by E. M. Foner
The Farling gestured at the numerous medical bags he’d carried, and then shuffled off to meet the returning bots. Jorb sighed and grabbed a bag in each hand, plus one with his tentacle, leaving the remaining two for Julie. She hoisted the bags and followed the giant beetle.
A terrible odor of burned fur greeted them when the lead bot opened the door of the simple transfer pod it had towed over from the Wanderer vessel. A tangled mass of tentacles rolled out, and then it separated into individual Zarents, none of whom stood taller than Julie’s waist. With eight tentacles each, she was tempted to classify them as land-dwelling octopi, though their instrument laden harnesses and intelligent eyes marked them as sentient creatures.
“That one first,” M793qK ordered, pointing at a Zarent who was having trouble balancing, despite the number of appendages he or she had in contact with the deck. “I told her to stop moving around, so stun her if she tries to insist that I treat one of her co-workers first.”
Julie felt incredibly awkward drawing her weapon and couldn’t bring herself to point it in the direction of the injured aliens. The Farling’s bark turned out to be worse than his bite, and he moved even quicker than when he was warding off attacks as the Evil Mastermind in Everyday Superheroes. “Jorb, bring the bag in your right hand over here and hold the patient up for me so I can get at her underside.”
Jorb dropped the two unneeded bags and used some kind of martial arts to move fluidly into position. While holding the bag open for the doctor, he deployed his tentacle to support the Zarent, who wrapped two of her own undamaged tentacles around his one to hold herself in place.
“Julie,” the doctor summoned her as he went to work snipping away burned fur and applying some kind of ointment. “Most of this batch are relatives of the Zarents in stasis, but several of them have crushing injuries. I want you to take the green spray can out of the bag in your left hand and apply it as needed.”
“How will I know—”
“I’ve told the Zarents to present themselves to you,” M793qK interrupted
Julie dug around the bag for the can in question, and when she looked up, a ragged line of the little aliens had formed in front of her.
“I’m Fourth Technician Miklat,” the first Zarent introduced himself via a speaker pendant attached to his harness. “The doctor said that you have Shurpa.”
“If it’s the stuff in this green spray can, then I do,” Julie said, frowning at the label which consisted of clusters of dots.
“That’s the stuff,” the Zarent told her. “We used up all of ours on the badly injured.” He gingerly extended a tentacle he’d been cradling under his body, and even Julie could see that more than half of it had been flattened right out to the tip. The Zarent used two other tentacles to support it and looked at her expectantly.
“I just spray this stuff on?”
“Shurpa. You have to shake it until the mixing pea stops making noise.”
“Right,” Julie said, trying her best to look confident in the theory that it would inspire the same in her patients. She shook the can vigorously for about fifteen seconds until the loud rattle became subdued, and after locating the small arrow stamped into the top of the nozzle, pointed it at the damaged tentacle and applied an even coat of the green spray.
The Zarent remained perfectly still during this operation, then a loud buzz came from somewhere below his body, and he scurried to the side, keeping his injured tentacle braced with the healthy ones.
“That’s Second Chef Miklat,” the treated Zarent informed Julie as the next little octopus limped up. “She burned the tips of four tentacles helping to move the emergency containment panels into place.”
Julie obligingly sprayed the tentacle tips green as they were presented. “How are you all getting around without magnetic cleats?” she asked her self-appointed assistant as the next Zarent moved forward for treatment.
“It’s a property of our fur,” Fourth Technician Miklat explained. “The ends are split into thousands of microfibers, and the molecules they are composed of swap electrons with the molecules of the deck, creating a weak electromagnetic attraction. Does this ship have an active AI?”
“Very active,” Julie answered.
“I’m sure it could tell you the name of this physical phenomenon in your language if the translation failed.”
“Van der Waals,” Flower said over Julie’s implant. “I love the Zarents. They’re the only good thing about the Wanderers.”
