LARP Night on Union Station

by E. M. Foner

  “I’ll have to tell Janice that one. She must have filed over a thousand warranty claims during our time on Sharf Prime.” Phillip paused and squinted as though he couldn’t believe his eyes. “Is that woman sword-fighting without any protective gear?”

  “Yes. Thomas is an artificial person and he has fine enough motor control to keep from making contact with Judith’s skin even if she makes a mistake.”

  “But he’s wearing a facemask and a vest!”

  “He has to protect himself. Artificial people have limited self-repair capacity and some of their parts are pretty expensive.”

  “It’s exactly the opposite of what I would have expected,” Phillip admitted. The two diplomats stopped at the edge of a white circle painted on the deck where Chance had posted herself, calling contradictory advice to both fighters.

  “Good morning, Ambassadors,” she greeted the newcomers and introduced herself to Phillip. “They’ll just be another minute. Thomas has been trying a mercenary enhancement from QuickU, but the personality donor was a cavalryman, and dueling from the saddle and the ground are two very different things.”

  As if to confirm Chance’s assessment, Judith neatly deflected a slashing stroke from the artificial person’s heavier sword and buried the point of her rapier in his chest protector.

  “Three!” she called out triumphantly. “I win again!”

  Thomas returned his saber to its scabbard and removed his mask. “We all win when one of us improves,” he said. “That’s the whole point of training.”

  “What a great philosophy. Did you just make that up?”

  “I’ve always believed that teamwork—you’re taunting me, aren’t you?” Thomas cut himself short.

  The swordswoman just smiled and went over to meet Kelly’s replacement. “Hi, I’m Judith. I’ll be available to attend functions that you and Daniel don’t have time for, and Daniel never has time for anything that isn’t connected to his sovereign human communities.”

  “Thomas,” the artificial person introduced himself as he removed the bulky chest protector. “If you have an intelligence emergency and you can’t reach Clive or Blythe, I’m available 24/7.”

  “Thank you both,” the newly minted ambassador said. “I understand that you’ll be briefing me about interspecies police agency cooperation.”

  “That’s correct,” Thomas affirmed. “The process of sharing information is heavy on protocol, even at the level of individual requests, and ambassadorial approval is required for deep data mining.”

  “Do we have any such issues pending?”

  “As soon as you’re ready to support us. We’re working with Earth and our people on Flower to crack down on unethical labor contractors. The aliens we brought in to train our personnel on the system informed us that they log all complaints in their jurisdictions, even those from other species. It could be that half of our job has already been done for us and all we need to do is submit the proper requests. Unfortunately, there isn’t a single form covering all of the law enforcement entities participating in the Inter-Species Police Operations Agency.”

  “No acronym?” Phillip asked.

  “ISPOA,” Judith replied. “Thomas doesn’t like using it because he says the sound reminds him of a hydraulic leak.”

  “You have to be an artificial person to understand,” Chance contributed.

  “If this is a training camp, where are all the trainees?” the bench ambassador asked.

  “We have a dynamic schedule with different length courses and sometimes it leads to utilization gaps,” Thomas explained. “We just finished with a couple of new law enforcement support groups, and tomorrow we’re starting a batch of newspaper reporters through their kidnap avoidance training. That’s why today was ideal for you to come in. Filling out the forms should only take a few hours.”

  “That’s my cue to get going,” Kelly said. “I gave my first clients instructions to find Dring’s, but if you see an angry Sharf or Dollnick wandering around, send them over.”

  Phillip blinked at her announcement. “You won’t meet clients at the embassy but you asked the Maker to help with your sabbatical business?”

  “He offered his garden space as a tranquil setting. He won’t be participating in the session, but I’m hoping that having a Maker working on his sculptures in the background will be conducive to a calm meeting.”

  “You mean they’ll be intimidated by Dring’s presence,” Judith translated.

  “One can only hope. Oh, I see a Sharf heading that way so I better get going.”

