by E. M. Foner
“Caber toss is a long way from becoming an official event,” Hadad reminded him. “There’s less than a month left before the election, and only five of the elective events on the ballot will be included in Carnival.”
“How are we ever going to choose from so many people?” Aisha asked, emerging from the converted ice harvester to join the other committee members. “And we’re supposed to see all of these contestants perform this weekend?”
“Don’t worry,” the committee chair reassured her. “Most, if not all of these people, are here on a lark. We’ll only need a couple of minutes to sift them out. It’s only in the final rounds that it’ll get difficult.”
“And we don’t have a choice,” Stanley added. “That’s the way it is with all competitive events. Deadlines and rules.”
“Paul seems to be working through the line pretty quick,” Aisha commented. Her husband had the whole process down to asking, ‘Name and Event?’ and if anybody tried to engage him in conversation, he turned to the next person and continued.
“He’s had plenty of tournament experience,” Stanley reminded her, surveying the crowd with a practiced eye. “I’ll bet there are just over two hundred people here, and the newcomers are slowing to a trickle. Shall we get started?”
“Got a stepladder I can borrow, Joe?” Peter asked.
“One stepladder coming up,” Joe replied. As he strolled around the back of the ice harvester to retrieve the small aluminum ladder, it reminded him of how he used to send Beowulf for parts and tools. He missed the giant hound more than he let on, but he was resisting Kelly’s suggestion to adopt a replacement.
By the time Joe returned with the ladder, it was just after 8:00 AM and Paul had already finished logging all of the applicants. It turned out that everybody had arrived early, one of the advantages to living on a space station with smart lift tubes that could always figure out where you were trying to go. Hadad, who was no taller than his daughters, climbed up a couple of steps before he started talking.
“Welcome to the first day of the trials to represent humanity in the coming Carnival,” Peter began in a penetrating voice that left no doubt as to where Shaina and Brinda had learned their trade. “I am Peter Hadad from Kitchen Kitsch on the Shuk deck, and I was appointed by Ambassador McAllister to head the EarthCent Carnival Committee. I’m sure you’re all aware that this is a last-minute endeavor on our part. This is the first Carnival to take place since humans took up residence on the station and nobody was aware of the requirements.”
“Why not?” called a clown from the crowd. He had an immense ball of orange hair that nearly doubled his height, and he punctuated his question by squeezing the black rubber bladder on a tin horn that made a noise like an old-fashioned cartoon. “It’s why we pay taxes to EarthCent!”
“Nobody pays taxes to EarthCent,” Hadad called back.
“I know, it’s part of my shtick. Witty banter, get it?” the clown replied. “It’s not just about running around in floppy shoes and honking the horn, you know.” He added a honk for emphasis.
“Hey, wait your turn,” a woman with a bulbous white nose cried in response. Then she turned a standing somersault and gave a triumphant honk on her own horn.
“Please people, we have a lot of auditions to go through today. What’s the number, Paul?”
“Two-oh-nine,” Paul replied. “That includes eleven clowns, by the way.”
“How many caber throwers?” Ian asked behind his hand.
Paul pointed back at Ian in response.
“We’re going to start by dividing you up into five groups, and we’ll see if you can reach a consensus amongst yourselves on who should represent the human community before we start judging,” Peter continued. “That’s five groups so there can be a committee member with each group to try to move things along. How do the numbers work out for groups, Paul?”
“Let’s put the artists together in one group, that will be the biggest. Beauty contestants, best costume and clowns will be the second biggest. Cooking, knife-throwing, tumbling and juggling will be third. Singing, poetry and dancing fourth, and barter can be its own group.”
“Alright,” Hadad called down from the ladder. “Everybody got that? Barter stays here with me. Singing, dancing and poetry, please follow the acting junior consul, Aisha McAllister. Aisha, take them over near the entrance. Beauty contestants, best costume and clowns are with Stanley. Sorry, Stan. Cooking, knife-throwing, tumbling and juggling with Mr. Ainsley, who runs Pub Haggis in the Little Apple. And that leaves the artists with young McAllister. Good luck, Paul. Let’s all take an hour and see if we can at least settle on the top prospects before going to formal auditions.”
