by E. M. Foner
“And since then, you’ve all just been muddling through and the aliens leave you alone?” Woojin asked.
“I guess they all have somewhere better to be,” Sylvester replied. “Only ones who aren’t bothered by the quakes are the Verlocks. Had a nice couple staying over yon for a while, but they got tired of waiting for volcanic activity that never happened and packed it in. I think they felt cheated by a planetary crust that just shifts around all the time without ever springing a leak.”
“How come we couldn’t find any records of humans leaving this place?” Clive asked. “No offence intended, but I imagine it’s not for everybody.”
“Original settlers all came on a drop-and-go,” Sylvester said. “Other than the founder, we’re talking poor people, nobody could afford their own ships. The Frunge brought everybody out in one go and left. By the time that the independent traders heard there were folks living here who might have something worth bartering for, a generation had gone by, and the folks who weren’t going to make it, well, they didn’t.”
“And other than a few traders and rich people dumping old horses, nobody comes around here?” Paul asked.
“Tell him about the bunnies, Pa,” Brian said gleefully.
“Well, we did have some excitement last year when a crew of Grenouthians showed up to do a documentary,” Sylvester said with a grin. “Thing is, those bunnies are about the most skittish aliens I ever did see. Turns out, in addition to the little quakes and the big quakes, we have micro-quakes going on almost continually. Those bunnies couldn’t spend more than an hour or two at a time on the planet before their nerves were so exhausted they had to get back up to orbit and rest. In the end, they left some camera equipment behind and paid a few people to do some shooting for them when anything interesting happened. I guess they’ll be back to pick it up sometime, those immersive cameras aren’t cheap.”
“And the one Gem ship you mentioned is all you’ve heard about the clones here?” Clive asked.
“I didn’t say that,” the man protested. “I guess I’ve heard stories about other Gem crews landing on Kibbutz, scrapping their ships and trying to make a go of it as farmers. But it’s not like we have a news network here, it’s all just people passing along what they hear. Maybe there are hundreds of Gem on the planet, or maybe there’s just the ones we met, and the story has gone through so many mouths that it sounds like a hundred different landings.”
Jeeves returned from his outing and hovered in the air in front of the humans. There were some fresh-looking scratches on his usually immaculate metal skin, and he held a bit of glowing rock in his pincer.
“I had a look underground, fascinating planet. I was suspicious that it didn’t show up as being anything special in our index, but we haven’t had a science ship out this way in millions of years,” the Stryx commented. “The evolution of the tectonic plate mechanics on this world may be unique, but the current situation appears to be stable, if I can use that word to describe regular instability.”
“Is your robot friend smoking loco-weed?” the farmer asked.
“It’s worth scheduling another visit from a science ship in any case,” Jeeves continued, ignoring the man. “In the meantime, there will be a quake in fifty-seven minutes that has a good chance of knocking over the Nova.”
“I don’t want anybody to accuse me of being rabbit-hearted, but maybe it would be a good thing to lift off before then,” Paul suggested.
“I think that Mr. Albrechtsson has told us everything we need to know for now,” Woojin added. “Especially if the Stryx are going to be sending a science ship in any case.”
“Don’t forget to tell them about us,” Brian said hopefully. “We love having visitors.”
“Any chance of getting that meal to go?” Clive inquired.
Eleven
All of the station diplomats who could stand the atmosphere gathered in the off-world betting parlor to watch the election results. Kelly had intended to stay home, but Joe insisted that it was a once in a lifetime chance to see how a Carnival election worked, and besides, he had already promised Dorothy.
After they arrived at the cavernous gambling theatre that put the largest room of the convention center to shame, Kelly had to admit that she was glad they came. The air was electric, and not because there were a few trios of ungrounded Fillinducks in the crowd. An immense display wall that might have been composed of thousands of individual panels was showing random panoramic scenes from around the galaxy when they entered, probably the screensaver that came with the tote board service. The other walls of the theatre were lined with ticket windows, which were closed for the election.
