by Mark Wandrey
“They’re more like balloons than airliners on Earth,” Doc said. “You don’t tell a Behemoth where to go, you just climb on and enjoy the ride.”
Also on the first deck was a sizeable dining galley for passengers. You needed an inside ticket to access it. There was a sizeable store where you could buy supplies for your ship as well as passengers, while one more handled booking to extend a trip or arrange future ones. Outside the office was a Tri-V of the galaxy showing hundreds of sparkling yellow dots connected by a vast web of green traces.
“I wonder what it’s for?” Terry wondered.
“Those are all our clans ships,” a Maki who was standing nearby answered. They all turned to look at the alien.
“That’s a lot of ships,” his mom said. Terry nodded.
“How many?” Doc asked.
“Our clan boasts 122 ships,” the Maki said, turning and gesturing at the Tri-V with all the flourish of a ringmaster at the circus. “A full 82 of those are Behemoths, like our beautiful Second Octal. Are you interested in booking further passage?”
“No, thank you,” Doc said, and the Maki bowed before turning away. “Hey,” he said suddenly, and the alien turned back. “Your translator has our language?”
“We have done business with Humans,” the alien said. “It is only good business to be prepared for future business.”
“He thinks we’ll be around a long time,” Terry said after the Maki left.
“Or at least be customers for a long time,” Doc pointed out.
They moved up to the second level of the pavilion and found it contained a vast number of shops like what Terry had seen on Karma Station. Not quite as diverse, but many products were available, from day-to-day living devices such as cooking or cleaning, to electronics. Terry noticed a shop selling slates like the one he’d bought.
“Why do you want to go in there?” Doc asked. “You already have a new slate.”
“I’m curious,” he said. The storefront contained a Tri-V customer interface. To his amazement, it automatically changed to English as soon as he got close to it. “Excellent.” Terry began clicking icons until he found his own model slate, if not a perfect match. He picked it, then gasped at the price. “They want 600 credits for the one I paid 190 for on Karma Station!”
“Nice markup,” Doc said.
“I’ll say,” his mom agreed.
“How can they get away with it?” Terry asked. He looked at the description and, sure enough, it was even the same manufacturer. He couldn’t read the writing, but he recognized the symbol.
“How can they do what?” Doc asked.
“That’s...what’s it called? Scalping!”
“Not really,” Doc said. “Scalping is having something somebody else needs and charging through the nose for it because they have no other choice. And before you say anything, we’re not in such a case here. You can always wait six more days and buy it at our next destination. Regardless, though, there’s no laws in the Union to stop predatory buying or selling practices.”
“Then how do they stop it?”
Doc laughed. “They don’t!”
“How’s that fair?”
“It isn’t,” his mom said.
“You agree with that?” Terry asked her.
“No, of course not. This is just the world we live in now. Besides, I see Doc’s point. If you don’t like the price, go somewhere else. You already found your slate for sale at another place. I bet they’re available all over the galaxy at vastly different prices.” She glanced at Doc and got a nod in agreement. “It looks to me like the Union depends on competition to keep prices down.”
“You’d be right,” Doc said. “It doesn’t always work, of course. There are some things nobody else sells. In which case, the manufacturers suck as much of your blood as they can before giving you the product.”
“But that’s not—”
“Fair,” Doc finished for him. “I know, kiddo. However, minus a governing body like some agency telling you what you can and cannot manufacture, there’s also nothing stopping you from going into business to make the same product cheaper.”
Terry grumbled. “Maybe I’ll just hire some mercs to put you out of business.” He wasn’t expecting the response he got.
“Now you’re thinking the way the Union operates.”
“Wait, you mean that happens?!”
“You bet,” Doc said. “That was one of the jobs we did. One company didn’t like how another company was trying to take away their business, so they hired us to send a message.”
“What happened?” his mom asked.
“Message delivered,” Doc said and winked. “Don’t look at me, the other guys should have hired some of their own mercs.”
She shook her head in bewilderment. “With things operating the way they seem to, everyone must have to hire mercs to protect themselves.”
“They do,” Doc agreed. “How sweet it is.”
“Why doesn’t a big merc ship come along and attack this one?” Terry asked.
“Ah,” Doc said and pointed at him. “Now that’s an interesting subject. This ship is licensed under the Merchants Guild; attacking it would probably be a bad idea for the mercs. Without a contract, they’d be pirates. Which means they wouldn’t be mercs for long. You see, pirates are galactic target practice. Normal ROE don’t apply.”
“ROE?” Terry asked.
“Rules of engagement. However, I think there’ve been wars between clans within the Merchants Guild. In which case, mercs got involved legally.”
“Everything is so confusing,” Terry said, shaking his head.
“Lots of people think the Galactic Union is a huge free-for-all, kinda like the old west. Nothing could be further from the truth. The great guilds sit astride the entire ballgame. The Merc Guild provides firepower and a way to settle the score, or get ahead. The Merchants Guild moves stuff around. Mess with them, and you could find it hard to get from A to B. The Cartography Guild controls the stargates. Don’t pay their fees, you can’t even leave the neighborhood. The Trade Guild manufactures things; upset their applecart and you might find nobody will sell you new equipment. The Information Guild maintains the GalNet and keeps data flowing around the galaxy. Piss them off, and your slate could find its data gone. Then we get to the syndicates, who operate under various guild licenses...”
