Orphans on the Galactic Tunnel Network (EarthCent Auxiliaries Book 3) Page 3

  “So you’re suggesting I present myself as an EarthCent representative?” Larry asked.

  “As the special envoy of Ambassador McAllister of Union Station,” Daniel told him. “We talked it over with a few of the alien ambassadors, and they said that Kelly’s name has better recognition than the EarthCent brand away from Stryx stations. Most alien civil servants will recognize her from the interview she did with Maker Dring on the Grenouthian public access network, not to mention the Kasilian auction.”

  “I’m still trying to forget that myself,” Kelly mumbled as she signed the copper sheet with a flourish.

  “What do you have to identify yourself as the Human Empire’s Minister of Trade?” Daniel asked Larry.

  “Oh, Vivian made me business cards,” Larry said. He pulled a small silver case from his pocket, thumbed out three cards, and passed them around. “I have a few plastic ones in the lid for when I meet Frunge.”

  “Very professional. Who came up with the official logo?”

  “It’s the version Flower designed when she installed the fancy inlaid floor in the new headquarters. Vivian did the typography, and she brought me to the on-demand publisher that operates next to the library to have them printed. He seemed happy to drop what he was doing and jump through hoops for her.”

  “Vivian’s mother publishes translated alien romance novels,” Aabina told him. “They’re big sellers on-demand.”

  “Done,” Kelly announced, setting aside the last letter. “I don’t even recognize the language on this one, Aabina. Who is it for?”

  “The Fillinducks,” she said. “Larry will be the first Human to visit their homeworld if they let him land.”

  “Supposedly I have an invitation,” Larry told them. “I just wish I knew what I was going to say to all of these aliens.”

  “Practice on us,” Kelly suggested, and then got up and went around to the other side of the table to sit with Daniel and Aabina. “Now we’re a Fillinduck trio.”

  Larry blinked self-consciously and then began with, “Greetings from the Human Empire. I’m Larry, Phil’s son, and I’ve been appointed the Minister of Trade of our new empire. We’re hoping to develop bilateral trade relations with all of the tunnel network species and I’m here to get the ball rolling.”

  Daniel grimaced, Aabina shook her head ever so slightly, and Kelly said, “The first part was very good. Everybody likes a formal greeting.”

  “Try not to use idioms, like ‘get the ball rolling,’ which may not translate accurately,” Aabina told him. “Keep in mind that you’ll almost certainly be the first Human the individuals you speak with have ever met, and unlike the alien traders you’re accustomed to, they may have very limited experience in dealing with language barriers.”

  “Oh. I guess I kind of assumed that government types on the tunnel network all have a lot of practice communicating with different species,” Larry said.

  “That’s only the case on Stryx stations. When tunnel network species send missions to each other’s homeworlds for business or diplomacy, they choose representatives who have mastered the language and culture of the hosts. Showing up and speaking through an external translation device will be a bit unusual.”

  “But nothing to worry about,” Daniel added, to reassure the amateur diplomat. “Just try to avoid phrases like, ‘we’re hoping to develop.’ Some aliens would take that as an indication that you don’t care one way or the other, or that you’re looking for a handout. Keep it simple and direct, and don’t sign anything.”

  “Don’t sign anything? What if they have application forms to establish trade relations?”

  “Tell them the Human Empire has legal experts to look over all agreements. Nobody who is making an honest offer will be offended by that.”

  Three

  “When you say you’re leaving on vacation, do you mean you won’t be returning to Earth next month?” one of the syndicated journalists on Ellen’s video conference call asked. “Who will we pitch on special stories that require upfront financial support?”

  “I’m not entirely sure of our schedule,” Ellen admitted. “I had been planning on two weeks at a Vergallian spa, but now it looks like we’ll be taking an extended tour of tech-ban colonies. If the timing works out, I’d just as soon return to Earth on my regular schedule, but you know how hard it is to keep track of the time when you travel by interstellar tunnel.”