“And who is this?” Julie asked as she followed a pointed tentacle to spray a large gash on her current patient’s body.
“Third Engineer Miklat,” her informant told her. “He was the first one on the scene after the containment failure and he put the survivors in stasis. Check all of his tentacles for burns—he’s a stoic.”
“Let me see those,” Julie demanded, moving to block the engineer as he tried to stagger off on three tentacles.
“Save the Shurpa for those who need it more,” the Zarent spoke through his speaker pendant.
“I have plenty of it in my clinic and I can make more as needed,” M793qK said angrily without looking over. “Now let Julie treat you or she’ll be forced to use the stunner.”
The Zarent halted, and then presented five tentacles in states ranging from a little singed to badly burned. Julie sprayed them green, and the creature let out an even louder buzz than the first had before moving off.
“Are you all from the same family?” Julie asked when the fourth technician identified her next patient as Seventh Life Support Specialist Miklat. “And are you sure I should be using this spray on open wounds?” she added, wincing at the depth of the puncture wound that had been hidden by the specialist’s fur.
“Why would you assume we’re related?” her assistant asked. “And you can spray Shurpa on any wound without worrying. It may not help fast enough to matter if the damage is too extensive, but it will never make the problem worse. It’s basically a topical anesthetic loaded with the same cells our bodies use to repair themselves when we’re healthy.”
“In a spray? That doesn’t sound possible.”
“We’re an artificial biological lifeform, genetically engineered for Zero-G repair work,” the Zarent told her bluntly. “The Farlings created us for the original Wanderers, though we’ve long since forgotten whether we were a gift, or a bribe for the mob to leave Farling space.”
Julie looked sharply toward the beetle doctor, who had already completed the surgery and was wrapping a long white bandage around the patient, weaving it between alternating tentacles as he went to create a star pattern.
“So you’re all clones?” she asked the technician, even as she sprayed another of the Zarents green.
“No, we simply started on a higher rung of the evolutionary ladder, so to speak, but we reproduce naturally and have moved well beyond our initial design parameters. I’m sure you can imagine our joy at hearing there was a Farling physician on board. What made you think we were clones? Surely you don’t think we all look alike.”
“Not at all,” Julie lied, since she could barely tell the Zarents apart beyond the obvious differences in injuries and variations in fur color. “But you all have the same name.”
“Ah, I’d forgotten that those who’ve never encountered us before can misunderstand our official designations. Miklat is the name of our ship, and the rest gives our job description and rank.”
“It’s not going to be as bad as I feared,” M793qK announced after examining his next patient. “I’m going to take this one back to my clinic to run some diagnostics. Jorb, you come with me and I’ll give you the rest of the Shurpa I have in stock. Julie, you stay here, and when you’re finished with this group, there’s a larger number with more superficial injuries on the way.”
“I can use the spray on all of the Wanderers?”
“No, it’s specially made for Zarents. All it will do to anybody else is paint them green.”
“And what about the Zarents in stasis pods
?” Julie asked the Farling as he made his way past, a crumpled looking octopus cradled in his lower appendages.
“They’ll keep for now,” M793qK said. “Unlike humans, Zarent biology is not trivial, and I need to prepare before dealing with serious cases.”
Six
“You’re just in time to help with the seaweed,” Harry greeted Bill. “Go ahead and make all of it—the Verlock and the Grenouthian will inhale the stuff.”
“I thought we were supposed to save all of the certification products for testing on people in your independent living cooperative.” Bill groaned on seeing all of the opened packages of dried seaweed. “M793qK is going to kill me.”
“He’s too busy ginning up replacement parts for those furry little aliens from the Miklat. Flower passed along a message from the EarthCent embassy on Union Station that the seaweed is an experimental product from a Vergallian water world and it gave the ambassador a stomachache. Normally we can eat Vergallian vegan in moderation, so it might have something to do with the mineral content of the alien ocean.”
