Vacation on Union Station (EarthCent Ambassador Book 7) (3 page)

“You just told us,” Lynx said. “Human settlements.”

“The work was on human settlements, but in all of the ads the contact person was listed as a mayor or executive of some sort. I’ve never been to a human settlement with an executive form of government. Even those two off-network colony worlds we visited, Kibbutz and Bits, handled everything informally.”

“It makes sense that independent groups of humans who find they require a government would look to their history for precedents,” Herl said. He peeked at his hole-card and grimaced. “I believe that Drazen cities had something like mayors before we began settling other worlds.”

“How does colonizing space change the need for government?” Lynx asked. “If anything, I would have guessed that frontier worlds and colonies would have even more need of a strong executive. I used to go armed and worry about losing my cargo to criminals when trading took me to those places.”

“By the time we developed faster-than-light capability and joined the tunnel network, we’d had a much longer time to mature than humans,” Herl replied modestly. “At some point, your typical species discovers that the most economically efficient way to run a community is to get along with one another. The infrastructure and service providers who collect fees are the closest thing to local government on most Drazen worlds. While we aren’t immune to crime, it’s handled by our planetary defense forces.”

“My cards tonight are a crime,” Joe growled, refilling his glass from the pitcher.

“So you’re saying that thanks to the Stryx, humans have gone from hitting each other over the head with rocks to flying around the stars, without having the time to become civilized?” Lynx asked.

“The effort required to develop the science and technology for even the crudest jump-drives requires a high degree of cooperation,” Herl replied. “Was there ever a time that humans were willing to invest half of their economic output into something that would take generations to accomplish?”

“Aren’t there any aliens who figure out the science stuff for themselves before they’re ready for it?” Kelly asked.

“Would you at least please come and sit with us if you’re going to participate in the conversation?” Joe begged his wife. “I’m getting a sore neck looking over at you every two minutes.”

“I’m reading,” Kelly replied, but she waited for Herl’s answer.

“Technology outpacing maturity is one of the defining factors for unstable species,” Herl replied. “It doesn’t always end badly, of course, but many of those species who survive long enough to join the tunnel network end up retiring back to their own worlds because they can’t get along with the rest of us.”

“The rest of you can get along without me for a hand,” Joe said in disgust, mucking his cards and rising from the table. “Kelly, I’m getting you a chair.”

“I don’t want to interfere with your game,” Kelly protested, but she came over to the table and took Joe’s vacated seat. “Have you heard about any problems with humans committing crimes in Drazen space, Herl?”

“Raise ten,” the Drazen spymaster said, tossing a yellow chip into the pot. Everybody except for Jeeves and Woojin folded. “To be perfectly honest with you, I doubt we’d notice. The only places in Drazen space with high concentrations of humans are consortium-managed worlds, and they handle their own policing internally, as a business expense.”

Woojin gave each of the two remaining players another face-up card and then dealt one to himself. He and Jeeves both looked to the Drazen for the bet.

“Pass,” Herl muttered.

Jeeves tapped the table with his pincer.

“I’ll raise twenty,” Woojin said, throwing two yellow chips in the pot. Lynx tried to peek at his hole card, but he slapped her hand away. “No free samples until after the wedding,” he told her. Herl folded his hand, but Jeeves pushed two yellows into the pot to call.

Woojin dealt a third open card to Jeeves, who paired his exposed seven. The dealer paired his five. The Stryx and the ex-mercenary regarded each other across the table for a long minute, and then Jeeves tapped with his pincer. Woojin slid him the final card without raising, and then dealt one to himself. Neither player improved their hand by the cards that were showing.

“Pass,” Jeeves said.

Woojin hesitated, toying with his stacks and picking up a blue chip, which was worth a whole cred. Then he dropped it and flipped over his face cards, conceding the pot.

“You beat me with what you’ve got showing,” he remarked.

“That makes no sense,” Kelly complained. “Why did Herl raise and then drop out, and then you raised and dropped out, and neither of you could beat a pair of sevens? With eight players, I’d think somebody would always get a better hand than that.”

“Hoping for the best can get expensive,” Lynx told her. Then she turned to Herl and asked, “Did you know about all of the empty decks on the station?”

“We don’t really pay that much attention to Stryx affairs,” the Drazen spymaster replied. “I do know that all of the stations I’ve visited are continually undergoing new construction, but it plays out so slowly in biological time that migrations are rare.”

“Migrations?” Kelly asked.

