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

  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?”

  “It’s a live broadcast,” the boy informed him. “Back to you, Deborah.”

  “Thank you, Leon. We’ll have a full interview with the president as soon as it’s available. Now to the weather, as reported by YOU.”

  The scene cut to a little boy who was wearing a yellow slicker with a hood and jumping in a puddle. “It’s raining in Boston,” he yelled.

  The image was quickly replaced by a teenage girl with a surfboard running towards the ocean. “Sunny in Malibu,” she informed them.

  Then came a whole group of children, bundled up warmly, putting the finishing touches on a snowman. “It’s cold in Denver,” they shouted in rough unison, and then dissolved into laughter.

  A boy with a homemade fishing rod, sitting on the end of a dock, reported. “Hot in Mississippi. And humid.”

  “We’ll be back with more news after this brief message from our sponsor,” Deborah announced.

  “Aren’t they cute?” Marge prompted her son-in-law.

  “I liked the kid jumping in the puddle,” Joe admitted.

  An impossibly beautiful woman in a diaphanous dress appeared on the screen and halted mid-twirl, as if she had been surprised by the intrusion of a camera into her dance routine.

  “Boys,” she said. “Wouldn’t you like to be popular with the girls and learn the confidence that will let you become great men? Girls. Wouldn’t it be nice to meet some boys who won’t step on your toes and ruin your shoes? Astria’s Academy of Dance is now accepting applications for a local branch near you. Learn the techniques that have won the galactic ballroom prize every year since, well, longer than your planet has had written language. If you don’t have the means to pay, Astria’s academy is a member of the human barter network and a proud sponsor of the Children’s News Network.”

  “Floater. Pause,” Marge instructed the machine. “That reminds me. My husband said some funny things towards the end, so I couldn’t always tell whether he was making things up or just confusing his memories. He would look at me and say, ‘Marge. My grandson and I have a secret, and I’m not telling.’ Then he would do that zipper thing across his lips and not speak to me until the next time he wanted something.”

  “And you think it has to do with dancing? Samuel still takes lessons with Blythe’s daughter, you know. They compete on a regular schedule, though both of them insist they’ll never be able to beat the top Vergallian juniors because they started too late.”

  “Steve left your son a special bequest,” Marge said. “It’s an antique cane that he picked up at an estate sale and walked with when he felt unsteady. He said Samuel could use it to impress his little girlfriend. I suspect he confused ballroom dancing with the tap routines from old movies where Fred Astaire would dance with a top hat and a cane, but it was one of his last wishes.”

  “I’m sure Sam will appreciate the gift, even if he can’t use it for dancing. I know he really enjoyed the time he got to spend with his grandfather when you both came to visit.”

  Joe spent the next hour answering his mother-in-law’s questions about Dorothy and their friends on Union Station.
Eventually, the floater interrupted with the message, “Arriving at the Frank Grove in one minute.”

  “We better wake them up,” Marge said. “Floater. Cancel acoustic suppression fields.” The sound of gentle ocean waves filled the passenger compartment. “Floater. Cancel ocean.”

  The change in audio input was enough to wake Kelly, who sat up groggily and asked, “Are we here already?”

  “Just another minute, dear,” her mother replied. “Are you up back there, Samuel?”

  Samuel’s head popped up over the seat and he looked around. “Where are we?”

  “We’re almost at the Frank Grove, where your grandfather is buried,” Marge replied.

  “Good. I can visit him,” the boy said.

  “I thought we were going to Lisa’s house,” Kelly protested, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

  “We are, just as soon as we’re finished here.”

  The floater slowed to a halt, and the Dollnick force field powered down, allowing the scent of fresh forest air to fill the vehicle. The occupants stepped out over the low gunwales onto the soft forest floor. Kelly wondered at how the floater had ended up in the midst of so many trees, and then she stepped to the side and saw the trunks all aligned in rows until the perspective was lost in the distance.

  “The trees are all planted on a grid,” Kelly objected.

  “The Frunge tree warden told me that there’s no point in trying to make a new forest look natural when it’s not. But in a thousand years, nobody will know that this area was once deforested by surface mining,” Marge replied.

  “Frunge?” Kelly asked.

  “Your mother explained to me that your family has purchased a burial grove here and we’re welcome to use it,” Joe fibbed. “I think it’s a beautiful spot.”

  “Where’s Grandpa?” Samuel asked.

  “A little to your right and down a bit,” Marge replied. “He’s in front of the sign.”

  “This grove was made possible by a generous donation from the Frank family,” Kelly read out loud. “Well, if that’s what he wanted for a memorial…”

  “It’s what they allow. But the tree warden insisted on performing a Frunge ritual after your father was buried. He even brought a giant wooden pole and tossed it so that it bounced once and then fell across the grave.”