“I’ve never even eaten seaweed myself. How do I prepare it?”
“Just soften it in warm water from the tap, you don’t have to heat it on the stove,” Harry said. “Lume stopped in earlier and told me the regulars would all be here for a lunch meeting to discuss the situation with the Wanderers. I’ve got a bean-based porridge staying warm in the oven that I made especially for Razood, though I think the others will like it as well. And I put two vegetable platters in the fridge for in case they start drinking.”
“Are you going somewhere?” Bill asked, dumping package after package of dried seaweed into the large stainless steel bowl he had half-filled with warm water.
“I came in early this morning to work on a peach cobbler recipe for Flower Foods that I haven’t made in a decade. I’ve already burned through my new work-hours quota for the day, so I’m going to meet Irene at the food court in twenty minutes and have lunch out for a change. How were your classes this morning?”
“I’m not sure I’ll ever get the hang of estimating,” Bill said mournfully as he retrieved a premade vegetable platter from the fridge and removed the transparent film. “Today the instructor asked us to write out a description of how we would go about setting prices if we were opening our own cafés, just as a thought exercise, and then we shared them all on the group discussion board.”
“Let me guess,” Harry said. “You started with the cost of ingredients, added something for rent and utilities, and figured that anything left over after sales would be your pay.”
“I’ve seen enough of the way Flower does business to have included something for marketing.”
“What did the other students do?”
“Pretty much the same thing,” Bill said, gathering bowls for serving the bean porridge. “But Renée, a girl Julie used to wait tables with at The Spoon is taking the class, and she said that it doesn’t work that way and we’d all go broke.”
“At the risk of oversimplifying, she’s right,” Harry said, fishing a strand of softened seaweed from the bowl. “All of those costs are important, but ultimately, there is no simple formula for pricing individual items in a food service establishment. When it comes down to it, you have to make your money on the items that everybody buys. Sure, your highest single ticket in a café may be an over-the-top interpretation of chocolate cake that you can sell for two creds a slice, but what percentage of your customers are going to come in and buy it every day?”
“That’s exactly what Renée said. It turns out that the biggest profit maker at The Spoon is the coffee, even though it’s the least expensive item on the menu.”
“That’s how it works in bakeries as well. Our highest ticket items were the wedding cakes, though they did take a lot of time and customer hand-holding on Irene’s part. But it’s the daily bread that kept us in business year-in, year out.”
The swinging door that separated the kitchen from the cafeteria pushed open and Razood leaned through the opening. “Do I smell bean porridge?” the Frunge asked.
“I’ll bring it out in a minute,” Bill told him. “Do you want an extra serving?”
The Frunge held up three fingers and then ducked back into the cafeteria.
“Just give it to him in a salad bowl,” Harry suggested. “Everybody knows how much Razood likes beans—they won’t be offended.” He checked that the seaweed strand he had pulled from the bowl was no longer dripping before lowering it into his mouth, and then spat it out in the sink. “That explains the stomachache.”
“What?” Bill asked, pausing at the door with the vegetable platter.
“It’s loaded with mineral salts, and I’m guessing it’s not just the usual magnesium and potassium ones either. Maybe it’s healthy for us in small quantities, but I wouldn’t recommend making it into a meal.”
Bill checked the status light above the swinging door to make sure nobody was coming in from the other side and then exited to the cafeteria. Half of the alien spies on board were already sitting around a couple of tables that had been pulled together, and Crute, the Dollnick station chief, was taking drink orders from behind the bar.
“Just in time, I’m famished,” the Grenouthian director said, indicating where Bill should place the vegetable platter. “Did I smell seaweed soaking when the door was open?”
“I’ll bring it out after the porridge,” Bill said. “I just have to drain it first.”
“Don’t do that!” the director exclaimed, grabbing the young man’s wrist with a furry paw. “The water is my favorite part. Just bring out the whole bowl and leave it at this end of the table. I’ll save a place for Brynlan. And bring an extra bowl for Avisia, though you know she never eats much, at least not in public.”