  The three EarthCent Intelligence trainers led Phillip off to their makeshift office area while Kelly skirted around the assortment of parked ships and headed for the break in the old mound of scrap that concealed Dring’s corner of Mac’s Bones. She saw the Sharf disappear into the narrow passage ahead of her and was surprised that he had located it without help. The ambassador hurried after him and found that Dring had already introduced himself to her client and led him to the garden, inviting the Sharf to take a seat on what Kelly had always thought was a piece of abstract sculpture.

  “Yzonge?” she ventured.

  “What?” the Sharf asked distractedly, still staring after the Maker. “Say, do you think you could get an image of us together?”

  “I can ask the station librarian to make one with the security system right now,” Kelly replied, approaching her client. “You’re so tall that it would probably work better with me standing and you seated.”

  “You misunderstood,” Yzonge told her bluntly. “I meant an image of myself with the Maker, but only if you’re sure he wouldn’t consider it an imposition. He seemed very friendly.”

  Kelly took this rejection in stride and made a mental note of how it might prove useful in her mediation toolkit. “We’ll see how the session goes first,” she told him with a smile.

  A heavyset Dollnick carrying a travel desk on his shoulder emerged from the short tunnel through the scrap mound and looked carefully in every direction. His eyes lingered on Dring, who was welding an alloy that gave off a bright purple flame, and he nodded his approval at the technique. Then he approached Kelly and the Sharf, set down his burden, and extended his two lower hands to the ambassador.

  “You must be Mrs. McAllister,” he greeted her, and clasping her hand in both of his own giant mitts, gave her a politician’s handshake. “I’m sorry if I ran a little behind, but I was just chatting with your husband about some work I hope to give him.”

  “Did you just offer her a bribe?” the Sharf demanded. “We both know that your complaint has no merit, Pruke, but I thought you’d at least pretend to present your argument before getting down to brass tacks and bidding on her cooperation.”

  The Dollnick unfolded his travel desk and settled his large frame onto the fabric seat, which must have been capable of carrying a heavy load. Then he passed each of his four palms in front of a glowing electronic eye, unlocking the desk’s drawer, from which he drew out a high-tech whiteboard of the type that his species used as a substitute for paper. Finally, he deigned to acknowledge the Sharf’s insinuation.

  “I’ve done business with the ambassador’s husband for years, there’s nothing nefarious about my statement. What would be the point of bribing a mediator? You know as well as I that the process is non-binding.”

  “Gentlemen, please. It’s clear that you two are well-acquainted, and Yzonge, I apologize for not knowing that my husband has had financial dealings with Pruke.”

  “It’s been a while, actually,” the Dollnick said. “Last job I did for them was painting a habitat a few years back.”

  “You’re the one who delivered Paul and Aisha’s home with a Teragram mage sleeping in the wall?”

  The Dollnick stuttered a series of untranslatable whistles and the Sharf burst out laughing. “Cancel my objection,” Yzonge wheezed when he finally caught his breath. “Shall we proceed to our arguments?”

  “Just a moment,” Kelly said, deploying a tactic Czer
os had coached her to try. “Before we get to the bone of contention, why not start by telling me what you agree on?”

  Both aliens looked surprised by the mediator’s approach, but Pruke nodded grudgingly, and setting aside his Dolly board, placed a hand on each of his hearts and began to speak.

  “The Sharf dealer known as Yzonge hired my shipyard to refurbish forty-eight ships of the mid-level prospector class for sale at his dealership. At the time our agreement was made, he promised that the ships had been lightly used by retirees in a fantasy asteroid mining operation.”

  “Excuse me,” Kelly interjected. “Could one of you explain what fantasy has to do with mining?”

  “Think of it as an adventure vacation for Sharf who spent their lives in desk jobs,” Yzonge told her. “I saw an advertisement for vacation packages on Earth that offered an analogous activity which involved sitting on trained animals and chasing untrained animals around the countryside.”

  “A dude ranch,” the ambassador told them. “I believe all of the animals in question are highly trained.”