“Okay, okay,” Terry said, holding up his hands in surrender. “Damn, Doc, where did you learn all this?”
“Out in the galaxy,” the man said and waved his hands in an expansive gesture. “That’s why I agreed to teach the class. Being a merc and surviving means a lot more than just killing aliens and getting paid. If you jump on a starship and go to another part of the galaxy, you damned better know a bit about how things work beyond the barrel of your gun.” He got quiet for a bit. “I hope they found someone good to teach the class after I left.”
“I’m sure they did,” Terry’s mom said, and put a hand on Doc’s muscular arm. The man smiled at her in a way that made Terry happy, while at the same time he missed his dad. Everything was so damned complicated.
“I still think the price is nuts,” Terry said, looking at the display.
“Price too high?” the store’s computer asked in English. “How about this?” The price changed to 500 credits.
“See,” Doc said and winked at him. “How many stores back in Molokai would cut you a 20% discount just because you said their stuff was too expensive?”
“None,” Terry admitted. They walked away, but he could hear the computer calling after him asking if 450 was a better price. Strange world I live in, he thought.
The next level up was designed for the convenience of the passengers, both on and off the ship. Various robotic vendors offered food, drink, and entertainment. There wasn’t an awful lot of entertainment they found interesting. There were a dozen Tri-V galleries, though. Terry had heard about them on Karma Station.
A Tri-V gallery was a big room with dozens of Tri
-V projectors. The floors were covered in millions of tiny ball bearings, which could be moved in any direction to simulate walking without moving. The floor could also raise and lower as you walked. The effect was the most immersive virtual reality imaginable. At least, the vendors claimed it was. No Humans took advantage of them because they needed to be programmed for a Human.
They found a food vendor whose kiosk responded in English when they approached. The selections were limited; however, they offered various juices and, amazingly, applesauce.
“Real applesauce?” his mom asked.
“Yeah, looks like it,” Doc said. Then he pointed. “They have corn, too.”
“Why would they have fruit juices, apple sauce, and corn?” Terry wondered.
“Merchant ships make a lot of their money speculating,” Doc explained. “They’ll buy something in one star system on the gamble somebody else will pay more for it than they paid.” He touched the icons and grimaced. “Yeah, they’re winning on this one.”
Terry leaned in to read. The fruit juice was 10 credits a liter, the applesauce 25 credits a liter, and the corn 5 credits a half kilogram.
“Want a million-dollar meal?” Doc asked.
“Corn, applesauce and juice for a million bucks?” she asked, then laughed.
“We’re not on Earth anymore,” he said.
“Money doesn’t work the same,” Terry agreed.
Doc touched the control on a table with a long bench and ordered some of the juice, one liter split between three containers. The table opened a box, and three plastic glasses with brightly colored fluid inside rose up. Terry took one right away and had a sip. His mom’s eyes went wide.
“Mango,” Terry said and smacked his lips. “Ice cold and yummy!”
“I was going to suggest we go carefully,” his mom said darkly.
“They just came from Karma,” Doc reminded her, “one jump from Earth. This is on the trade route. Besides, remember, they knew English. I suspect this clan has traded with Humans a few times already.” He took a drink of his own juice and nodded. “Since they probably paid a credit a ton, profitable transaction, too.”
Terry’s mom looked at the glass for a second, then took a drink, too. Her eyes widened and she moaned. “Oh, good,” she said. All they’d had on Teddy Roosevelt was powdered drinks.
Doc played with the ordering system. In a few seconds, a bowl filled with applesauce rose into view. Everyone laughed when it arrived with straws instead of spoons. “When in Rome,” Doc said and took a messy slurp. Soon they were all trying to suck the thick sauce through the straws and laughing uproariously.
Terry was glad his mom was having a good time and got an idea. While they ate, he used his slate to access the Behemoth’s computer. As he’d thought, all the various services they’d found in the Pavilion were also available through his computer, including the Tri-V gallery. Doc and his mom were chatting as they enjoyed the applesauce; neither of them noticed the grin on his face as he worked on his slate.
The corn proved more difficult. Doc was sure it would be raw, and even if it were sweet corn, it wouldn’t be too tasty. So he dug into the ordering system and found a way to get it cooked. Terry helped by telling him how long it needed to cook and at what temperature, then had to convert the temperature into kelvin so the alien autochef understood.
“Add some salt!” his mom suggested as Doc was finishing.
“Good idea,” Doc said, and found sodium chloride as an option, adding 5 grams to the order during cooking. Then he also remembered something other than straws to eat it with. They waited for a couple minutes while it cooked, not knowing what to expect. Then the little door opened, and a dish piled with steaming corn rose up. The smell was fantastic.
Doc picked up one of the spoons, more like a plastic dugout really, and scooped up some. “Here’s mud in your eye.” He blew on it, popped it into his mouth, and cautiously chewed. “Hmmm...” he said.