“And what do you mean by that?” demanded the Vergallian agent, who could easily have been mistaken for a fashion model. “Are you suggesting that I binge and purge in private?”
“Avisia, I didn’t see you there. And I meant it in the sense that I’ve never seen you take the last chocolate from a dish, or the last anything, for that matter. You’re too attuned to the needs of others.”
“You’re certainly welcome to my share of the Wanderers,” the Vergallian said as Bill retreated to the kitchen. “Have any of you been down to see them? I’ve been staying away, but I’m afraid my superiors will expect a report.”
“You do know that the Wanderers go everywhere and see everything,” the director said, sounding rather satisfied with himself. “I took a stroll around the Con deck where Flower is housing most of them, and I picked up a few worthwhile tidbits about the Gormier Rebellion.”
“Are you interested in the Gormier Rebellion?” Lume asked, placing drinks on the table with all four hands and taking his seat. “I stumbled across a fellow Dollnick from the Miklat who had some very detailed information and I made a deal with him for the exclusive rights. That said, I’m always willing to listen to reasonable offers.”
“Older fellow with a purple plume and a missing finger on his lower left hand?” Razood asked, shifting his attention to the kitchen door when Bill reemerged with a tray of porridge bowls. “He started me at three hundred creds for the exclusive rights, but I bargained him down to twenty for a data crystal. Want to compare what we got?”
“You too?” rumbled Brynlan as he took his seat. “Good info, I got it for ten.”
Lume slammed his lower two fists on the table, almost causing Bill to drop the tray. “He charged me fifty and I had to supply my own blank crystal!”
“The crystal was free with the deal,” Razood said, and the Verlock nodded his agreement.
“Did I miss something important?” Yaem asked, taking his accustomed place next to Avisia. “Flower’s been running me ragged helping the Wanderers get settled in on the Con deck. She said to treat them as if they were all here for an event. I’ve got anime and immersives running around the clock in all ten of her theatres.”
“How many Wanderers are t
here in all?” the Vergallian asked.
“A little under twenty thousand at last count,” the Sharf replied. “Pretty evenly divided between the tunnel network species, though I didn’t see any Grenouthians.”
“My people are too industrious to join the Wanderers in any numbers,” the director said matter-of-factly. “Was there a Human contingent?”
“Just a few hundred,” Yaem said. “I doubt most Wanderer mobs have any Humans at all, they’re such a new species.”
“Not a mob, one ship,” Brynlan pointed out, helping himself to a particularly thick carrot spear that promised to deliver a satisfying crunch. “Are they exiles?”
“Is it even possible to get banished from a Wanderer mob?” Bill asked, offering the Verlock a bowl of bean porridge. “The way Flower explained it to me, they have pretty low standards for, well, everything.”
“They have strict rules against working too hard and bringing down everybody’s mood,” Avisia said speculatively. “Maybe this batch got kicked out for being real go-getters, at least by Wanderer standards.”
“It’s obvious you haven’t visited the Con deck yet,” Lume said. “As near as I can tell, they expect to spend their time on board being entertained. They make those con addicts who immigrated to cosplay around the clock look like responsible citizens.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my ConAnon recruits, and I’d happily take more if I could get them,” Flower interjected via an overhead speaker. “Dressing up like aliens hasn’t stopped them from participating in the workforce, or from doing the required calisthenics and signing up for a team sport. The Wanderers are already making trouble on that account.”
“They won’t sign up for a team sport?” Bill asked, placing a leftover bowl of porridge next to the one the Frunge was currently devouring.
“They absolutely refused to come out of their cabins for calisthenics this morning,” the Dollnick AI reported angrily. “They’re claiming that the tunnel network treaty exempts refugees rescued in space from being forced to abide by a ship’s exercise program.”