  “Not really,” the man said, and then his face on Ellen’s phone screen was replaced with that of a female journalist from Asia.

  “Are you interested in stories about tech-ban communities on Earth?” the woman asked. “We have a number of them around where I live. Some are communes, others just put limits on how much technology they use.”

  “But then there are the ones that make an exception for farm equipment,” another journalist put in, and the conferencing software again swapped video feeds to keep up. “There’s a huge commune just outside of my town that ended up with all the farmland in the area, fields of wheat and corn that go on forever. They use equipment that’s bigger than a house.”

  “My parents live in the country and their closest neighbors used to be an Old Way agricultural community,” a different woman reported. “The farmers packed their bags and left for a Vergallian open world a few months ago.”

  “Do you know which one?” Ellen asked. “I’d like to interview some people who have recently moved from Earth to a tech-ban world to get an idea of the challenges they face.”

  “My dad said it had a funny name, something like eat-and-run. Or maybe it was ate-the-inn.”

  “Atien?”

  “That could have been it,” the journalist said. “Is there something special about the tech-ban communities you’re investigating?”

  “It’s more that we were looking for a laid-back vacation,” Ellen fibbed, unwilling to share that her husband had been assigned by EarthCent Intelligence to investigate rumors of abuses. “But I can’t help wondering if all of the people living in those communities want to stay there, especially when they’re on an alien world and they can’t just walk away.”

  “Are you interested in back-to-nature cults?” a journalist from South America asked. “My cousin got tangled up in one of those and it turned out they were being used as cheap labor to grow coca for a drug cartel. The farm was way up in the mountains and they didn’t have cell phone coverage.”

  “How did your cousin get away?”

  “The army raided the farm because the cartel wasn’t paying off the right officers.”

  “Sounds like a rough neighborhood,” Ellen said. “It’s a wonder everybody hasn’t left on alien contracts.”

  The journalist shown on her phone’s screen shrugged. “By the time three-quarters of the population emigrated, the remainder had plenty of cheap housing, and labor was in high demand. That’s why the cartel has to trick people into working the coca farms. Besides, the drug business isn’t what it used to be. People who want to get high have all of those cheap synthetics, not to mention the alien stuff.”

  “I had a friend at university whose sister joined one of those Marxist communes,” somebody else said, and the phone screen switched automatically to show the new speaker. “When my friend visited the farm to talk her out of it, he couldn’t get through to her at all. It was like she’d been brainwashed or something.”

  “What happened?” Ellen asked.

  “The Marxists didn’t really know anything about farming and the whole thing folded in less than a year. The funny thing is when I eventually met his sister, she still believed that the commune was on its way to becoming paradise before it was sabotaged by capitalist running dogs. My friend said she tried one of those Old Way communes afterward, but manual labor was a poor substitute for political ideology, so she ended up returning to university.”

  “Interesting. I guess I thought all of those tech-ban communities were part of the same movement. I’ll have to study up on them.”

  “How about Earth Two?” somebody asked. “Is it going to be a tech-ban world?”

  “I don’t know,” Ellen said. “It’s not our decision to make unless EarthCent can come to some sort of financing arrangement with the Container Prince that includes letting people buy shares with their labor. If I had to guess, I think the Alts are going to end up as the owners.”

  “And how about all of the museum pieces and collectibles that were stolen from Earth?” asked the journalist sitting across from her in the conference room. “Any progress on recovery?”

  Ellen shook her head. “There’s not much EarthCent can do, Gerald, since in most cases, no tunnel network laws were broken. We’ll see what happens when the Grenouthians start running the documentaries they’re making about our missing cultural artifacts. Maybe some of the aliens who bought the stuff as collectibles will be shamed into giving or selling it back.”

  “Is the Galactic Free Press still interested in new stories about the thefts?”

