Party Night on Union Station (EarthCent Ambassador Book 10) (3 page)

The surgeon used multiple appendages to grab the injured Drazen and lift him bodily onto the table. The injured alien slumped forward after being knocked out with a drug that Woojin didn’t even see administered, and then the Farling took the severed tentacle from Bork and gave the ambassador a dirty look.

“You seem set on keeping me busy today, Drazen.”

“It’s the tryouts for our reenactment group,” Bork said apologetically, looking about for something to wipe the gore off of his hand. He gave up and used the hem of the berserker cloak he was wearing. “The idiot was spinning an axe over his head like an immersive star, and he forgot to keep his tentacle down.”

The beetle grumbled as it lined up the fat part of the severed tentacle with the stub. “I should fuse it on backwards to teach him a lesson.” A holographic message consisting of different sized dots materialized above the operating table and waited for the Farling to acknowledge it with a wave. “Oh, bother. The med bots are bringing in three Fillinduck burn victims from an initiation ceremony gone awry. At the risk of sounding impolite, please leave now.”

Woojin quickly moved to join Bork in the lift-tube capsule, and the two acquaintances looked at each other sheepishly.

“Mac’s Bones,” Bork told the capsule, and then asked, “What was yours?”

“New recruit. Collapsed before the training even began. Do I gather that the tentacle chopper wasn’t your first audition accident of the day?”

“Not even the first tentacle. If some of these youngsters had to fight in a real war—but no matter. It’s a good thing I bumped into you. I meant to stop by the embassy to see your wife this evening, but our open tryouts turned into a bloodbath.”

“We’re on morning time, actually, so Lynx will be there another seven hours or so if you still have the energy. Anything I should know about?”

“I’m just a little uncertain about your seniority system now that the ambassador is away,” the Drazen admitted. The capsule door slid open and he accompanied Woojin into the corridor that led to Mac’s Bones. “I understand that Lynx is occupying Kelly’s office and handling general inquiries, and I believe my report on EarthCent Intelligence suggests that your wife is a step closer to the, er, reins of power than you are.”

“Lynx outranks me in everything,” Woojin replied easily. “But she’s helping out with the diplomatic branch this month, so if it’s an intelligence issue and you couldn’t get a hold of Clive or Blythe, I guess it’s Thomas and then me.”

“I’m sure Thomas won’t mind if I ask you to pass this on, since I need to hurry back to the skirmish before somebody really gets hurt. We’ve been hearing disturbing rumors out of the Empire of a Hundred Worlds for some time that the tunnel network secessionists are planning some sort of action.”

“Fleet versus the Imperials?”

“No, this relates to a long-standing schism about the Vergallian place amongst humanoid species. Our intelligence people will certainly be in touch with you about it in the near future, but given the large number of human mercenaries employed on Vergallian tech-ban worlds, not to mention your intelligence agents and Galactic Free Press reporters, I wanted to give you as much advance notice as possible. It’s the sort of information I’d usually pass directly to Kelly, so as not to ruffle any feathers in the special relationship between our spy services.”

“Thank you, Bork. I’ll pass it on to Thomas and my wife, and I’ll ping Clive and Blythe, though they’re officially on vacation. I think they’ve been organizing their lives around their daughter’s dance practices for the last few years, but with Samuel gone for the month, their schedule has opened up.”

“Tough business, competitive dancing,” Bork acknowledged. “I only wish some of the would-be warriors I saw today had better footwork. Speaking of which, I have to run.”

The Drazen returned to the lift tube, and Woojin headed into Mac’s Bones to reassure the trainees that their fellow was on his way to a full recovery.

Three

Kelly’s mother picked up the McAllisters at the spaceport in a floating sedan with three rows of seats. The vehicle drew envious looks from everybody waiting at the platform.

“Is this your floater or a rental, Marge?” Joe asked as soon as they were underway.

“Mine. Didn’t I tell you? The company gave it to me for free in return for making a commercial.”

“You were in a commercial, Mom?” Kelly asked.

“I keep a copy in the onboard entertainment system,” Marge replied, and then spoke directly at the dashboard. “Floater. Play my commercial.”

A display panel slid up out of the chassis, blocking their forward vision. Kelly grabbed the dashboard and shrieked, causing her mother to look over in concern. “Floater. Pause commercial. Kelly. What’s wrong?”

“You can’t see where you’re driving!”

“I’m not driving, dear. My reaction time is hardly good enough to run a floater at several hundred miles an hour, and that’s if I could even see far enough ahead to make a difference. This sedan is equipped with full autopilot. Didn’t you hear me say, ‘Floater. Let’s go,’ when you got in?”

“I thought you were just telling us that it was a floater, in case we didn’t know or something.”

“Really, Kelly. Sometimes I think you just aren’t paying attention. Floater. Resume commercial.”

The screen lit up with a scene of a luxury floater, apparently the exact model in which they were riding, zipping along above the broken roads of a rough-looking section of urban sprawl. A monster loomed out of the wreckage of a large building and made a grab at the speeding conveyance, but the floater causally went through a series of smooth evasive maneuvers, dodging the tentacles and claws. The camera zoomed in on Marge, who was sitting sideways on the front bench seat, reading a book. She looked up and smiled.