The assembled humans didn’t sound happy, but they separated into groups and followed their respective committee member to different areas of Mac’s Bones to begin the winnowing process.
By the time Kelly came outside with Samuel, the only people near the ice harvester were the bickering group of barterers.
“I say that independent traders are the most qualified,” insisted a man dressed in a hooded cloak that Kelly would have associated with a fairytale wizard. “We have the most experience bartering with aliens under difficult circumstances.”
“But you’re used to having unique goods, and customers who can’t comparison shop,” protested a gadget vendor from the Shuk. “I’m surrounded by competition shouting out a lower price all day long, so everybody I barter with already knows where to start.”
“That’s exactly why neither of you are qualified,” objected a gaudily dressed woman. “You’re both used to bartering your own merchandise, so you always know the secret half of the equation. I always buy with cash, so I’m used to being at a disadvantage.”
“Isn’t buying with cash haggling rather than bartering?” Kelly interrupted.
“Thank you, Mrs. Ambassador,” Peter said. “Judgment has been rendered. Anybody whose experience is based on cash purchases is now disqualified from the bartering auditions.”
There was a collective groan, and a number of nasty looks thrown in Kelly’s direction, but over half of the group began packing up their things and moving to the exit. Hadad waited for them all to get underway before continuing.
“Now look,” he told the remaining people. “Some of you I’ve bartered with in the course of business, others I know by sight. I’ve told the rest of you about my own background, and after thirty years in the business, I think I know a great barter-hand when I meet one. I’m betting on Mr. Clavitts, so let’s give him a few minutes to talk about his experiences, and then if any of you want to challenge him, we’ll work out a contest. Mr. Clavitts?”
A nondescript man in shabby coveralls and a flat cap separated himself from the group and turned to face them, like a reluctant student summoned to the front of the class to make a presentation. He looked embarrassed over being chosen as the stalking horse, and immediately set about trying to ease the mood of his rivals.
“Look here,” Clavitts said. “It doesn’t seem fair that Mr. Hadad is giving me the pole position in these trials based on his instincts, so I’m willing to compensate you all for hearing me out. Say, coffees all around?”
A dozen would-be champion barterers grumbled, one or two adding something about cream and sugar, but it was just about that time of the morning on the human clock, and his offer had struck a nerve.
“Alright then, let’s talk about coffee shops,” he continued. “Myself, I’ve always been a big fan of the home-brewed taste because it reminds me of the many ceremonial cups I’ve shared with elders on various outposts after a long day of trading. But maybe some of you prefer those new-fangled coffee drinks they make in the Little Apple.”
“I prefer mine today rather than talking about it,” grumbled the gadget vendor from the Shuk who had spoken earlier.
“Exactly,” Clavitts replied. “So rather than sending out and waiting around, perhaps I can persuade the lovely lady with the beautiful baby to allow me ac
cess to their novel home so I can brew all of you a cup.”
“Who, me?” Kelly asked in surprise, having been on the verge of strolling off to see how Aisha was doing with her group.
“I don’t see any other beautiful babies here,” Clavitts responded. “But if you don’t have a large enough coffee urn, I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“We have all sorts of coffee makers,” Kelly replied without thinking. “We’re used to hosting large groups. But the house is in a bit of a mess, so perhaps you better let me brew the coffee.”
“Well, now I feel bad that I even brought it up,” Clavitts said apologetically. “I insist that you let me compensate you for your trouble, doesn’t everybody agree?”
Peter watched in amusement as the remaining candidates joined in backing up their rival, who rooted around the pockets of his coveralls and came up with a programmable Stryx cred.
“Here,” Clavitts said, extending it towards Kelly. “Please debit it for, shall we say, fifty creds, and I won’t feel so bad about interrupting your morning.”