  The Sharf and the Dollnick shared a look over the bizarre Human vacation concept, and then Pruke continued.

  “I based my cost estimates on the sample ship he brought which supposedly was representative of the whole lot. When the remaining forty-seven ships arrived, it turned out that none of them were in as good a shape as the first ship.”

  “Do you agree to this point?” Kelly asked the Sharf, who nodded distractedly, his eyes on the Maker. “Could you sum up the difference in condition between the initial ship and the later deliveries, Pruke?”

  “Certainly. They were filthy. My shipyard employees are highly trained engineers and technicians, not janitors. I was forced to hire a Gem cleaning contractor to come in and prep the ships prior to beginning the work. I run a tight schedule, and a three-day delay to thoroughly clean forty-seven ships is nothing to laugh at.”

  “Yzonge?” Kelly asked.

  “Yes, yes,” the Sharf responded without looking over. “The ships were dirty. Get on with it.”

  “As I was saying, the Gem cleaners had me over a barrel due to a bottleneck in my schedule, and the bill for cleaning forty-seven ships came to twenty-three thousand, five hundred creds,” Pruke said, though it was clear that the Sharf’s apparent lack of interest in the proceedings was beginning to get to him. “In addition, I was forced to turn down a lucrative engine overhaul job on a Class 2 freighter for lack of space to do the work. In short, I put my total damages at,” he hesitated for a moment, “one million creds.”

  “A million creds?” Kelly asked incredulously. “What was the value of the engine overhaul job you passed on?”

  “Twelve thousand,” the Dollnick asserted.

  “Eight,” Yzonge said, proving that he was paying attention after all.

  “Let’s say ten for the sake of making the math easier,” Kelly suggested, leading the aliens to exchange another look at her expense. “So you suffered less than thirty-five thousand creds in extra expenses and lost business, Pruke, but you want a million in damages?”

  “My reputation suffered when I turned down the engine overhaul,” the Dollnick explained. “And when I pinged Yzonge and demanded that he cover my losses, he refused to pay.”

  “Now that’s not true,” the Sharf said, finally tearing his eyes away from the Maker. “I offered to assume the Gem bill, which I would have negotiated down to a more reasonable amount, but I see no reason to compensate the Dollnick for his own scheduling errors. Then he started whistling about his attorney and I broke off the call.”

  “Wait, wait,” Kelly spoke over the Dolly, who had begun an angry rebuttal to the Sharf’s claims. “Let’s go back to what you both agreed on. The ships were delivered in a state that required you, Pruke, to hire a Gem cleaning crew. Yzonge offered to settle the contractor’s bill, but was unwilling to pay for your lost business opportunity. Is this correct?”

  “If you put it like that,” the Dollnick grumbled.

  “May I ask you gentlemen the total value of the refurbishing contract?”

  “Two million creds,” the Sharf offered promptly. “And that’s more business than—”

  “Thank you,” Kelly interrupted, holding up her hand. “Is there something you aren’t telling me, Pruke?”

  “He won’t apologize,” the Dollnick said angrily.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I’d have accepted his offer to take care of the Gem and eaten the lost work myself if Yzonge would have come to the shipyard and apologized for dumping a bunch of dirty ships on us without warning. He shamed me in front of my workers.”

  “I understand,” Kelly said, knowing full well how important such matters were in Dollnick society. “I’m not as familiar with your species as I am with members of the tunnel network, Yzonge. Was an apology out of the question?”

  “We’re not as sensitive as the Dollnicks, if that’s what you mean. But if word got out that I’d apologized to a four-armed shipyard owner in front of his staff, I’d be the one to take a reputational hit. The wholesale used ship market is a cut-throat business with thin margins, and my ability to buy new stock at a price that will let me profit depends on my reputation as a tough customer.”

  “I see. Would you gentlemen excuse me for a moment?” Kelly requested, and getting to her feet, began a short circle around the garden, as if she was lost deep in thought. When she reached the farthest point from her clients, she called in a loud whisper, “Dring, don’t look over. Can you hear me?”