“Are all those windows for taking bets?” Kelly asked Joe in wonder. “Why wouldn’t they just do everything over implants?”
“Gambling is run by a business consortium, not the Stryx,” Joe explained. “Would you want to give a bunch of alien bookmakers direct access to your credit accounts? And there’s a reason for funneling the bets through a manual operation to slow down the tempo, it gives the odds a chance to adjust. Besides, without the queue at the betting windows, there wouldn’t be much to do between the races.”
“And you get to talk code to Tharks wearing funny green hats,” Dorothy told her mother. “Gimme five on the nose for the number three in the fourth at Belmont!”
“Mommy doesn’t want to hear about talking code,” Joe said hastily. He looked away to avoid Kelly’s eyes and pointed through the crowd. “Hey, look! Bork and his family are coming over.”
“You’ve been here before, precious?” Kelly asked her daughter, bending down to hear her better in the noisy crowd.
“Daddy brings me sometimes on Saturdays, when you and Sammy declare a couch afternoon and fall asleep,” Dorothy replied innocently. Kelly unconsciously checked for the baby sling she usually wore against her chest when out, but Samuel was home with Aisha, and was outgrowing the sling in any case.
“Did Daddy tell you to keep your betting on ponies a secret?” Kelly asked, but Dorothy’s reply was drowned out by a cheer, as the screensaver was replaced by a large oval track, a common denominator in the racing events of many species. A hundred or more images were clumped together in a sort of a collage behind what appeared to be the starting gate.
“There you are, Kel,” Joe yelled over the crowd noise, happy to put an end to his wife’s investigation into underage gambling.
Kelly followed Joe’s pointed finger to where she spotted the campaign image Libby had made of her and the baby, amongst the collection of alien faces. “Are you kidding me? Are they really going to do what I think they’re going to do?”
A loud bell sounded and the images began to move, bobbing up and down as they went. An excited voice declared over the public address system, “And they’re off!”
“Just out of the gate with ten percent of species reporting, it’s the Verlock in the lead with ninety-three percent of votes cast, followed by the Horten with ninety percent, and the Vergallian with eighty-eight percent. Bringing up the rear is the Human with four percent.”
“This is humiliating,” Kelly shouted in Joe’s ear.
“But I thought you wanted to lose,” he yelled back.
“Not with four percent!”
“Run, Mommy!” Dorothy screamed in excitement.
“Going into the first turn with twenty percent of species tallied, it’s the Verlock with ninety-four percent, the Vergallian with ninety-two percent and the Horten with ninety-two percent. Breaking out of the pack is the Frunge with ninety percent and bringing up the rear is the Human.”
“He didn’t even give my percentage!” Kelly protested.
“It shows there under your picture,” Joe shouted back. “See, you’re up to three percent.”
“But I had four percent last time!”
“Oops.”
“Coming out of the first turn, it’s still the Verlock with ninety-four percent of the vote. The Horten is nipping at his heels with ninety-three percent, a
nd the Vergallian is steady at ninety-two percent. The Frunge continues to make a move, drawing into a tie for third.”
“At least he didn’t mention me this time,” Kelly grunted in relief.
“And bringing up the rear, the Human,” the announcer corrected himself.
“It’s not going well for me either,” a voice shouted in commiseration. Kelly looked down from the display wall to see that Bork, along with his wife and daughter, had found them. “I saw the Thark announcer with their ambassador earlier. They were licking soap together so don’t expect a clean call.”
“At least you’re in the middle of the pack,” Kelly pointed out. Bork’s bobbing image was surrounded by a group of sixty or more average performers. The rest of the ambassadors were strung out along the track, but the human ambassador seemed to be stuck in place not far from the starting gate.
“Early election returns don’t mean anything,” Bork’s wife comforted Kelly.
“Run, Mommy! Run faster!”
“Coming out of the second turn, with forty percent of species reporting, it’s the Verlock with ninety-five percent, the Horten with ninety-three percent, and the Vergallian and Frunge still neck-and-neck at ninety-two percent,” the announcer called. “Trailing the pack with four percent is the Human.”
