by E. M. Foner
“With the ambassador gone, time weighs heavy,” the Stryx librarian replied dryly. “You want to change the lighting?”
“Yes, please. We don’t know how many people will show up, but I’d like to leave the area right around the ice harvester dark, the same with Dring’s corner, and maybe just light a direct path from the corridor to the stage area where the band is setting up.”
The overhead fixtures were either extinguished or dimmed, depending on their locations, and colored beams of light began playing over the area that Dorothy intended for the dance floor.
“You guys have a mirror ball?” Flazint asked in astonishment.
“All of the decks are equipped with emergency evacuation lighting that employs fine spectrum control, so we can adapt it to whatever biologicals are resident without changing elements all of the time,” Libby explained. “It’s good to give the circuits a workout every century or so.”
“Where do we plug in?” a voice asked.
The girls turned and saw that a number of Hortens carrying instrument cases had arrived while they were watching the light show.
“Can you bring up the lights on the bandstand?” Dorothy subvoced, unsure how the musicians would feel about an omnipresent Stryx in the conversation. A white glow enveloped the small stage and the large mound of audio equipment.
“Cool,” the Horten said, and started off with his bandmates before remembering something and turning back. “I’m Coffin, by the way. Death said he’s stopping to pick up our food.”
“Where’s Mornich?” Dorothy asked.
Coffin checked to make sure that the other Hortens were out of earshot before answering her. “Death is Mornich. Our publicist came up with the stage names, and we aren’t supposed to use our real names at a gig, even with each other.”
“Got it, Coffin. Thanks for coming.”
A sound like a foghorn came from the stage area when one of the band members began tuning his amplified trumpet, and as if somebody had thrown a switch, a crowd of hungry students and their friends materialized and descended on the catering tables.
“Did you guys get any models?” Affie asked the other two.
“The girls from my pledge circle will all be here with our accessories, but they may be a little late because they need to color coordinate their trellis work with the bags,” Flazint explained. She turned her head as she spoke, and held up her handbag like the model in one of SBJ’s corridor ads.
“The red works really well with your vines,” Affie complimented the Frunge girl.
“Yeah,” Dorothy said, biting back the comment that the color scheme reminded her of the holidays. “Oh, I better go and change myself. I’ll wear our knock-off of my mom’s old cocktail dress. I didn’t call any models, but Chance said she’d wear our Number Eight.”
“That’s the one I rigged up with a platinum zipper,” Flazint told Affie, as Dorothy disappeared into the dark.
“I still think we’d take over the whole market if you could engineer a silent version of that Velcro stuff,” the Vergallian girl replied. Her face lit up when she saw her off-and-on boyfriend appear with a gang of Vergallian friends in tow. “Stick! Over here. Why are you covered with dust?”
“The lift tube informed us that there was a traffic jam at the closest terminus to Mac’s Bones and offered an alternative with a ten-minute walk across the corner of an ag deck,” Stick said sourly. “Didn’t tell us that pollination was going full tilt.”
“I’ve never heard of a lift tube traffic jam,” Flazint said nervously. “Do you think it’s because of us?” She looked towards the entrance of Mac’s Bones, and saw that the trickle of new arrivals had turned into a steady stream. Then she opened her handbag and pulled out her tab.
“What are you doing?” Affie asked.
“Removing our announcement from the Open Circuit,” the Frunge girl replied. “I don’t think that getting a crowd is going to be the problem.”
Four hours later, the Gem caterers were on their third resupply run, despite doubling the amount of food they brought each time. The Horten band seemed determined to blow up the rental equipment, and there were well over two thousand young people from a dozen species jumping around the dance floor. The precision lighting scheme kept all of the partygoers packed together in front of the stage, and Dorothy found herself standing outside of Mac’s Bones, taking a break from the volume of the sound.
“Bob Steelforth. Galactic Free Press,” a reporter introduced himself.
“I know you, Bob, and you know me. I’m Dorothy, Ambassador McAllister’s daughter.”