“When they slow the spin rate,” Herl explained. “The Stryx never build into the hollow core of the station, they add decks to the outer hull. The core radius is large enough that each new deck isn’t moving that much faster than the one below it, but every few million years, there are enough new decks that they have to let the rotational rate decay a bit. Otherwise, the angular acceleration at the outer hull would keep creeping up, and it would be hard to find biological tenants who were comfortable carrying that much weight around.”

“Why keep building with all of the empty decks?” Shaina asked.

“Keeps the bots in practice,” Jeeves said, performing a one-handed deck manipulation with his pincer. “Are we still playing?”

“I seem to remember hearing of an early Grenouthian documentary series about the unoccupied decks on one of the stations,” Herl commented, moving his ante into the center of the table.

“Libby?” Kelly inquired out loud. “Do you remember a documentary about the empty decks on stations?”

“Hidden Treasures of the Stryx,” the librarian replied scornfully. “It was more of an exercise in showmanship than a documentary. The Grenouthians promoted each new episode for cycles in advance. They featured interviews with questionable historians, and speculative reenactments of lurid episodes attributed to whatever species once occupied the deck. By the time they got around to actually sending in an immersive crew and finding an empty field or pile of abandoned junk, the viewers didn’t care anymore because the Grenouthians had already started teasing the next episode.”

“Did they feature any of the decks we’ll be visiting?” Kelly asked.

“That show was shot on Corner Station. I have no idea why Farth ever gave the Grenouthians access in the first place, but it was over a hundred thousand years ago, and none of the first generation Stryx have seen the need to repeat the experiment.” Libby replied.

Joe returned to the table with a chair dangling from one hand and bowl of pretzels in the other. Beowulf waited for the owner of Mac’s Bones to sit, at which point the dog came over and dropped his head on the man’s lap, waiting for a salt fix. “Are you playing my chips or should I raid the bank for you?” Joe asked his wife.

“I’m just reading,” Kelly asserted, looking around for her book. When she realized she’d left it behind on the couch, she gave in and reached for Joe’s pile. “It’s not my money so it’s not really gambling,” she justified herself. “But, Libby? Warn me when the kids get out of the lift tube.”

Three

“Thank you all for attending on such short notice,” Kelly said, glancing at the top right of the hologram to make sure that encryption was turned on. “Director Oxford will be joining us in a few minutes, but I thought it would make sense to take a vote first on whether or not this falls within the scope of activity for an intelligence agency.”

“I realize I’m the new kid on the block, but I’m a little puzzled by the timing of this meeting,” said Ambassador Fu. “I think the self-government issue is certainly worth discussing, but I wish we had been given a little more notice to prepare.”

Kelly turned to her left to address the Void Station ambassador, even though the holo-conference technology always processed the holograms so that everybody thought that everybody else was looking at them. The effect was rather like sitting around a conference table peopled with Old Masters portraits, since the eyes seem to follow the observer around the room.

“It came to my own attention just recently, and it occurred to me that asking our intelligence people to look into accusations that we’re running some sort of police state could create a conflict of interest,” Kelly replied.

“Well, you all know that I’m in no hurry to see EarthCent getting into the military business,” Ambassador White said. “But that does appear to be how most of the advanced species handle their policing, so perhaps we should look into it.” Belinda White was dressed in what looked like an old British safari outfit, and Kelly wondered if she was heading to a costume party right after the conference.

“I learned of an active anti-EarthCent movement on Middle Station earlier today,” Carlos Oshi contributed. “My weekly meeting with the local council of merchants was interrupted by a group of human demonstrators, though they weren’t as well prepared as one might expect. I’d like to play a recording of that event made by our station librarian.”

“It’s your committee, Kelly,” President Beyer said.

“You have the hologram,” Kelly told Ambassador Oshi.

A scene from Middle Station showing a large café in a setting modeled after an Italian piazza popped into life over Kelly’s display desk. Ambassador Oshi was standing at a makeshift lectern looking bemused as a group of protesters armed with placards pushed into the space between the tables where the local business leaders were sitting. One protester held an old-fashioned megaphone and led the chants.

“We want free elections,” the woman shouted.

“We want free elections,” the protesters repeated dutifully.

“No representation without participation,” proclaimed the leader.

“No representation without participation,” the followers echoed.

“Stryx go home!” she shouted.

“Stryx go home?”

The protesters repeated this last bit uncertainly, and a young man let his sign fall and raised a hand.