“I don’t have a mini-register,” Kelly protested, pushing the coin away. “Besides, it’s my pleasure. Now that I think of it, we should really put out refreshments for all of the candidates.”
“Isn’t she a good sport?” Clavitts asked, turning back to the group. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I think the least we can do is take up a collection.” He removed his flat cap and tossed it to the cloaked trader. The man caught it grudgingly, dug in his pocket for some loose creds, dropped them in the cap and passed it along.
“Please, don’t worry about the money,” Kelly protested, but the hat was quickly making the rounds, getting heavier and producing more clinks as it went.
“Wait a minute,” said the surly gadget vendor when the hat returned to Clavitts. “I see what’s going on here, but this is salesmanship, not bartering.”
“Life is long and full of salesmanship,” Kelly offered helpfully, though she wasn’t sure if it was from a book or an old movie. She’d gotten back into the habit of swapping quotes with Dring after his long absence, and now she was finding it hard to keep them out of her everyday conversations.
“Thank you, Kelly,” Peter said. “Did the rest of you think that bartering is just a matter of trading items back and forth until somebody runs out? Of course it involves salesmanship, and I believe that present company included, Mr. Clavitts represents our best chance. Are there really any objections?”
A few of the bartering candidates grumbled under their breath, but nobody else was holding a hat full of money.
Five
“Welcome to Union Station, Wooj,” Joe greeted his old commander as the man stepped through the arrivals gate. “Traveling light, I see.”
“Hey, Joe. Your robot pal and a couple young ladies sold all of my baggage for me a few weeks back,” Woojin replied readily. “When I realized it was time to call it quits, I decided that living with a collection of antique weapons wasn’t going to help me move on. Got a better price than I expected, and now I’m on the market for a ship.”
“I have some people you might want to talk to before you make that decision,” Joe said. “Not to be pushy, but if you’re feeling hungry, we could go meet them right now. I’m stag tonight because Kelly is at some sort of election committee meeting, and she took the kids along as an excuse to leave early.”
“Free food sounds fine by me,” Woojin replied with a laugh, and he fell in comfortably next to Joe as they started for the nearest lift tube. “Funny, the things about civilian life that take you by surprise. I still haven’t gotten used to the fact that I’m expected to pay for three meals a day. And what’s your wife running for this time? I thought that Ambassador was pretty much the top job slot these days.”
“Carnival Queen,” Joe explained, not bothering to hide his amusement with Kelly’s candidacy. “She doesn’t want the job but it’s not really her call, came with the territory. Burgers and beers work for you?”
“Menu’s fine, but I hope the choice doesn’t reflect the budget of the outfit trying to recruit me.”
“Naw, money’s no problem. I just pinged them to say we’re on our way. The menu is because we’re mainly vegetarian at home these days, since Paul’s wife does most of the cooking. I still flip burgers for a picnic, but other than that, I have to fit them in when I can.”
“So the kid is married.” Woojin shook his head in mock disbelief. “You ever think about how your life might have been different if you had never heard a mercenary recruitment pitch?”
“My wife doesn’t let me,” Joe replied as they stepped into the tube lift. “Burger Bar.”
The lift began its run from the docking deck on the inner core up to the Little Apple, and Woojin let his rucksack slip to the floor. A couple years younger than Joe, he was one of the last officers to graduate the national military college of the old South Korean Republic back on Earth, and he was too disciplined a soldier to let his curiosity about the dinner meeting show. Instead, he asked about Joe’s children, and the proud father carried the conversation until they exited the tube lift and made their way to the pub.
“Are you starting up a new mercenary outfit?” Woojin asked Clive after one glance at the head of EarthCent Intelligence. “No offense, but I’m through with fighting for a paycheck and I don’t want to accept your food under false pretences.”
“Nothing like that,” Clive responded, and introduced himself. “We’ve got one more coming, but I ordered a pitcher when I got here so we should have—ope, here it comes now.”