“You’re back up to four cents, Mommy,” Dorothy yelled at her mother excitedly. “Keep trying!”
“How does the percentage keep on going up for the leaders? The math doesn’t make sense!” Kelly shouted to Bork.
“They’re cheating,” Bork yelled back.
“Coming down the backstretch, with fifty percent of species reporting, it’s the Verlock with ninety-seven percent, the Horten with ninety-five percent, and the Vergallian with ninety-four percent. The Frunge is fading at ninety-one percent.”
“Don’t say anything about the human, don’t say anything about the human, don’t say anything about the human,” Kelly begged out loud. She was beginning to wonder if the images of the leading aliens would slow down when they crossed the finish line, or if they would run past and plow her image into the dirt.
“Approaching the third turn, with sixty percent of votes tallied, it’s the Verlock with ninety-eight percent, the Horten at ninety-six percent and the Vergallian coming on strong at ninety-five percent. The Frunge continues to fade back into the pack, making this a three-candidate race.”
“Uh, Joe? Where did my horse, I mean, my picture go?”
“Maybe they’re clearing the track so the leaders don’t run you over when they come around,” Joe shouted back.
“No, look! You just popped up alongside Bork!” Shinka yelled.
“What?”
“Coming out of the third turn, it’s the Verlock holding steady at ninety-eight percent of the vote, the Horten right behind at ninety-seven percent, and the Vergallian at ninety-six percent. Bringing up the rear is the Chert at fifty-four percent. Invisibility has its drawbacks,” the Thark announcer added.
“That can’t be right, it shows I’m at seventy percent now!” Kelly exclaimed. “How could I go from four percent to seventy percent on just ten percent of the vote?”
“Maybe they finally counted the human ballots?” Joe replied, though he knew the math didn’t work even before he said it.
“I don’t like this!”
“Run, Mommy!”
“Going into the final turn, with eighty percent of species reporting, it’s the Verlock with ninety-nine percent, the Horten drawing into a tie at ninety-nine percent, and the Vergallian at ninety-eight percent. Uh, coming up on the outside is the Human at eighty-seven percent. That doesn’t seem possible,” the announcer finished on an uncertain note.
“What’s happening, Joe?” Kelly shook her husband’s shoulder.
“How should I know? I’m not doing anything.”
“Isn’t that the wall hanging from your living room floating in the corner?” Bork’s wife asked, pointing towards the right of the giant display.
“Joe, isn’t that the wall hanging from our living room?” Kelly repeated hysterically.
“Coming out of the final turn, with ninety percent of species reporting, it’s the Verlock back in the lead with ninety-nine point eight percent of the vote, the Horten is now tied with the Vergallian at ninety-nine percent of the vote, and the Human is making a charge with ninety-six percent of the vote. This looks like one for the ages,” the Thark concluded excitedly.
“Why is my fake medieval tapestry draped over something floating in the corner?” Kelly demanded.
“It’s Metoo!” Dorothy shouted proudly. “I asked him to help. He said he had to be really close and that nobody could see him, so we used camouflage. I learned about it in our spy school!”
“Oh, Dorothy,” Kelly moaned, putting her hands over her eyes.
“Why don’t you have any immature Stryx friends?” Bork demanded of his daughter.
“Crossing the finish line with one hundred percent of species reporting, it’s the Human, with one hundred and seven percent of the vote. Second place, who cares? Our new Carnival King is Ambassador Kelly McAllister of—what? How should I know, they all look alike to me. Your new Carnival Queen, Kelly McAllister.”
The crowd roared their approval or disapproval, it was impossible to tell from the roar, and Kelly hid her head behind Joe’s back. Her implant chimed in an unfamiliar manner.
“Hello?” Kelly subvoced cautiously.
