Party Night on Union Station (EarthCent Ambassador Book 10) (5 page)

Dorothy and Shaina both made faces and shook their heads at Aisha, but the host of ‘Let’s Make Friends,’ either didn’t see, or she was so worried about Spinner becoming catatonic on her show that she didn’t care.

“Thank you, Jeeves. That’s a relief. But if he really has access to all of the Stryx knowledge and doesn’t always understand what he’s saying, what if he lets out some technical secret on the show? It’s a live broadcast, and I wouldn’t want to be responsible for everybody learning how to create black holes at home using common kitchen cleaners.”

“You’d need gazillions of tons of kitchen cleaners to create a black hole,” Jeeves replied, sketching a circle in the air with his pincer, as if to mentally encompass the project. “And there aren’t any two-word answers to the secrets of the multiverse.”

“But what if, say, the Stryx know that the disappearance of that Horten colony ship a few cycles back was actually due to an alien attack, and not a technical failure,” Aisha persisted, trying to come up with a worst case scenario. “If a little Horten asked a question about it on the show and Spinner answered truthfully, it could start a war!”

“There’s always a transmission delay,” Jeeves replied, and then clicked his pincer a few times. “Oops, Libby says the delay was a secret, so don’t tell the Grenouthians.”

“But I thought the show was broadcast in real-time over the Stryxnet,” Aisha protested. “It’s instantaneous.”

“Paul and his friends couldn’t have played Raider/Trader using ship controllers if there was a lag,” Dorothy pointed out.

“It’s not a technical limitation. It’s an introduced delay, just for network broadcasts. I believe that on Earth they used to call it a ‘tape delay,’ and it gave the censors time to bleep bad language.”

“You’re censoring my show?”

“Not your show, everybody’s shows,” Jeeves reassured her, and then continued to talk out loud, even though it was obvious he was addressing one of the older Stryx. “Alright, I shouldn’t have said anything, but now that they know, the least I can do is to clarify the situation. What do you mean this should be a private conversation? Oh, sorry. I do it now without even noticing. Yes, seriously. No, I do not have my pincer manipulators crossed. I do? Well, I’m still right.”

“Are you really talking to somebody, or are you practicing a stand-up act?” Dorothy asked suspiciously.

“Do you think I have potential?” Receiving no reply, Jeeves let out an exaggeratedly mechanical sigh and continued. “There’s no delay on game data or direct communications since they utilize point-to-point addressing. Our concern is strictly with broadcasts. Not long after the first-generation Stryx began selling real-time communications bandwidth, one of the probationary species on the original version of our tunnel network used a popular sitcom to broadcast instructions to their expatriates to instantly launch attacks against various host species. You’re talking tens of millions of years before my time, but it was quite an embarrassment.”

“The Grenouthians assured me that they pay top cred for real-time,” Aisha insisted.

“It is real-time,” Jeeves replied. “Just with a delay.”

“I’ll bet your elders think you’re the one who needs a tape delay,” Shaina commented.

“Don’t give them any ideas,” the Stryx replied, sounding suddenly nervous. “You know that Libby is a terrible eavesdropper.”

“So you’re saying that Spinner probably won’t put himself into a coma, and that if he blurts out anything that he shouldn’t, Libby or Gryph will just censor it,” Aisha summarized. “But what could they use to fill in the gap?”

“Public service announcements,” Jeeves said, and lowered his speech register to that of a professional announcer. “This is a reminder to keep your personal belongings with you at all times while transiting stations on the tunnel network. Help keep space clean and give our lost-and-found employees a break.”

Dorothy giggled and slapped the Stryx on his casing. “Stop it.”

“But what about the people and the aliens on the station and in the studio audience?” Aisha pressed on. “I know that not everybody in the six-to-eight age demographic watches, but we still win the station ratings every cycle.”

“Gryph would just flood the station with forget-it gas and swear the unaffected AI to secrecy,” Jeeves replied. “It’s easy to wipe the last few minutes from the memories of biologicals. There’s a Farling physician with a shop on the arrivals concourse who sells all that stuff cheap.”