The waitress placed the tray with a pitcher of beer and four pilsner glasses on their table. She made a show of using her index finger to count the glasses and then counted the men. “Would you like to order now, or will you wait for your fourth?”
“I’m here,” Lynx announced. Immediately on arrival, she pulled over one of the tall stools and clambered up. “I’ll have a burger and fries, medium. And I’m Lynx Edgehouse,” she added, extending a hand to Woojin.
“Pyun Woojin. Burger and fries, rare on the burger.”
The waitress looked at Joe, who simply nodded. He had been ordering the same thing for the last ten years. Clive showed his independent streak by ordering a chef’s salad with steak tips, the fries on the side. Joe expertly emptied the pitcher into the four glasses and offered the toast.
“To somewhere else.”
“What kind of toast is that?” Lynx demanded, after the three men clicked their glasses and tilted back their beers.
“Traditional mercenary,” Woojin explained concisely.
“Oh,” Lynx acknowledged, and belatedly raised her glass. “Somewhere else!”
“Every time I accompany Kelly to an alien embassy for dinner, they tell us to eat first and talk business afterwards,” Joe said. “But I’ve always found it easier to relax and eat after the business is done. Woojin catches on as quick as anybody you’re likely to meet this side of humanity, so I’ll just clue him in if nobody minds.”
“No objections here,” Clive said. Lynx and Woojin looked at each other and shrugged, and Joe continued.
“Clive here is the head of the new EarthCent Intelligence service, and Lynx, in addition to being one of their first agents, is third in the pecking order, along with filling in as EarthCent’s cultural attaché on Union Station,” Joe said bluntly. “We’re running a casual training camp for spies in Mac’s Bones, my old junkyard hold, and I’m working part-time as an instructor.”
“You got a holo presentation to go along with this?” Woojin asked in jest. Nobody took the bait. “Alright, I’ve heard some things about your new agency and I gather secrecy isn’t one of your strong points. Where do you see me fitting in?”
“It’s going to sound a little funny, but we’ve been ignoring military skills in our agent recruitment so far,” Clive said, taking over from Joe. “Most of our hires are back office analysts or amateur alien anthropologists who we’re supplying to the stati
ons as cultural attachés. We’re teaching them all a little tradecraft so they’ll know what to do and who to call if something important comes up, but a lot of our work has really been extending the EarthCent infrastructure beyond what the Stryx were willing to fund.”
“And you want to militarize the agency?” Woojin asked skeptically.
“Not the agency, just a contingency team,” Clive explained. “We haven’t even decided whether we want snake-eaters on staff or just somebody who can hire them as needed. I don’t have the time, Joe doesn’t have the inclination, and nobody else has the experience.”
“And when it comes to contingency planning, neither of us are at your level in any case,” Joe added.
Woojin sipped his beer and looked towards the kitchen. “Can I think about it for a few days, or is this one of those take-it-or-leave-it deals?”
“You can have a whole month if you want,” Clive replied easily. “We don’t have any fires that need putting out, at least not that we’re aware of. It’s just something we’d been talking about, and then you became available.”
“It’s the first job I ever had with benefits,” Lynx chipped in. “Come to think of it, it’s the first job I ever heard of with benefits.”
“You mean like, retirement?” Woojin asked incredulously. Lynx nodded, causing the middle-aged soldier to nudge Joe and grin like a boy. “Did you hear that, Joe? And you can vouch for these people’s finances?”
“As long as there’s a need for babysitters,” his friend responded cryptically.
“Actually, the retirement fund is managed by the Stryx,” Lynx told them. “I asked once, and they put it all into station real estate, which has been the safest investment in the galaxy for the last fifty or sixty million years.”
“Two rare, one medium, and one chef’s salad with steak tips,” the waitress announced, smoothly moving plates from the floating tray onto their table. “I put all the fries in one basket to save room, so just give me a shout if you run low. Should I refill this?” she asked, taking the empty pitcher