“Congratulations, Ambassador,” Gryph spoke inside her head. “This is your official victory notification. I’ll be routing all of the carnival complaints your way for the next two days, but don’t worry, the really mean stuff gets filtered out first. Libby said to apologize for not stopping Metoo. He admits that Dorothy talked him into rigging the vote in return for the help you gave him on Kasil, and he thought that repaying his debt was more important than our general prohibition against interfering with elections. He promised not to do it again.”
“What difference does it make if he does it again?” Kelly replied mournfully. “I’ll be almost a hundred at the next Carnival, assuming the aliens don’t chase me off the station like the last winner.”
“That was a special case,” Gryph reassured her. “The situation was complicated.”
“I imagine a five-legged sack race is always complicated!” Kelly retorted. “And what could be worse than winning with over a hundred percent of the vote? Everybody is going to know we cheated.”
“If anybody is angry, it’s only because Metoo cheated better than they did,” Libby chimed in. “Have you decided on what to wear for the parade?”
“Parade? I don’t want to be in a parade!” Kelly practically wailed, still in shock from winning.
“Be a good sport, Ambassador,” Libby encouraged her. “I’m sure your daughter will enjoy riding on the float as the Carnival Princess.”
Dorothy tugged excitedly at Kelly’s arm, as if she could hear the conversation taking place in her mother’s head. “I’m a REAL princess now,” she said. “Can my friend Mist be a princess too?”
“Your tapestry just slunk out the back door, Kel,” Joe reported. “If I had known this was an option, I would have brought the little guy to the races with Dorothy.”
“Do I really have to be in a parade?” Kelly asked Bork, assuming the Drazen ambassador would be well informed on the subject.
“Just on one of your own decks,” Bork reassured her. “Your committee probably planned it for the Little Apple. It’s really just for your own people and maybe a few tourists. The other station residents will be home filing complaints.”
“My committee wasn’t planning on my winning,” Kelly protested.
“Well, you still have to have a parade,” Bork replied. “It’s in the contract. Listen, when your merchants find out that you’ve won them free rent for a cycle, they’ll line up in front of their shops and throw candy. All you need is a float and it’s a parade.”
“When does the parade have to be held?” Joe asked,
with his usual focus on practical considerations.
“Within a Stryx beat, something like forty-four hours,” Bork replied. “Listen, if you’re really hard up, you can borrow the Drazen float from our last Festival of the Axe. It’s a little on the martial side, but at least it’s self-propelled so you won’t need lines of actors costumed as slaves pulling on ropes, like the Vergallians.”
“We’ll take it,” Joe said, knowing a thing or two about parades from his days of guarding royal households.
“I’m going to be the Axe Princess!” Dorothy cried gleefully.
Twelve
After their abortive mission to Kibbutz, the EarthCent Intelligence delegation returned to the Effterii and made directly for Bits. This time even Clive, who was used to the Effterii jumps, felt more than a little disoriented when they popped into space above the small, dense world.
“Excellent detection grid for humans, but they won’t spot the Effterii,” Jeeves remarked. “Small spaceport next to the main atmospheric dome, nothing parked at the moment. Planet shows extremely high levels of electronic signals traffic, it’s surprising they can sort out who is talking to whom. My, what very long addresses they are using.”
“Have you spotted any weapons systems?” Clive asked, rubbing his temples in an attempt to clear his brain of the feeling that it had been placed backwards in his head.
“Interesting collection of stuff, I would say that it’s all war surplus gear bought through piracy channels,” Jeeves reported. “Do you see anything interesting, my Effterii friend?”
The ship, which rarely spoke unless addressed first, took its time in replying.
“I detect a large collection of dysfunctional weaponry in the main dome, perhaps some sort of repair facility. But the variety is unusual and includes some hardware I can’t identify, despite my recent update from the Union Station library.”
“Could it be a museum?” Woojin asked. He was beginning to suffer from a twinge of seller’s regret for letting go of his antique firearms collection.
“Impressive guess,” Jeeves said, sounding more respectful than usual. “I don’t have the resolution of the Effterii from this distance, but I can confirm that the majority of the weapons in the main collection we are discussing have been damaged or discharged, probably gathered as a sort of a display.”
