by E. M. Foner
Carnival on Union Station
Book Five of EarthCent Ambassador
Copyright 2015 by E. M. Foner
[email protected]
Paradise Pond Press
One
“In conclusion, it is the view of Union Station Embassy that the growing number of Gem defectors seeking refuge and employment on the station is beginning to have a deleterious effect on the local market economy and may also portend the impending collapse of the forty-billion-strong Gem empire, forcing the other species on the tunnel network to choose sides in a messy civil war.”
Kelly concluded her usual Friday afternoon report for EarthCent on this down note and leaned back in her chair. Next to the display desk, Samuel, who had long since mastered pulling himself to his feet using the webbed sides of his playpen, beamed his mother a happy smile.
“Yes, Sammy. We’ll be going home in a few minutes,” Kelly told him. “Mommy just has to talk to Aunty Libby about the nasty clones.”
“Before we talk about the Gem, is somebody aware that today is the deadline to submit a candidate hologram for the Carnival election?” Libby asked over the office speakers.
“You couldn’t pay me to be the Carnival Queen,” Kelly retorted. “Bork told me that the job means you have to run the complaints department in Gryph’s place for a Stryx beat. Even if that’s just a few hours, it sounds more like a punishment than a prize.”
“A Stryx beat is a little less than two days on your human calendar,” Libby informed the ambassador. “Carnival is held on the stations every ten thousand beats, roughly once every fifty Earth years.”
“That’s even worse, then,” Kelly replied. “And I understand that the last Carnival Queen, or was it a King, had to flee the station after being accused of ignoring the rules in selecting the winner of some silly contest.”
“It was a five-legged sack race, and the Dollnick Ambassador in question was near the end of his term anyway,” Libby replied. “I really don’t know how these rumors get started.”
“All the same, I’ll just leave the Carnival honors to the ambassador of some species who wants it,” Kelly said. “Besides, I also heard that Gryph allows cheating in the election, so it just goes to whichever species figures out how to rig the ballot.”
“Does the term ‘bad sport’ translate properly into English?” Libby inquired sweetly.
“I’m not sure,” Kelly parried. “Does ‘Bah! Humbug!’ work in Stryx?”
“Very well,” Libby replied, affecting a sniff. “I believe you had a question about the Gem?”
“A group of Gem identifying themselves as the local underground leaders has asked to meet me, and I’m not really comfortable with the idea,” Kelly explained. “I didn’t mention it in my weekly report because I’m never sure about communications security anymore, but I guess the dissident Gem have viewed us as potential allies ever since the double agent stunt that Blythe ran for EarthCent Intelligence. Why don’t they approach the older and more powerful species, or talk directly with the Stryx?”
“The Gem are really something of a special case,” Libby answered thoughtfully. “Gryph has been effectively granting asylum to the fugitive clones who reach the station, which he does by informing the Gem hierarchy that the nonconforming sisters are under our protection. The defectors themselves never approach us to ask for help, no doubt due to their fundamental distrust of authority. I suppose they feel safe with humans precisely because you aren’t powerful.”
“But humanity can’t afford to offend the Gem Empire,” Kelly objected. “I mean, sure, I can get away with turning down their dinner invitations, but all of the species do that.”
“And you’ve been getting complaints about Gem dissidents taking low-paid jobs away from humans?”
“It’s not exactly that,” Kelly mumbled. “They’re causing an imbalance between supply and demand.”
“Please elaborate,” the Stryx librarian prompted the ambassador.
“Well, it’s how they spend their pay,” Kelly griped. “You know that most of the humanoid species on the station can eat Earth fruits. The Frunge are big customers for our wine and liquor imports and the Drazen can eat anything without MSG. But as long as I’ve known the Gem, they’ve been subsisting on that awful all-in-one nutrient drink.”
“Have you ever asked the Gem why they abandoned their ag deck in favor of an artificial drink produced in factories?” Libby inquired.