“Sorry, you don’t look like anybody’s daughter in that dress,” the reporter apologized awkwardly. “I heard there’s a big cross-species flash event happening down here, and I’m covering the ‘What’s Up Union?’ page for alignment weekend. I thought I’d drop in and file a real-time report, maybe get a feature out of it.”
“Sponsored by SBJ Fashions,” Dorothy said, her eyes lighting up. “That’s ‘S’ as in ‘Shaina’, ‘B’ as in ‘Brinda’ and ‘J’ as in ‘Jeeves.’”
“I see you’ve worked with the press before,” Bob replied, filling in the details on his reporter’s tab. “Can you tell me anything about how the party got started?”
“Well, my family is all gone for the weekend and I had the whole hold to myself, so I called a couple of friends.”
“No prior advertising?”
“Just a notice in the Open Circuit.”
“Any reason you didn’t post to the Galactic Free Press events board for Union Station?” the reporter asked sharply.
“SBJ Fashions focuses on cross-species wear, so we didn’t want a crowd that was mainly humans.”
Bob acknowledged the truth of her reply with a grudging nod, and asked, “How long have you been in the business?”
“We started with a line of hats three years ago, and we’ve expanded into dresses and accessories. We outsource most of our manufacturing to the Chintoo orbital, but our bespoke line is hand-finished on the station. Ten percent of our profits go to the station shelter for underage labor contract runaways, and we’re currently working towards a cross-species shoe that will revolutionize the market.”
“Revolutionize the market,” Bob repeated, as he finished entering Dorothy’s statement. “Good luck with that. Mind if I go in and capture a few images?”
“Please, take lots. If you ping me afterwards, I’ll identify any of our items for you.”
“Great.” The reporter stopped and opened the locket around his neck that many station residents wore for nose plugs to filter semi-breathable atmospheres. He removed a pair of plugs and stuck them in his ears. “Dual purpose,” he told Dorothy. “Latest thing from the Dollnicks.”
“Doesn’t your ear wax clog the filters?”
“What?” the reporter shouted.
“Never mind.”
Dorothy was about to follow Bob back into the party, when Chance showed up, dragging a reluctant-looking Thomas.
“I see my timing is as impeccable as usual,” the fashionable artificial person said. “I’ll cut up the floor with grumpy here and make sure that reporter gets a picture of me in old Number Eight.”
“I’m really not comfortable with the idea of throwing a party in the EarthCent Intelligence training camp,” Thomas protested.
“The only equipment we’re using is rented, though Libby is manipulating the lights for us,” Dorothy explained. “Don’t worry. If my parents hadn’t wanted a party in the hold, they would have put it in writing.”
“Time to earn your keep, Dancer Boy,” the artificial person said to her partner, and pulled him into Mac’s Bones.
When Dorothy followed them back into the hold, it seemed like the band had become even louder, if that was possible. She fingered her own nose plug locket before grimacing and shaking her head. Dorothy kicked herself again for being unable to find her father’s tool belt with its acoustic suppression field unit for working around noisy equipment. Sud
denly, somebody poked her in the side, and the volume dropped off to the level of lift tube background music.
“Jeeves! Where have you been?”
“If I don’t get in my multiverse hours every cycle, Libby gives me a hard time,” the Stryx replied. “Good job drawing a crowd, but I see you charged the caterer’s bills, a rush equipment rental, and a surprisingly expensive order of Horten take-out to the business account. Are we making any sales?”
“It’s a flash event, we’re creating good will. Affie and Flazint have friends modeling our products, and Chance says she’ll get our dress on the front page of the Galactic Free Press,” Dorothy said, exaggerating just a little. “It’s not like we’re taking orders tonight or anything.”
“Did you run it past Shaina or Brinda?” Jeeves asked.
“They have families and lives, so I didn’t want to bother them on a Friday night. It just sort of came together.”
