Vergallians, Drazens and humans all start the weekend within a few hours of each other, and the Frunge, Hortens and Verlocks are on holiday equivalents already. Libby said that the last time so many species took a few days off at the same time was at Carnival.”

  “Don’t forget to feed Beowulf,” Paul said, coming out of the kitchen with Fenna. “I already took care of watering the plants, so don’t give them any even if you think they look dry or you’ll just rot their roots. The campground is empty, and Gryph will route any incoming requests for towing to the Dollnick small ship facility.”

  “We’ll be at the Gold Sash Spa on the Grenouthian park deck if you have an emergency,” Aisha added. “Please use up all the leftovers or they’ll be spoiled by the time we get back.”

  “Alright already. You guys talk like I’ve never been here alone before.”

  “Have you?” Aisha asked.

  “Sure. Like the time when…” Dorothy trailed off and stared into the distance, trying to remember. “Maybe I haven’t, but Beowulf is here, and Dring is just across the hold.”

  “I haven’t seen Dring in a couple of days,” Paul said. “Anyway, don’t drink all the beer unless you’re ready to brew a new batch.”

  “Have a good time.” Dorothy stooped over and gave Fenna a kiss. “I’m going to miss you.” She stood at the top of the ice harvester’s ramp, watching until the three figures exited Mac’s Bones, and then she pinged Flazint.

  “What is it?” the Frunge girl’s sleepy voice said in Dorothy’s head.

  “I have Mac’s Bones to myself, and it’s a major alignment weekend,” Dorothy said out loud, too excited to subvoc for the implant. “Like, everybody is off.”

  “Fashion Flash?” Flazint asked, coming wide awake.

  “You start getting the word out. I’ll ping Affie and start lining up extra models to wear our products.”

  “Should I put it on the Open Circuit?”

  Dorothy hesitated for a moment. The Open Circuit was the social calendar maintained by Open University students, who she knew numbered at least in the tens of thousands. But she doubted that more than a tiny fraction of the students were at loose ends on a major calendar alignment, and it wasn’t like she had to feed them a sit-down dinner.

  “Sure, list it as a flash industrial dance event, starting in, say, four hours. Do you know anybody who has a band that’s available?”

  “It’s awfully short notice to get a band,” the Frunge girl cautioned her.

  “I’ll try the Horten group that their ambassador’s son sings in. They do cross-species, and David sort of likes them.”

  “Good luck. I’ve got to do something with my hair vines, but I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

  As soon as Flazint broke the connection, Dorothy pinged Affie and repeated the story.

  “Great timing,” said the third member of the design team for SBJ Fashions. “I’m at a Vergallian thing, but everybody is talking Empire politics like there’s about to be a civil war or something, which is just silly. I’ll spread the word, and if you can’t find any bands, I can bring my player. Have you pinged Jeeves yet?”

  “I haven’t even pinged David yet, though I know he’s working until late. I’m going to try Chance now, and maybe she’ll bring Thomas and help get the dancing started. Don’t worry about lugging your player. My dad has all sorts of audio equipment in the ice harvester, and I can always ask Libby to pipe something in.”

  “See you soon.”

  “Libby? Can you put me in touch with the Horten ambassador’s son, Mornich?

  “Just a moment, I’ll see if he’s free.”

  Dorothy was practically hopping from one foot to the other as she waited. Looking around Mac’s Bones, she could see at least a dozen things that needed to be done, not to mention changing the lighting. She breathed a sigh of relief when she remembered that her father had put an all-species bathroom at the edge of the training camp when EarthCent Intelligence started hiring alien trainers. It would be best to set up for the party between the training area and the ice harvester.

  “What?” a Horten youth asked in her head.

  “This is Dorothy, the EarthCent ambassador’s daughter.”

  “The station librarian told me,” Mornich replied curtly. “Why are you pinging me?”

  “Our business is hosting an industrial dance party in, uh, three and a half hours. I really liked your band and I wondered if you were available.”