“I don’t have to ask to know the answer,” Kelly replied. “Ambassador Gem would tell me that the drink is superior to organic foods grown in unsanitary conditions, and that all the other species are jealous of the Empire’s scientific nutrition.”
“Perhaps that’s just the line maintained by the Gem leadership, and you’ll get a different answer if you ask one of the sisters who have defected,” Libby suggested. “So what exactly is the problem you’re having with the way the dissident Gem, or Free Gem as they are calling themselves, have been spending their wages?”
“They’re buying all of our chocolate!” Kelly exploded. “It’s not just me complaining, it’s all the women I know. No sooner does a trader bring in a new shipment, the Free Gem are lined up in the Shuk and at the Chocolate Emporium in the Little Apple to grab it all. And it’s not just the ready-to-eat chocolate they’re buying, it’s the baking ingredients too. I stopped at Hole Universe to get a triple chocolate donut yesterday, and they didn’t even have the single chocolate version. I had to bribe the kid to sell me six chocolate chips wrapped in a napkin from the emergency stash he keeps under the counter. I think I’m going into withdrawal.”
“My, that does sound serious,” Libby responded dryly. “Should I ask Gryph to clap the refugees in irons and turn them over to the Gem military?”
“Never make fun of an addict,” Kelly warned her Stryx friend. “The importers keep upping their orders to Earth, but the Free Gem are multiplying even faster. Do you know how many there are on the station?”
“Unofficially?” Libby asked. “Fewer than ten thousand dissidents at last count, though their numbers are growing at a surprising pace. Ah, you have a visitor,” the station librarian cut herself off mid-discussion.
Kelly rose and stuck her head out of her office just as the outer door to the embassy slid open.
“Dring!” she cried joyfully. “Are you back for good? You have to eat dinner with us tonight, but first come in and see my baby.”
“I am pleased to see you as well,” the chubby little dinosaur responded cheerily. “Metoo and I have left the Kasilians to colonize their new world, and I came to see you as soon as I could. Why is your baby in a cage?”
“It’s not a cage, it’s a playpen,” Kelly explained. “Even at home, we keep Sammy in a playpen if nobody is watching him closely.”
“May I pick him up?”
“Of course. But he’s never seen a Maker before so don’t be surprised if he starts crying.”
Dring reached over the side of the playpen and scooped up Samuel, who clung to the little dinosaur and laughed.
“A born diplomat,” Dring commented. The shape-shifter paused to take a careful inventory of the baby’s parts. “He appears to be complete.”
“It’s polite to say something like, ‘Oh, what a beautiful baby,’” Kelly hinted.
“Well, he does bear a striking resemblance to Joe,” Dring hazarded a compliment. “Was that appropriate?”
“Never mind,” Kelly replied with a sigh. “Wait, you said that Metoo is with you? Does that mean the Kasilians selected a new High Priest? I thought there was going to be a problem with that after Metoo solved all of their
challenge questions.”
“Yes, but in the end, they just went back to their old method of choosing leaders,” Dring replied.
“An election?” Kelly guessed.
“A ruler,” Dring answered. “The tallest Kasilian became the new High Priest. I’ve always meant to ask you if that’s where the word ‘ruler’ comes from in English.”
“No. The two words sound the same and are spelled the same but they come from different roots,” Kelly explained. “I think that makes them homophones rather than just homonyms, but I’d have to check a dictionary or ask Libby.”
“I suppose it’s not surprising,” Dring commented, as he nuzzled the baby with his snout. “I understand that there are still some thousands of languages spoken by humans and I hope you are doing something to preserve them for the future. After a few millennia on the tunnel network, most civilizations end up with a single common tongue for the entire species. It happens surprisingly rapidly.”
“Guh,” Samuel said.
“Is that English, or do babies speak a different language?” Dring inquired.