“Hi, I’m Marge Frank, Ambassador Kelly McAllister’s mom. When I take a trip, I always travel in my Chiangan Floater. It’s based on Dollnick engineering and assembled by humans right here on Earth. I was so impressed that I bought ten shares in the company. Best of all, a small portion of the proceeds from every sale go to support the EarthCent diplomatic service. Take it from the mother of an ambassador. If Prince Drume approves, it’s got to be good.”

The cameras zoomed back out as the floater crossed a river, flying along next to a decrepit suspension bridge with dangling cables and gaps in the roadbed. As the floater passed, debris fell from the bridge, and an old car occupied by screaming passengers plunged into the river. The airbags inflated when it hit the water.

“You told everybody that I endorse Chiangan Floaters?” Kelly asked in dismay. “How could you?”

“I told everybody that Prince Drume endorses Chiangan Floaters. I know it for a fact because that nice Chiangan mayor who came to Earth to set up the factory, Bob was his name, arranged for me to meet the prince when I visited to pick out the color scheme for the upholstery. Do you like it?”

“I like it, Grandma,” Samuel offered from the third row of seats which he had taken over for himself. “Can we watch the commercial again?”

“No, we cannot watch the commercial again,” Kelly said. “Floater. Lower the screen. Floater!” She thumped the dashboard in frustration. “It doesn’t listen to me.”

“Floater. Imprint Kelly McAllister. Say something, Kelly.”

“I’m not happy about this,” Kelly grumbled.

“Operator Kelly McAllister registered,” the floater announced in a female voice that sounded suspiciously like Libby when she was answering the pings for InstaSitter.

“Floater. Imprint Joe McAllister,” Marge continued.

“Hi, Floater,” Joe said.

“Operator Joe McAllister registered.”

“Floater. Lower screen,” Kelly instructed.

The screen slid back down into the chassis, and the ambassador saw that they had left the spaceport behind and were streaking north above a broad swath of asphalt that had seen better years.

“How about me?” Samuel demanded.

“I’m sorry, Sam, but you have to be sixteen to operate a floater on Earth. How old are you now?”

“Sixteen,” the boy replied.

“Fourteen,” Kelly said with finality. “Have you endorsed any other products as my mother?”

“Just a few,” Marge hedged. “You’ve become very famous on Earth, you know. Reporters contact me almost every day looking for filler to spice up articles they’re writing. Since the Galactic Free Press started licensing content to the media here, you’re in the news all of the time.”

Kelly groaned and buried her head in her hands.

“Tired, Kel?” Joe asked. “It looks like the middle section of this seat folds down, so if you want to move back a row and stretch out, you can take a nap.”

“It’s automatic,” Marge informed them happily. “Floater. Open center, front row.”

The seatback behind Kelly began to recline gently, and the ambassador gave up arguing and let the vehicle do its thing. A minute later, she was able to pull her legs through and lay full-length on the plush middle bench seat.

“This is pretty nice,” she admitted, closing her eyes. “No seatbelts?”

“At this speed, they wouldn’t help,” Marge said, winking at Joe. “Just kidding. The floater is loaded with safety systems. Do you want to watch the owner’s manual?”

“No, I’ll just take a short nap.”

“Do you still like to listen to the ocean when you go to sleep?”

“I haven’t done that since I married Joe.”

“I never knew that about you,” her husband said. “What other secrets has she been hiding from me, Marge?”

“First things first,” Kelly’s mother said. “Floater. Play ocean sounds, center row, full isolation.”

“I don’t think it worked,” Joe said.

“Full isolation includes an acoustic suppression field, in this case just for the second row. Can you hear us, Samuel?”

“Yes, Grandma.”

“Do you want to come up front?”

“No. I’m just going to play with my robot a bit before I take a nap.” Samuel had packed his toy robot from the Libbyland gift shop over his mother’s objections, wrapping it in a sweater and making space by removing most of the clothes she had insisted he bring. “Can I have the acoustic suppression thing too?”

“Floater. Third row. Full isolation,” Marge instructed. “You’re not tired, Joe?”

“I slept half the time on the Vergallian freighter. So, are we headed for Lisa’s?” Joe asked, naming Kelly’s younger sister.

“No, I thought I’d take you out to see Steve’s final resting place and get it out of the way. You know that Kelly would end up organizing her whole vacation around it otherwise. Is she still mad at me for not inviting her to her father’s funeral?”

“No, she got over that months ago,” Joe lied. “I explained to her that your husband wanted to be buried no later than sunset the day after he passed, so there was no way she could have gotten to Earth on time. Besides, I remember Steve telling me that after attending funerals for most of his friends and relatives, he had no patience left for any of that stuff, and he wanted to keep it as simple as possible.”

“That’s right. I don’t want to sound morbid, but we had plenty of time to prepare, and we both agreed that we wanted our bodies to be returned to the earth, where nature could get some use out of them. That’s why we sponsored a grove in one of the new Frunge forests up North.”