  “Is Three and a Half Hours the name of a new club?” the Horten asked, sounding intrigued.

  “It’s a time, as in, uh, two hundred and ten minutes from now,” Dorothy replied.

  “Is this a prank ping? You aren’t supposed to identify yourself.”

  “It’ll be fun. It’s a flash fashion thing, you know?”

  “Like, you’re going to be modeling clothes and pretending that it’s a party?”

  “It will be a party, with clothes. You know there will be more girls than boys,” she added desperately. “And we design cross-species. Our first product line was Horten hats.”

  “What’s it pay?”

  “Double your usual rate,” Dorothy offered, not having a clue how much bands earned for an evening.

  “We usually play for drinks,” the Horten admitted. “Look, I’m open, and if there are going to be models dancing, I can probably get most of the guys. But we’ve been using club gear for the last couple of years rather than buying equipment and hauling it around, so we only own our instruments and mics.”

  “Can you rent what you need? Just charge everything to SBJ Fashions. Give them my name.”

  “How about food?”

  “Order whatever you want, same way.”

  “Deal. Hey. Where does everything get delivered?”

  “Mac’s Bones. I’ll be here to tell them where to put things.”

  “The human spy camp?”

  “Everybody is off this weekend,” the girl explained.

  “Cool. I’ll see you in a while.”

  Dorothy continued to burn up her implant, pinging everybody she could think of who might help make the fashion dance party a success on short notice. Even though the very name implied spontaneity, all of the flash events she had attended had the feel that somebody had gone to a lot of work to make everything look casual.

  A couple of Hortens arrived with a string of bots carrying all sorts of road cases, and she directed them to set up for the band on the platform that EarthCent Intelligence used for staging holo training. The caterer David recommended showed up with several enormous cooler chests of cold cross-species fruit platters and finger food. Dorothy had to shoo Beowulf into the ice harvester before the caterers would agree to bring out a half-dozen folding tables from the storage area in the back, but it took them less than five minutes to lay out a gorgeous spread.
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  “There’s that much again in the coolers under the tables,” the Gem supervisor told her. “If you start running low, just ping us and we’ll bring another load.”

  “Thank you,” Dorothy called after the clones as they rushed off to their next job.

  Flazint arrived with her hair vines done up on a fancy trellis, wearing a light travel cloak with a decorative chain that was one of their big sellers. Dorothy and Affie had designed the cloak and the Frunge girl had engineered the chain.

  “Any luck with the band?” Flazint asked.

  “The equipment is here and they should be on their way. I hope a bunch of Horten girls show up because I sort of promised.”

  Flazint whipped out her tab and tapped away for a minute. “That should do it,” she said, and showed the result to Dorothy. “Do you have any hats here or should I send a bot to our storeroom?” The Open Circuit listing had been modified to include, “Free hats to the first twenty Horten students.”

  “I probably have twenty,” Dorothy said. “They stack well so they don’t take up any room.”

  Affie arrived a few minutes later, accompanied by three Vergallian models, all of whom were wearing tube dresses from the SBJ Fashions “Basics” line. The three models made a beeline for the folding tables and begin eating fruit slices like they were starving. Dorothy would have sworn that one of the girls was crying.

  “I used to work with them,” Affie explained. “I promised we would get here before any press so they could eat something without getting fined. If we ever make the big time, I’d like to hire them away from the agency.” She lowered her voice and added, “I was going to have them model the prototype gowns we’ve been working on for the ballroom line, but they’re too skinny.”

  “What’s with the lights?” Flazint asked. “It’s like a classroom in here.”

  “I wanted to wait until the sound system and the food were set up,” Dorothy replied. “My dad always controlled the lights so I was hoping to get Jeeves to do it, but he hasn’t answered my ping. Let me ask Libby.”

  “Yes, Dorothy?”

  “You were listening in just now, Libby?”