“It’s just baby talk, but he can say ‘Mama’ when he wants to. Say ‘Mama’ for Uncle Dring, Sammy,” Kelly prompted the baby.
“Guh,” Samuel responded happily.
“Speaking of Gryph, he brought us up-to-date on current events during the docking approach,” Dring continued. “I’m pleased that we’re back in time for Carnival and I’m planning on entering the art competition if I can find an unaffiliated slot. I hope I can count on your support.”
“I think you do beautiful work, Dring. You shouldn’t be shy about displaying it,” Kelly encouraged him.
“I’m not shy,” Dring replied. “I would like to win the first prize if I enter, and if you are elected Carnival Queen, you automatically qualify for all of the judging panels and are given a double vote. It’s my first opportunity to compete in Carnival and I want to make a good impression.”
“But I don’t want to be queen of anything,” Kelly protested. “And I’m surprised you would even think about winning that way.”
“We’re talking about art,” Dring responded in bewilderment. “It’s not like a pie-eating contest or the prize for whoever grows the biggest Rinty bubble. Even within a single culture, judging art is highly subjective. Galactic art contests are really a referendum on the artist.”
“One should always play fairly when one has the winning cards,” Kelly quoted at Dring, knowing him to be a fan of Oscar Wilde. Just saying the line evoked a memory of how much she had missed their book discussions back when she was out on maternity leave and reread several of her old favorites. “But like I told you, I’m not running for anything. Libby just asked me to submit a hologram for the candidate promotions and I declined.”
“While I’ve never been able to participate in a Carnival, I have studied the history and traditions,” Dring told her, handing over the now squirming baby. “I believe the candidate pool is restricted to the top representative of each species with a diplomatic presence on the station. An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth.”
“Elizabeth?” Kelly repeated. “Oh, wait. You’re quoting, wait, I’m out of practice at this, give me a second, uh, Pride and Prejudice!”
“Two points,” Dring acknowledged. “But in truth, I don’t think you can opt out of this.”
“Libby?” Kelly asked. “Can you explain to Dring that I’m not running?”
“Welcome back, Dring,” Libby greeted the Maker. “I hope that your time with the Kasilians was enjoyable, and I want to thank you in my capacity as Metoo’s schoolmaster for keeping an eye on him during his reign.”
“You’re very welcome, Libby,” Dring replied. “I know that Metoo is looking forward to returning to school and his human friends.”
“Tell Dring that I’m not participating in the election campaign,” Kelly interrupted impatiently, seeing nothing but pitfalls ahead if she found herself compelled to become a candidate.
“The ambassador is not participating in the election campaign,” Libby confirmed. Kelly relaxed and shot Dring a triumphant look.
“Is she a candidate?” Dring asked.
“Of course,” Libby replied. “Candidacy is implicit with the assumption of an ambassadorship or equivalent post on Stryx stations, and it’s also spelled out in black and white in the End User License Agreement for diplomatic implants.”
“Hold on a minute!” Kelly protested. “You’re saying that even if I boycott the election process, I can be declared Carnival Queen against my will? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought you were just being modest,” Libby replied. “I picked out a nice hologram from our archives to submit for you. Do you remember your speech at the ice harvesting treaty conference?”
“Oh, no,” Kelly groaned, giving in to the inevitable. The details of the treaty conference were a bit hazy in her memory, but she seemed to recall crying on the podium. “Is it too late to pick my own hologram?”
“I already submitted my choice to the official Carnival committee, but if we act quickly, I suppose I could slip a new one in its place without anybody noticing,” Libby answered. “Just stand up straight and I’ll use the station security system to create a hologram right now.”
Kelly obeyed reflexively, standing upright with Samuel cradled in her arms, looking straight ahead since she didn’t have a clue where the security cameras were located. It was more likely that Libby was utilizing sensors that employed technology unimaginable to humans and could record holograms of biologicals anywhere on the station.