“You creative types,” the Stryx said in mock despair. He floated alongside Dorothy to the refreshments table to inspect the catering that was blowing a hole in their marketing budget. Just as they approached, a girl in impossibly high heels stumbled and dumped a whole plate of cheese and crackers on the floor. An enormous paw shot out from under the table, covered the entire mess, and dragged it out of sight.
“I wondered where the dog was hiding,” Dorothy said. “I’m surprised he can stand the music.”
Behind the overhang of the disposable tablecloth, Beowulf finished scarfing down his latest haul, and then delicately reached with a paw for the Dollnick acoustic suppression field unit on Joe’s tool belt. Long practice had enabled him to master extending just one claw, which he used to adjust the device up to its highest setting. He could still feel the floor vibrating from the heavy bass, but the only thing he could hear was his own breathing. Then he rolled back onto his stomach and brought his eyes up to the level of the slit he had made in the draped tablecloth.
Fifteen
“You look like refugees,” the president observed, on meeting the McAllisters in front of the door to EarthCent headquarters. He eyed their collection of luggage, puzzling over Samuel’s cane, which was stuck through the straps of the boy’s bag. “You’re an hour early for our meeting. Did the hotel throw you out?”
“We’re leaving later this afternoon, so it was either check out early, or go back to the hotel in the middle of the morning,” Joe explained. “Room had to be vacated by 10:00 AM or they would have charged us a day at the full rate.”
“I believe we might have made a mistake going with the lowest bid for the conference venue,” the president admitted. “Oh well, there’s always next time.”
“I thought some of the sessions were pretty interesting,” Kelly said. “And I’m glad Joe was able to take our son on some daytrips to see a little of life on Earth.”
“I liked the Brooklyn Bridge,” Samuel spoke up. “The guide told us all about working in caissons and getting the bends. Too much air pressure is like the opposite of working in space.”
“I never thought of it that way,” the president replied. “It’s my favorite bridge too, though floaters are making all bridges obsolete. Now let’s get out of the hallway and make ourselves comfortable while we wait for the others.” He stepped towards the door of EarthCent headquarters and attempted to swipe open the lock.
“So this is where it all happens,” Joe said. “I’d sure like to get a look inside.”
“Just two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” the president replied, misunderstanding the ambassador’s husband. “We reprogrammed the locks after a, uh, incident, and the palm scanner seems to be thrown off because I’ve been carrying a hot coffee.”
“I think he means the office next door, Stephen,” Kelly hastened to explain. “Joe works closely with Thomas, an artificial person who has integrated a number of personality enhancements from QuickU.”
“Try knocking,” the president instructed Joe. “I’m afraid this lock just isn’t going to work for me today so we’ll have to enter through QuickU anyway. We share a lunch room.”
“Will they be here this early?” Joe asked.
“They pretty much live there,” the president replied. “You know geeks.”
Joe knocked on the QuickU door. There was a thudding sound, and the door was opened by a young man with long hair who was seated in a wheeled office chair. After letting in the guests, the employee kicked off the wall and rolled back to his work station without saying a word.
“I often knock around this time,” the president said, excusing his neighbor’s lack of manners as he ushered the McAllisters into the office. “I’m not alone today, Carl. These people with me are friends of Thomas from Union Station.”
Carl spun around in the chair, peered at the visitors through the shaded glasses that enhanced his holographic display, and then put his fingers in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. Several more shaggy heads displaying various lengths of five o’clock shadow popped up from behind other workstations, and an attractive woman emerged from one of the few offices with a door.
“Good morning, Stephen,” she addressed the president. “I take it from Carl’s alert that you’ve brought us important guests.” She surveyed the three McAllisters and paused on Kelly. “I know you. You’re the auction ambassador.”
“Kelly McAllister. This is my husband Joe and my son Samuel. We’re sorry to disturb you so early in the morning, but my husband works with Thomas and…”
“THE Thomas?” the woman interrupted. “As in Thomas and Chance of Union Station? Of course, that’s where the auction was. Then you’re the Joe who Thomas works with training spies? This is an honor.”