“Are you serious?” Shaina asked.

“It appears I really have said too much,” Jeeves replied. “Sorry to have to do this.”

There was a sharp popping sound, and a tube shot out of the Stryx’s casing and sprayed a cloud of bright white gas at the women. It smelled like almonds, and it made them all sneeze exactly five times.

“What was that stuff?” Dorothy demanded as soon as the sneezing subsided.

“See? You’ve forgotten already.”

“I haven’t forgotten anything,” she said irritably. “You tape delay broadcasts and…” Dorothy trailed off as she saw Jeeves flickering his casing lights in silent electronic laughter. “Alright, you got me that time.”

Five

“Do you have any plans yet for today?” Marge asked her daughter. “I thought you might want to visit the Drazen factory complex in Rochester. They’ve completely rebuilt the old industrial area.”

“That dip Bork brought to the last poker game was a Drazen Foods export from Earth,” Joe reminded his wife. “The ambassador said that his friend Glunk was raking it in by the tentacle load, which I’m guessing is a good thing. I’ll bet he gives us the grand tour.”

“He offered through Bork before we left the station, so we have an open invitation for any time this week,” Kelly replied. “Are you sure you’re up to it, Mom? There will probably be plenty of walking.”

“Walking is how I keep on living, Kelly. But I’ve already been on that tour several times because it’s on the circuit for our investor’s club. I’m supposed to be the expert on alien venture capital opportunities, though why anybody is willing to take advice from an eighty-year-old woman is beyond me.”

Kelly tried to reconcile her mother’s stated age with her birth date and concluded that one of them was off by nearly ten years, but she wisely let it pass. Instead she asked, “How will we get there?”

“You’ll take my floater, of course. I’m sorry that the commercial wasn’t to your liking, but I hope you don’t hold that against the product. It really is the only way to travel.”

“Thanks, Marge,” Joe answered for Kelly. “I’d like to visit that factory, and I want Samuel to have a chance to see some of the countryside before we head into the city for the EarthCent conference.”

“I won’t expect you back until supper, then. Have a good time.”

Ten minutes later, after confirming the invitation with Glunk’s human secretary, Kelly gave the floater its marching orders. The craft smoothly navigated its way through the light traffic in her mother’s neighborhood until it reached an interstate onramp. There it elevated above the warning barrier and began rocketing along the broken old highway towards Rochester, staying just high enough to get over the heaves and occasional jagged pieces sticking up from the surface of the road without having to continually adjust its altitude.

“Your mother has a fine eye for transportation,” Joe pronounced after a few minutes of silky smooth travel. “Any idea where the factory for these things is located? I wouldn’t mind visiting.”

“Mom mentioned that it’s on the west coast,” Kelly replied. “I think the Dollnicks took over some huge complex that manufactured military airplanes back before the Stryx opened Earth, though I guess there wasn’t much left standing by this time.”

“Can’t be more than an hour away by sub-orbital,” Joe replied. “The artificial Sharf guy who sells me new engine parts said that they moved a mothballed factory to Earth to manufacture sub-orbital craft. It sounds like the president’s strategy of welcoming an alien invasion is really paying off, since he’s drawing species that aren’t even members of the tunnel network.”

“Why are there so many burned-down houses?” Samuel asked from the middle seat, where he was staring out through the force field that served as a canopy while the floater was in motion.

“They were built of flammable materials, and when you take away the people, if one catches fire, it can burn down a whole neighborhood,” his father explained. “Your grandfather told me that there had been problems with a lack of jobs up here long before the Stryx came. The whole area bordering the Great Lakes used to be the nation’s manufacturing heartland, but at some point people started calling it the Rust Belt, due to all of the abandoned industrial sites.”

“Because everybody left Earth?”

“Even before that, they moved south and west for warmer weather and different types of jobs,” Joe said. “A lot of these cities were half-empty before people had the opportunity to leave Earth, and then they were among the hardest hit by emigration. Some pretty large areas have returned to nature, and the Frunge have been buying northern real estate to plant forests all around the globe.”