“Something wrong with the local cemeteries?”

“They all bury people in concrete boxes!” Marge exclaimed, looking extremely irritated. “They still sell you a wooden coffin if you want one, but they put that inside of a concrete box that’s supposed to protect the groundwater or keep the lawn in the cemetery from sagging—I could never get a straight answer out of them. I think it’s really just some law passed by concrete box makers.”

“And the Frunge?”

“If you sponsor a new grove, you get internment rights for your extended family. They don’t allow wood coffins, of course, you know the Frunge, but any natural winding sheet or bag is acceptable. Steve chose burlap, but I’m planning on linen myself. Burlap is so scratchy.”

“How did you find out about it?”

“The Frunge advertised. There was a big uproar from the cemetery trade associations when the ads started, but it died down pretty quickly after it became apparent that most people actually want a wooden coffin or a cremation urn, not to mention the fact that the Frunge don’t allow headstones. And sponsoring a grove isn’t cheap”

“What did it cost?”

“Well,” Marge said, glancing over the seat at her sleeping daughter. “We intended to pay, but they ended up giving us the grove for free in return for a promotional spot. And they didn’t charge for the Frunge tree warden who dug the grave and helped lay my husband to rest. All of the family plans on being buried there now, and you’re welcome to join us.”

“I’d kind of like to see my kids grow up first, but I’ll keep it in mind. Kelly still talks about being ejected into space in her LoveU chair, though I don’t take her seriously.” He turned and looked over the seats. “I guess Sam is lying down since I can’t see him.”

“Floater. View back seat,” Marge commanded.

The screen slid up out of the chassis again, and Joe would have sworn it showed his teenage son crouched on the floor behind the second row of seats before the image twitched and displayed Samuel stretched out on his stomach, fast asleep.

“Can we get the news on this thing?” Joe asked. “I really don’t keep up with what’s going on here, outside of what gets reported in the Galactic Free Press.”

“Floater. Play the children’s news.”

“Floater. Pause,” Joe interrupted. “Children’s news?”

“The Children’s News Network,” Marge explained. “It’s the only news I can stand watching these days. The other networks are all full of smiling people trying to top each other at who can report the most terrible story. I hate to say it, but the news became unwatchable after EarthCent convinced the Grenouthians to open an immersive technology center in New York.”

“I know the bunnies go in for sensationalistic coverage, but it’s hard to believe that they’re worse than humans.”

“It’s not so much the current news as the archival footage,” Marge explained. “The Grenouthians have been recording every war and disaster around the galaxy for millions of years, and the human networks seem determined to run each and every tragedy. The anchors rush through a minute or two of news, and then it’s all highlights from the history of galactic misfortunes. They don’t even bother pretending to draw connections to current events anymore.”

Joe nodded. “I can see that happening. Floater. Continue.”

A teenage girl with a serious expression and brown ponytails sitting alone at a news desk appeared on the screen. She looked directly at the camera, apparently reading from a teleprompter.

“…and the building has been condemned for multiple safety violations. Students are being reassigned to other local schools, and applications to the new Verlock magnet academy in the greater Cleveland region have spiked up over a thousand percent. Now to our special correspondent at EarthCent Headquarters, who will be reporting on the first Conference of EarthCent Ambassadors next week. Leon?”

A tall boy who was perhaps sixteen appeared on the screen, the image slightly off center, as if he had set up a camera himself and moved around to stand in front of it. Behind him was a wall plaque reading, “EarthCent Headquarters,” with an arrow pointing to the right, and “QuickU Personality Enhancements,” with an arrow pointing to the left.

“Thank you, Deborah,” Leon responded. “I’m here in front of EarthCent headquarters in the city that never sleeps, but apparently our diplomatic service doesn’t know that because the door is locked. Wait, I think the president is approaching right now. Sir?”

A sheepish-looking President Beyer holding a large take-out coffee moved into the picture. He rubbed his cheek to test the state of his beard stubble, since his habit was to shave at his desk with a Drazen device which he had been given as a gift by a visiting businessman. The current thinking at EarthCent headquarters was that gifts from aliens weren’t considered bribes as long as they didn’t leave the building.

“Leon, is it?” the president asked.

If the teenager was impressed that the president remembered his name from their single previous encounter at a ribbon-cutting ceremony, he didn’t show it.

“President Beyer. Next Monday marks the official opening of your Conference of EarthCent Ambassadors. This will be the first real chance for most of us to see humanity’s government, or the closest thing we have to a government out there, in action. Can you give us a preview of the events?”

“Well, it’s not a constitutional convention, you know,” the president said, trying to lower the audience’s expectations. “I think we have some pretty interesting sessions planned.” He stole a sip from his coffee before observing. “You’re here pretty early. If you had made an appointment with Hildy, you wouldn’t have been stuck waiting in the hall.”

“Hildy Greuen,” Leon spoke directly into the camera. “EarthCent’s Director of Public Relations and your mistress.”

“Er, yes,” the president replied. “Would you like to come in and set up, and perhaps we could start over?”