  “It depends. If there’s something unique about the story, we’re always interested, but our readers don’t want to read about famous paintings that were replaced with forgeries over and over again, especially if the only changes are the names of the museums and artists.”

  “Hey, we’ve been talking for a whole hour and nobody hacked the call,” one of the journalists pointed out. “Did you upgrade your account again?”

  “Reluctantly,” Ellen said. “I hate this business model that all the Earth companies are using where the only difference between the subscription levels is the quality of the security. I could understand if the free version was hackable, but I started with the standard subscription, and we’ve gone through premium, deluxe, and enterprise in the last year.”

  “Enterprise did the trick?”


  “Until they come up with another level. Has anybody ever investigated if the hackers are actually working for the same company that provides the video conferencing app?”

  “Don’t say it out loud,” Gerald cautioned her. “They’re probably listening in.”

  “All right, hope to see you all in a month,” Ellen said and disconnected the call. Then she looked across the table and told Gerald, “If I don’t make it back, you’re my replacement. I already cleared it with the Galactic Free Press. If you have any questions, get a message to Roland on Union Station. He’s the freelance editor and my main contact there.”

  “No last name?”

  “If he has one, I’ve forgotten it. Do you have any questions for me before I go and find out what trouble our gryphon has gotten herself into?”

  “You’re welcome to leave her with me,” Gerald said. “She’s the best aerial photographer I’ve ever seen.”

  “Semmi is pretty good with a cell phone,” Ellen admitted. “But she has a thing about photographing ruminants that makes me nervous that she’s planning a picnic without bringing the main course, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’ll remember not to let her see me on all fours grazing then,” Gerald said, getting up from the table and slipping his own phone into his pocket. “I’ve got to get down to the docks to follow up on a rumor about a new terminal for undersea tourism. Supposedly the Grenouthians are bringing in an old excursion ship from a water world that can be reconfigured for all of the tunnel network species.”

  “I hope EarthCent negotiates a good access fee. It would be a shame if the Grenouthians are the only ones making money from Earth tourism.”

  “I’ll look into that, but you know how many people they employ, and the benefits packages they offer are first class,” he added, looking a bit wistful. “See you later.”

  Ellen took her phone off the small teleconferencing stand, which she folded up and stuck back in the case that looked like a cigar tube. She double-checked that she hadn’t left her phone charger plugged into the wall again, and headed outside. Her phone played the latest annoying ringtone she’d bought during a bout of temporary insanity, and she recognized the number as EarthCent’s public relations chief.

  “Ellen here,” she answered.

  “Glad I caught you,” Hildy said. “Any chance you’re coming into town before leaving Earth? Stephen is hoping to ask you a few follow-up questions about your visit to Earth Two.”

  “Who am I to turn down the President of EarthCent? I just need to figure out where Semmi is, unless you don’t mind her showing up outside the windows and screeching.”

  “I watched the local newsfeed for a few minutes when I had my coffee break, and I didn’t see anything about a gryphon attacking drones if that’s any comfort. Just let me know when you’ll be here. Our schedules are entirely open today.”

  “Great. If John gets back in time, maybe we can take you out to dinner. I’m officially on vacation.”

  As soon as Ellen disconnected, her phone rang again, and this time the caller ID showed an image of a gryphon. She swiped to connect the video call and held the phone at arm’s length.

  “SCRAWWWWWW!”

  “Very funny, Semmi. Are you with John?”

  The image blurred away from Semmi’s face to what looked like an old barn, but then the gryphon did a flyby of the sign above the large doors that clearly read, “Ye Olde Tool Museum.”

  “When he gets out, call me again and lend him your phone.”

  “Scraw.”

  Ellen continued watching for a few more seconds as the camera gained altitude over the bucolic farm scene, but she broke off the connection when Semmi spotted some goats who were about to get the surprise of their lives.