“But why would the aliens open factories here if everything rusts or burns?” Samuel persisted.

“It’s not the place, it’s the economy,” Kelly explained. “Didn’t Libby teach you about this stuff in school?”

“I think we get to it this year. She said that the history of human economics gives younger kids nightmares.”

“Well, the important thing to remember is that the same people who manufactured all sorts of things in this region a hundred years ago are now working in local factories for the Drazens and the Frunge.”

“I didn’t think people could live that long,” Samuel said. “Are they using alien medical technology to stay alive, like we saw in Libbyland?”

“What?” Kelly reran the conversation in her head and identified the problem. “I didn’t mean that the same individuals who were employed in manufacturing a century ago were still working today. I meant their grandchildren and great-grandchildren.”

“Oh. So why did their grandparents and great-grandparents lose their jobs?”

“Ask your father.”

“Dad?”

“It mainly had to do with money, I think. Rather than investing in new factories and creating better products, some businesses moved to where they could find cheaper labor, and eventually, they sent most of the jobs overseas to poorer countries in search of short-term profits. Once manufacturing was the main contributor to the economy, but by the time the Stryx opened Earth, Stanley says that the financial industry dwarfed everything else.”

“And what did they make?” Samuel asked.

“The financial industry? They made money, for themselves mainly. I don’t really understand it myself.”

“I guess I’ll ask Dorothy when we get back since she must have learned it already,” the boy said, and resumed watching the landscape flash by. Joe and Kelly continued talking about the past, exchanging memories of half-forgotten stories from their childhoods, but they carefully avoided the subject of economics.

“Arriving at Drazen Foods in one minute,” the floater announced, and shot up an old exit ramp littered with abandoned cars.

“This can’t be it,” Kelly said, gazing at the complex of gleaming white buildings and towers they were approaching. “It’s too beautiful for a factory, and it’s big enough to be a city.”

“You know the Drazens like to do things right,” Joe replied. “I wish this thing would go slower in parking lots, though.”

The floater must not have been programmed to respond to wishes, because it sped down the center aisle without hesitation, and then pulled up under a canopy. A young man wearing blue coveralls waved as the vehicle came to a halt, and then stepped forward to identify himself.

“Hi. I’m Billy Ogden, Glunk’s secretary. We spoke earlier this morning.”

“Kelly McAllister,” the ambassador introduced herself, stepping out of the floater. “My husband, Joe, and our son, Samuel. Is the floater alright here?”

“I take it you’ve never been in a modern parking lot,” Billy said. “We’re equipped with a Dollnick-compatible lot controller, assembled on Earth by human technicians. When you step away from the floater, the controller will park it.”

“How will we find it again?” Samuel asked. “It’s Grandma’s floater, and she’ll be mad if we lose it.”

“The Dolly lot controller will bring it over as soon as you exit the building. No human walking or driving allowed in the parking lot, cuts the accident rate to zero. Shall we go in?”

Kelly and Joe followed the young man under the awning towards the factory entrance, but Samuel trailed behind, sneaking continual peeks over his shoulder to see where the floater ended up. Then he sprinted to catch his parents at the doors.

“So what products do you package here?” Joe asked the secretary. “I grew up in ranch country, and you’re pretty far north and east of the main agricultural belts.”

“There are advantages and disadvantages to all factory locations,” Billy replied seriously. “Glunk was actually the first entrepreneur from any of the advanced species to get a factory up and running on Earth, and he told me that he wasn’t entirely confident in the legal validity of the extraterritorial status the president granted. He decided to put the factory here mainly to stay in the same political entity as the EarthCent headquarters, in case there were problems.”

“Pretty smart,” Joe acknowledged.

“Plus, Glunk had, uh, reliable information that the Dollnicks were purchasing all of our inactive railroad rights of way, and with the upgrade to independently propelled floater boxcars, the whole continent got smaller in a hurry. We can get a load of chili peppers from New Mexico in less than twenty-four hours, or two days from Old Mexico.”