“Yes, Jason?” the leader said through her megaphone. She was plainly unhappy with the interruption, but as an advocate of participatory government, she had encouraged her followers to ask questions at any time.

“Aren’t the Stryx already home?” Jason asked. “I mean, they own the stations and all.”

“That’s an excellent observation, young man,” Ambassador Oshi interjected before the protest leader could reply. “I’d be happy to address all of your questions if you’ll meet with me at the embassy later. Right now we’re in the middle of a meeting to raise funds for a children’s theatre.”

“Oh, sorry,” the young man said. The other protesters let their signs droop and some of them looked rather abashed. “My little brother wants to be an actor. Can I do anything to help?”

“Jason!” the leader shouted through her megaphone. “Don’t let the oppressors buy you off with their bread and circuses. Have you forgotten what I said in our meeting just twenty minutes ago?”

“But now we’re interrupting their meeting, Amber,” protested a middle-age woman. The sign which she had allowed to slide to the floor read, “One sentient, one vote.”

“Did anybody ask us for our input on this alleged theatre project?” Amber shouted back through her megaphone. “Who are they to decide for all of the humans living on the station?”

“Do you have something against children’s theatre?” Jason asked.

“It’s not about the damned children’s theatre!” Amber yelled, losing her temper. “It’s about self-determination and not living as slaves of the Stryx overlords.”

“Are you feeling alright, Miss, er, Amber?” Ambassador Oshi inquired. He appeared to be genuinely concerned. “Waiter? Could you bring the young lady a glass of water?"

Amber snarled at him, raised her megaphone to say something, and then changed her mind and marched off, head held high. The rest of the protesters melted away. The scene vanished and the hologram of the steering committee members seated around a virtual conference table returned.

“Wow,” Belinda said. “That was really wild.”

“I suspect those protesters had less time to prepare for their demonstration than I did for this meeting,” the Void Station ambassador observed.

“Has anybody else experienced a similar outbreak of democracy?” the president asked with a crooked smile.

“I did have an awkward meeting earlier this week with a local man who wanted to register his candidacy for the next ambassadorial election,” Ambassador Zerakova said. “I tried to explain to him that we don’t have elections, but it didn’t seem to sink in. He kept posing the same question in different ways until finally I sent him to dinner with my junior consul. It couldn’t have gone very well because she hasn’t been speaking to me for the last two days.”

“Does the close timing of these incidents strike anybody else as suspicious?” Belinda asked. “Why don’t we get our Mr. Oxford’s opinion on all of this before we make any decisions? That is what we pay him for, after all.”

“He’s waiting in my outer office, so we’ll skip the vote and invite him in now if there are no objections,” Kelly said. “Oh, and just in case you’ve forgotten, we don’t pay him. The intelligence agency supports itself by selling data and services to the business community.”

“Could a police force be self-funding?” the president asked.

“For much of Earth’s history they practically were, at least in some countries,” Svetlana replied. “Of course, it meant that police protection was primarily available to those who could afford it, and the biggest spenders were organized crime bosses.”

Clive entered Kelly’s office during this last exchange and took the seat across from her at the display desk. The holo-controller made a space for him at the virtual conference table between Belinda and Svetlana, rearranging them all in a boy-girl pattern for some obscure reason of its own.

“I believe I know all of you except for the gentleman in the nightgown,” Clive said, looking around the hologram.

“They’re pajamas,” Ambassador Fu replied. “I am Zhao Fu, and I was appointed the Void Station ambassador after Mr. Beyer accepted the EarthCent presidency.”

“Clive Oxford, pleased to make your acquaintance,” the director of EarthCent Intelligence introduced himself briskly. “I overheard the last couple comments about funding for a police force as I came in, and I can confirm that self-funding would lead to distortions in enforcement policy. I know that in the case of mercenaries, granting charters to attack enemy shipping usually turns into out-and-out piracy. But first I’d like to present our current assessment of the human-on-human crime situation and discuss whether there’s really a need for policing in some human communities.”

“Please do,” President Beyer said.

“EarthCent has escaped the problem of policing humanity in space to this point thanks to the fact that practically all of the humans who have left Earth are living as guests or contract workers. This means that they, we, live under alien authorities whose surveillance and enforcement technologies make it nearly impossible for human criminals to avoid detection and capture.”

“I can see where that would discourage property crime, and of course, none of the Earth’s laws regarding vice have any meaning to aliens, but what about violent crime?” Belinda asked.