“Uh, thanks,” Joe said, wondering what else the artificial person had told his QuickU friends. “Thomas always lets us know when he has a new personality enhancement on evaluation. You do really good work, well, except for the gambler one. Some of the regulars at our poker game are talking about banning Thomas until he agrees to stop using it.”
“My fault,” Carl said, raising his hand. “We didn’t design the enhancement for social gambling. It’s for making a career out of playing in casinos or insurance underwriting. He’s already told us that he’ll be deintegrating the gambler personality after he finishes testing it.”
“You create artificial intelligence here?” Samuel asked.
“Oh, no,” the woman replied, shaking her head at the very idea. “We deal strictly in enhancements. Think of it as packaged life experience with some algorithms to help the artificial people make sense of the data. I wouldn’t know the first thing about creating viable AI.”
“Don’t the two go hand in hand?” Kelly asked.
“Sentience is a mystery to us,” Carl said. “Everybody working at QuickU is fascinated by AI, but I don’t think any of us are interested in playing god that way. Some of the aliens have it down to a science, but what I’ve seen of the human-created AI relies a great deal on luck and environment. They basically keep piling complications onto a rule-based system, give it mobility and sensory technology, and then throw challenges at it and hope that it develops consciousness in self-defense.”
“So how do you create your enhancements?” Joe asked.
“The best ones are licensed from artificial people who have a strong skill set to offer, like the Dance Machine enhancement that Chance supplied and keeps up to date for us,” Carl said. “If I was an artificial person, the first thing I would do with extra income is pay down my body mortgage, but Chance says that she spends all of the royalty money on clothes.”
“You have a copy of Chance in a machine here?” Samuel asked, looking disturbed by the prospect.
“It’s nothing like that,” the woman reassured the boy. “Chance supplies us with a vector representation of the dance steps and moves that she’s mastered, including those from over thirty alien species to date. Then, with the help of your Stryx librarian, she isolates and codifies an algorithm for fitting those movements to music and mood.”
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“I didn’t know Libby was in the enhancements business,” Kelly remarked.
“Any honest business is worth doing,” Samuel declared, another mantra learned in Libby’s school.
“I thought Thomas told me that his Secret Agent enhancement was compiled from characters in literature,” Joe said.
“That was one of our early attempts,” the woman explained. “The advantage is that the source material is license free because it falls under the ‘transformative use’ exclusion of copyright law. The disadvantage is that experiences gathered from fiction are, well, fictional, and then we have to synthesize the algorithm to process the data.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I ever got your name,” Kelly said.
“Lucy Hui,” the woman replied. “I’m the founder of QuickU, and thanks to night school, I’m now the legal counsel as well. These boys do all of the grunt work.”
“I’ve had my own run-ins with contract law,” Kelly said, accepting the founder’s hand. “I’ll never sign anything now without running it by our station librarian.”
“Unfortunately, Earth doesn’t have a resident Stryx,” Lucy replied. “Still, our personality enhancements are all marketed as ‘For entertainment use only,’ so we’re covered both ways.” She glanced over the workstations that took up most of the floor space to a closed door with a red light above it. “Are you here to see Hep? He should be done with today’s session in a few minutes.”
The president, who had slipped away to open the front door of EarthCent headquarters from the inside, returned just in time to ask, “You have Hep in there?”
“He’s volunteered to try to supply us with enough data points to create a Verlock mathematician enhancement,” Carl explained. “Hep’s mind is incredibly well organized, but he lacks an AI’s interface options for data extraction.”
“If you’re successful, why would an artificial person want a personality upgrade to think like a Verlock mathematician?”
“It’s sort of a public service thing for us,” Lucy explained. “Hep is having trouble finding the right help for his reverse engineering project, and he’s hoping that a free personality enhancement and good pay might attract some artificial people. Most of them have excellent innate computational ability, but working with theory is a completely different thing.”