“I don’t remember an Old Mexico,” Kelly said.

“It’s a big place, south of New Mexico,” the secretary replied seriously. “I think one of them may be a province of the other now, but I don’t remember which. In any case, this whole complex is a standard prefab food processing plant that the Drazens include with every one of their colony ships. I was here from the first day, and the riggers had it up and running in less than three months. The parking lot took longer because the excavators hit ledge.”

Billy continued walking forward rapidly as he talked and gestured. He managed to wave or nod to other humans and the occasional Drazen they passed, all dressed in blue jump suits. Suddenly, without any reason, Kelly began to cry.

“Hard to believe it was only three years ago that the president was pitching the idea to Glunk in our living room,” Joe said, patting her on the back to comfort her.

Kelly looked at him through her tears and shook her head. “I’m not crying. Well, maybe I am crying, but it’s not because of that.”

“Hey, your face is really turning red,” Billy said, suddenly concerned. “I can’t believe I forgot about this.” He reached in his pocket and whipped out a crumpled ball of plastic, which exploded into a pink blow-up doll the size of a person. He ran a finger down the back and it fell open, the limbs collapsing as it deflated. “Here, help me get her into the isolation suit,” the secretary said to Joe.

“How will I breathe?” Kelly asked, as Billy worked her left leg into the suit while she balanced on her right with Joe’s support.

“The whole transparent face section is a Horten micro-filter that keeps out the airborne capsaicin molecules,” Billy explained. “The filter also tends to trap the moisture from your breathing, so we’ll get you out of it as soon as possible.”

“Where are the peppers?” Samuel asked.

“They’re actually in the next building,” the secretary explained. “Your mother must be highly sensitive. This is the office building, and nobody has ever had a problem here before, at least that I can remember.”

“It’s probably from living on a space station for the last twenty-five years,” Kelly said defensively. “I remember when I was a kid they said that children who grew up in super-clean environments were more prone to allergies.”

“But you grew up a couple hundred miles from here,” Joe pointed out. “And the Stryx don’t over-scrub the air for just that reason.” Kelly would have glared at him, but her eyes were watering too much.

“Just let me get your other arm in—and done,” Billy said, pulling the hood over her head from the front to the back, and then running his thumb all the way down her spine to seal the suit. “How’s that?”

“My eyes are still watering,” Kelly complained, her voice unchanged by speaking through the Horten filter. She took a few experimental steps and found that the suit was so lightweight and flexible, that aside from the feeling that a feather was tickling the tip of her nose, she was barely aware that she had it on.

“It will take a minute or two before the molecules that already reached you get diluted. And here we are,” the guide concluded, ushering them into an office.

The décor was pure Drazen, with a number of battleaxes and other primitive weapons affixed to the walls, but the suit of armor in the corner was obviously of human manufacture, since the gauntlets had five fingers and there was no opening for a tentacle. Glunk was engaged in a holo-conference as they entered, but he immediately excused himself and waved the projection out of existence.

“Ambassador McAllister and family. I am honored by your presence.” The Drazen made a theatrical bow before stepping forward to shake hands with the guests. “My old friend Ambassador Bork contacted me weeks ago about your planned trip and I asked him to relay an invitation, but I wasn’t sure you would actually find time to fit us in until this morning. I see that my secretary has erred on the side of caution by making you wear the environmental suit in the office building. I recalled your reaction to pepper spray back on the station and wanted to make sure that you would be comfortable on the tour. But you seem to be a bit red.”

“It’s nothing,” Kelly said, not wanting to get the secretary in trouble. “I can’t believe how much you’ve accomplished here in three years. Bork is always bringing us new products from your factory.”

“And Dad and I try to eat them,” Samuel put in. “Mom thinks everything is too hot.”

“Even our Turpoil?” Glunk asked in astonishment. “You can’t keep Drazen children away from the stuff.”

“Have we tried that one, Joe?” Kelly asked.

“It’s their house brand of turpentine oil,” Joe replied. “We give it to trainees to rub on sore muscles.”

“Cassachips?” the Drazen inquired.