“Human-on-human crimes against persons are indeed the main problem under alien rule,” Clive replied. “But you have to remember that the humans living on alien worlds have no rights other than those granted by the landlords. I’m sure you all see your share of runaways from labor contracts, especially the young people who grew up in the system rather than making a commitment of their own accord. I’m also sure you all have friends or acquaintances who were contract laborers at one time or another, but have you ever heard somebody complain about the alien policing?”

“An interesting point,” the Middle Station ambassador commented. “We conduct an ongoing survey of humans transiting the station, mainly questions about their employment experiences, though you can find most of the same information on the job boards run by the laborer agencies. The food, the pay, the hours, and the conduct of their co-workers all come in for regular criticism. Occasionally we’re asked to look into a failure to deliver on promised bonuses, but I can’t recall the issue of policing coming up even once.”

“Even if it was an issue, we have no jurisdiction in alien space to do anything about it,” Clive pointed out. “The Stryx grant us limited self-government on our own decks, but since they also provide all of the infrastructure and services, there’s never been a need for anything beyond the business associations and school cooperatives. The only place we see a real demand for policing is on the self-governing human colonies and outposts. As more humans who complete labor contracts opt to remain in space rather than retiring to Earth, the human populations on the open worlds of the tunnel network are starting to grow rapidly.”

“But the open worlds still belong to the aliens, don’t they?” Ambassador Fu inquired. “I’m not aware of any sovereign human worlds on the tunnel network.”

“Ahem,” President Beyer cleared his throat meaningfully.

“Aside from Earth, of course,” the new ambassador amended himself hastily.

“Open worlds weren’t an option for humans until just a few years ago,” Clive explained. “It takes money to buy passage and land, not to mention capital to invest in setting up a farm or a business. Generally speaking, unless the world is well established, newcomers are expected to handle their own affairs. The open worlds currently accepting humans are owned by Dollnick merchant princes, Drazen consortiums and of course, the Verlocks. But it’s rare for any other species to want to live anywhere a Verlock would feel comfortable.”

“I’ve heard the Dollnicks hire human laborers for terraforming projects, and when the world is ready for occupation, they try to recover their investment by selling part of the real estate to the same laborers who did the work,” President Beyer said.

“It seems to be a successful business model,” Clive replied. “From the human standpoint, it saves on transportation costs if they remain on the world where they or their parents served out a labor contract, and they also know exactly what to expect.”

“But I suppose when they move from a work camp or a company town into an independent human settlement, the Dollnicks are no longer responsible for policing,” Belinda said. “Do you have any information on how they’re coping?”

“Everything we know to date comes from an analysis of the help-wanted ads posted to the mercenary exchanges,” Clive said. “We’ve assigned a pair of senior agents to visit some representative communities and to talk things over with whoever is in charge. The ads usually state that the humans are willing to consider proposals from artificial people and aliens, but for the money they’re offering, the only takers will be human, or perhaps some Gem ex-military. By contrast, doing police work on alien outposts has always been viewed as desirable work for human mercenaries, but of course, the aliens can afford to pay well.”

“Why would any of the advanced species need human cops?” the president asked.

“It mainly comes down to economics,” Clive explained. “None of the advanced species hire mercenaries for policing on developed worlds, or even on their own colonies, for that matter. Most of the demand is from mining outposts, recreational orbitals and commercial ag worlds. The only aliens who go to live at those places are doing it as a job, or on mining outposts, for a chance to strike it rich on shares. If they want to work as police, they prefer to do it somewhere civilized.”

“I recall that you started out as a mercenary, Mr. Oxford,” Svetlana said. “Did you have any experiences in this field?”

“I worked as a market cop on a Frunge orbital for six months,” Clive replied. “It was even more depressing than fighting in the endless Vergallian wars. As on the Stryx stations, Frunge surveillance made it nearly impossible to get away with committing a crime undetected, so there’s little point in trying unless the criminal has the means to immediately flee into space. My platoon was responsible for investigating transient-on-transient crimes, but the Frunge had a different system to address problems with their own citizens.”

“Do you believe we should be encouraging the humans on these open worlds to set up their own surveillance societies?” Raj inquired.

“That’s above my pay grade,” Clive responded. “I can only tell you that the near-certainty of being detected tends to remove the profit motive from most crimes. The advanced species have their problems, but other than the feuds and the occasional crime of passion, it’s mostly sophisticated stuff, more like industrial espionage than smash-and-grab. The kind of police work that human mercenaries are capable of doing for aliens is of the frontier town variety, or anti-piracy patrols.”