“Well?” Terry’s mom demanded. Doc’s serious face cracked into a wide grin.
“It’s sweet corn,” he said, “and perfect.
Terry and his mom dug in with a vengeance. It only took them a couple of minutes to devour the corn. Doc ordered more. At the same time, he found something else and ordered it.
“What’s that?” she asked. He held up a finger for patience. She made a face but waited. Eventually the door opened, and another tray came up. This time it had a pile of corn and some steaming meat. “I didn’t see any meat from Earth anywhere on the menu,” she said.
“No,” he said, “this is Kluup; it’s from somewhere out there. My crew and I had it on a contract a while back. Tastes a little like chicken.” The meat had a slight tint of orange and smelled a little like cooked tomatoes. Both Terry and his mom gave him a dubious look. “Oh, good lord,” he said and speared a piece with the plastic skewer the meat came with. He blew on it and popped it into his mouth, chewing busily. “Okay?”
“Good enough for me,” Terry said and got his own piece. It did taste kind of like chicken, with a slightly unusual sweet quality about it. Before long his mom gave it a try, eventually pronouncing it satisfactory. As the two grownups were finishing off the last of the fruit juice, Terry looked up the Kluup on his slate. It was from the far side of the galaxy. It would take months to get there, probably, and then get back. The thing looked like it was half worm and half squid. Yuck!
They looked around for a bit longer before heading back. Terry glanced at his watch and saw he needed to hurry to take care of Pōkole’s feeding. The orca just got hungrier and hungrier as he grew. But as they left Second Octal and entered their ship again, he got a second to talk to Doc where his mom couldn’t hear.
“Kluup comes from halfway across the galaxy,” he said. “How did you get a chance to try it before?”
“I lied,” Doc said and winked. Terry gawked. “You two were being such candy asses, I had to say something.”
“You could have poisoned us,” Terry said.
“Naw,” Doc said. “If you look closely, the autochef had Human digestive requirements programmed. The meat was compatible.”
“It could have been wrong,” Terry mused.
“Yeah, maybe. But sometimes you have to take a chance in life, or what fun is it?”
* * * * *
Chapter 13
Teddy Roosevelt, Hyperspace
December 11th, 2037
As it had in Karma, life fell into a routine in hyperspace. The spin provided by Second Octal made some aspects better. The Humans didn’t have to spend as much time in the gym exercising and taking special medications to avoid losing bone density. Care for the drugged orcas was handled by the trained medical staff. However, the strange orientation of the ship made many routine tasks twice as difficult. This included a slew of water circulation and filtration pump failures on Teddy Roosevelt.
The malfunctions became enough of a problem that the biologists considered moving the cetaceans to one of the other ships. As a last-ditch effort, a small engineering team was hired from Second Octal to look at the problem.
Six Maki showed up one morning, all with tool kits and various diagnostic instruments. They examined the Human-made ship’s systems for an hour. Much yipping and chittering followed. Terry watched and was curious as his translator didn’t want to render what they were saying into English. After a time, they began making modifications.
The engineer on Teddy was alarmed when one of the aliens simply cut a power circuit and all three pumps went down. However, a second later, a new controller they’d built on the spot was installed, and the pumps came back online.
“The charge is 300 credits,” the leader said, the translator understanding it.
“What if there are problems later?” the engineer asked.
The alien smiled. “There will not be.”
Terry’s mom paid the bill, and true to their word, no more malfunctions occurred.
“I wonder why we couldn’t understand them,” Terry asked he
r.
“I don’t know,” she said.
He did some of his own research. The only thing he found was about the Maki merchant clans. An entry in the GalNet mentioned clans appeared to have individual languages which didn’t fit any of the translation matrixes. To further complicate matters, the Maki could produce varying tonal modulations in their vocal cords, which in turn meant they were able to alter the frequency of their speech.
They have built in scramblers, Terry thought. Handy.
In what time he could find between lessons, taking care of Pōkole, and helping out wherever he could, Terry worked on his pet project. He quickly realized in order to do what he wanted to do, he needed to learn some programming in the Galactic Union’s standard computer language. Luckily it didn’t require learning their spoken language. All programming was done in numbers, or some special symbol variants.
Within a day, he was writing simple programs that could respond to inputs. In two days, he was writing fairly complex decision tree routines. After three days he was learning how to integrate Human standard image files to Union programs so they could display and encode them in Union formats. On the fourth day, he finally got the program he’d downloaded to do what he wanted it to do, and quickly created his masterpiece.
“Hey, Mom,” he said on the evening of their last day in hyperspace.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Can you come with me aboard Second Octal? I have something to show you.”
“Terry, I’m pretty busy. We come out of hyperspace tomorrow, and—”
“I know,” he interrupted, “this is really important.”
She looked at him and sighed. “Okay, but only for a couple of hours.”
“Thanks, Mom!”
Terry led her out of their ship and into the alien transport, then up to the Pavilion. Doc was waiting there. She looked at him in surprise, then at her son. “What’s going on?”