  “I can’t let you have any of the farming implements on the left side there because they actually belong to the historical society,” a man was explaining to John when they were interrupted by frantic bleating. A moment later, a small herd of goats stampeded through the open doors and disappeared into a dark corner behind an old thresher. “I wonder what got into them?”

  “Beats me, Hank,” John said, praying that Semmi would have the sense to stay aloft until he could close the deal. “Does that mean everything on this side is for sale?”

  “Not everything, but most of it,” the man said. Their eyes were still adjusting after coming in from the bright sunlight, but he navigated his way to an old dresser without tripping over anything and pulled open the top drawer. “I’ve always loved the decorative scrollwork on this cast iron spirit level. It was an antique long before this barn was raised.”

  “Seems a bit heavy for a carpenter to carry around,” John said, hefting the proffered level. “It’s a beautiful piece, though, and if you ever decide to sell, alien collectors go nuts over high-quality tools from our Dark Ages.”

  “It’s not that old,” Hank said with a laugh. “If there was better light in here you could read the patent date, and the year of manufacture is hidden in the scrollwork. It’s from the late 1800s.”

  “To the aliens, our Dark Ages extended right up until the Stryx opened Earth,” John told him, handing back the level. “If the rest of your tools are anywhere near as valuable as this level, it’s a wasted morning for both of us. I need to acquire stock that the people living in tech-ban communities can afford, whether it’s cash or barter. And I’m not interested in hammers or axes because they’re still manufactured and easy enough for the local blacksmith to forge if the community is that hardcore.”

  “I know, and I wouldn’t have dragged you out here if I didn’t have just what you’re looking for,” Hank said. “You want the same sort of tools I saw you buying at the county fair, right?”

  “In good condition, and in quantity. If I lay out my blanket with a couple of rusty saws and a few old drill bits, everybody will think that I’m an undercover cop.”

  “Now that you mention it, you sort of give off that vibe,” Hank said, and then laughed again. “But you’ve come to the right place. We’re collectors in the farmer sense, going back ten generations, but at some point, the duplication just gets silly. I’ve got over a hundred bit braces in those boxes, and—”

  “What’s a bit brace?” John asked.

  “A hand-operated drill, the simplest type. I’ve also got geared versions, like this breast drill,” he said, picking up a tool from a cluttered display bench and passing it over. “You lean against the top pad with your chest to keep downward pressure on the bit while you crank. These were very popular with framing crews.”

  John held the drill by the shaft under the pad in one hand and gave the crank a few spins. It moved smoothly and gave off the slight odor of lubricant.

  “I get the kids in here for a Sunday once a year to oil all the gears,” Hank said. “But my married daughter decided to bring her family home, so she’s back here with her big-city museum experience, and the way she tells it, we’ve been doing it all wrong for the past couple centuries. Beth’s already ordered new lighting fixtures, and she’s going to limit the display collection—curate, she calls it—to one unique example of each type of tool. It’s a good thing I’m retired because I’m going to be working full time writing up descriptions of how everything was used.”

  John nodded his head. “I’ll take every bit brace and hand drill you’ve got to spare if they’re all in this condition and we can agree on the price. What else have you got?”

  “Planes,” Hank said. “Hundreds and hundreds of them. Those box planes over there are for molding work, but I’ll probably be keeping around half of them, and I have a dozen Stanley #45’s with the full blade kit that includes all the basic molding types. But what we’re really loaded with,” he continued, opening a large chest and pulling out a bench plane, “are these Stanleys from the mid-twentieth century. Classic design, nothing to improve. Then electric hand-planes came along...”

  “What kind of price did you have in mind?” John asked, sighting along the plane’s edge.

  “If you can guaranty me that you’ll find these tools a good home with Luddites who will actually put them to work, I’ll sell you all of the duplicates for five thousand eBucks,” Hank said. “I could get a lot more if I sold them one by one, but I’d rather spend my retirement showing visitors around the museum than packing tools to send all over the world. My main goal is to keep my daughter from taking it all to the recycling facility.”