“Done,” Libby said. “Don’t be surprised when you find that your candidacy draws unified support from the humans on the station. The species of the winning ambassador gets a one-cycle rent waiver from the station manager.”
“So my own constituents would have lynched me if I refused to run!” Now that she understood the consequences, Kelly didn’t know if she was angry or relieved that her candidacy had become official. “If you’re saying I’m the best hope for hundreds of thousands of humans to save a cycle’s rent, I’ll do my best, but don’t expect me to spend my own money campaigning.”
“Is that why you were so hesitant to step forward?” Dring asked. “Every station resident is allowed to vote for as many candidates as they choose, so elections are heavily influenced by inter-species vote-swapping pacts rather than direct campaigning.”
“Well, that sounds positive, anyway,” Kelly responded. She began one-handedly stuffing things she wanted to bring home for the weekend into her bag. “I’m in favor of anything that fosters cooperation among species, but didn’t I also hear that it’s traditionally acceptable for anybody who can figure out how to rig the ballot to do so?”
“I glanced over the statistics for the last ten thousand Carnivals on the station, and it does seem suspicious that the Verlocks win nearly a quarter of the time,” Dring admitted.
“The Verlocks barely socialized with the other aliens until they started pushing that stupid game on everybody,” Kelly exclaimed. “It doesn’t seem likely that they would have been the best at arranging vote-swapping pacts all those years.”
“No, but they are very good at math and polling algorithms,” Libby commented. “Before each Carnival, the species get together to decide on a voting technology because we don’t get involved in counting votes. Last time around, they settled on tamper-proof mechanical polling machines supplied by the Dollnicks. You’ve already missed the staging meetings for this Carnival, but I can tell you that the current Dollnick proposal was soundly rejected.”
“Why didn’t you warn me about this earlier?”
“I tried on several occasions, but you covered your ears and sang, ‘La-la, la-la-la,’” Libby reminded her.
“Oh, right,” Kelly admitted guiltily. “I was, uh, probably singing a lullaby to Samuel.”
“With your ears covered?” Libby asked skeptically.
“Come on, Dring,” Kelly said, deciding that
retreat was in order. “Aisha always makes a vegetarian dinner on Friday, so maybe we can get you to eat something other than raw celery and carrots for a change.”
Two
The ad hoc EarthCent Election Committee met in the Shuk at Baked Beans, the coffee shop favored by vendors after a long day’s work. Aisha attended in place of Kelly, who used the baby as an excuse to beg off from an after-hours meeting she really didn’t want to attend. The acting junior consul drafted her husband into coming along, purportedly for his deep knowledge of inter-species competitive gaming, but mainly because she was worried that everybody else would be at least twice her age.
Peter Hadad, the proprietor of Kitchen Kitsch, rose to his feet after the committee members finished their coffees and small talk. A smile twitched around the corners of his mouth as he struggled with the idea of himself as a committee chair.
“Ambassador McAllister has asked me to head this committee and I consider it an honor to serve,” he began. “We’ve already missed most of the pre-Carnival coordination meetings with the other species, so our main task will be to encourage human participation in the various events.”
“And to get the ambassador elected Carnival Queen,” asserted Ian Ainsley, the current president of the Little Apple merchants group. “We all know that Gryph waived your rent for a couple of years in return for your girls helping with that auction, but speaking for the Little Apple merchants, a cycle of free rent would go a long way.”
“Fair enough,” Peter acknowledged. “I would also like to see the ambassador elected, but I’ve been doing some research with the help of the Stryx librarian, and it seems that in foregoing the pre-Carnival planning we also missed the forum in which most of the inter-species vote-swapping takes place.”
“I’ve talked the situation over with a historian, well, with Dring, and it appears that most Carnival elections are won through voting fraud of one type or another,” Paul contributed helpfully. “Given the late date, the ambassador’s limited enthusiasm for campaigning, and the lack of election rules, I suggest we focus on cheating.”