  “Yes, Ambassador,” the Maker responded as he took a file to some unseen defect in the metal sculpture he was currently constructing.

  “Would it be a great imposition if I asked you to have your image taken with one of my clients? I think it would help settle their dispute.”

  “I’d be happy to oblige,” Dring said, returning the file to his utility belt. “Is now a good time?”

  “Just give me a minute to close the deal,” Kelly said, and hurried back to the aliens in a straight line. “Yzonge. Would a high-resolution image of you with the Maker outweigh any reputational damage you would suffer from apologizing to Pruke?”

  “Done,” the Sharf declared.

  Five minutes later, after agreeing that Kelly was the best mediator on Union Station, her first clients left Dring’s garden on their way to the Dollnick’s shipyard to take care of the apology and discuss a new business deal.

  “Thank you,” Kelly told the Maker again. “I’m not sure I could have settled their dispute without your help, and I really wanted to get off on the right foot.”

  “It was good practice posing,” Dring told her. “You know I’m not the most outgoing sentient in the galaxy and I expect there will be plenty of requests for images from the guests at Dorothy’s wedding.”

  Fourteen

  “I can’t believe I’m finally going to get to use my axe,” Jorb exclaimed gleefully. “What’s taking Jeeves so long to get here?”

  “We’re early, and he’ll probably send a holographic instance of himself right on time,” Samuel said. “I’m looking forward to our first real studio experience. Vivian’s brother says that the holographic overlays on the standard robotic NPCs are so real that you can’t tell the difference.”

  “I wish Jeeves had sent us something to prepare, even if it was just character sheets,” Marilla said. “He could be dropping us into the middle of the Battle of Scort Woods for all we know.”

  “Then we’ll be all set,” the Drazen replied. “I probably know as much about that battle as a historian.”

  “Watching a lot of immersives doesn’t mean you know what really went on,” the Horten shot back.

  “I read some books too. I even wrote a paper about the Pullrips when I was a kid. I always wanted to visit their empire.”

  “Don’t they attack Drazens and Hortens on sight?” Vivian asked.

  “Come on, that battle was like a half a million years ago,” Jorb said. “They’ve prob
ably gotten over it by now.”

  “My dad visited the planet when he was a kid,” Vivian told them. “Whoever won, the Stryx declared it a galactic historical site and you can’t take anything from the surface.”

  “I don’t think there is anything on the surface, other than woods,” the Drazen said. “That’s why the Frunge got involved in the first place.”

  “Except they aren’t trees in any normal sense of the word, more like crystalline growths, and they don’t burn,” Marilla contributed. “Which was lucky, because the Pullrips are fire-breathers.”

  “The Pullrips are softies,” Jorb insisted, taking a few trial cuts at the empty air with his noodle axe. “I say we do a commando raid.”

  “I tried to get some details out of Jeeves last night when he came by Mac’s Bones to help reprogram an old Grenouthian security system on a ship my dad and brother are restoring,” Samuel informed the others. “All he’d say is that we’d get all the action we can handle.”

  “And I intend to keep my word,” the Stryx promised.

  “Jeeves! How long have you been floating there?”

  “Long enough to know that your imaginations are running away with you. In this educational LARP, you will all be playing Vergallian mercenaries working at a Frunge mining cooperative in the asteroid belts of Callizack Six.”

  “Vergallian?” Vivian asked in dismay. “Can’t we be ourselves? I’ve never even heard of Vergallian mercenaries.”

  “This particular scenario takes place before any of your species joined the tunnel network,” Jeeves told her. “The Frunge normally policed their own mining habitats, but in this case, the ore was so rich that their law enforcement officers kept quitting to stake their own claims.”

  “So our mission is to protect the miners and prospectors from claim jumpers?” Jorb asked eagerly.

  “Not this evening.”

  “Is there some kind of civil war going on?” Samuel asked.