“We pay heavy fees for those services,” the Grenouthian protested.
“And you charge even heavier fees for commercial time,” Gwendolyn fired back. “And who, if not the Dollnick merchant princes, have accumulated one of the great fortunes in the galaxy without having to spend it all on military assets to prevent somebody bigger and meaner from coming and taking it away? So the Humans didn’t develop their own faster-than-light drive. Big deal. At least they know better than complain about their benefactors.”
“Is there some point to your digression?” Ambassador Ortha inquired.
“I also believe that the behavior we’re seeing from the guests is due to culture shock. If the Cayl are as paternal in the management of their empire as Ambassador McAllister suggests, the societies of their empire must have adapted to the approach. Maybe they simply don’t know how to behave without Cayl supervision.”
“Whereas the Stryx expect tunnel species to police themselves, but act with overwhelming force when it’s required,” Bork said. “It’s as if both the Cayl and the Stryx run their domains like families, but with radically different parenting philosophies.”
“The species of the Cayl Empire are a mismatch for the tunnel network,” Srythlan boomed. “Our statisticians reached this conclusion based on the data, but they struggled to develop a theoretical model to explain the incompatibility.”
“Then what are the Stryx up to?” the Grenouthian pondered out loud.
“And when is the catering going to arrive?” Czeros added.
“I thought she was taking care of it,” Kelly said at the same time as Aluria.
The Frunge pushed away his wine in disgust, rose to his feet, and stalked out of the embassy. Bork shrugged and followed him, and the Chert vanished in the blink of an eye. The Verlock ambassador was much slower than the others, but once he began moving towards the exit, it was clear the meeting was concluded. Kelly offered to walk Gwendolyn back to the Gem embassy.
“I really am sick and tired of these scheming aliens,” Gwendolyn said, clearly referring to the ambassadors who ostentatiously remained behind in the Vergallian embassy. “I’ll bet Aluria even has food for just the four of them.”
“You seem to be a bit on edge today,” Kelly replied, trying not to sound critical. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong, but I talked our options over with Mist and she decided on stasis,” the Gem ambassador replied. “I think that Dorothy getting a boyfriend is what did it. I’ll bring Mist back to our home world, she’ll go to sleep, and when she wakes up in twelve or thirteen years, the first generation of cloned male Gems will be her age. I’m thinking of staying to help raise them.”
“You mean you won’t come back?”
“Probably not,” Gwendolyn replied sadly. “I’ll miss you and your family terribly, and I suppose I’ll also miss Srythlan and Bork, even Czeros. But my sisters back home are trying to bring up a generation of boys without ever having seen a male of any species in their lives. At least I’ve babysat for Samuel and watched him growing up, and half of the sentients I deal with on the station are male. Compared to most of my people, I’m an expert in the opposite sex.”
The only thing Kelly could think to offer in response was a going-away party.
Seventeen
“Have you developed a gold mask phobia?” Flazint asked Dorothy during a rare break in the action. The Frunge girl was wearing her hair vines straight up, which gave her the appearance of a child impersonating a tree in a school play. It was fortunate she had gone with the towering updo, because the two girls were working together behind the counter and there just wasn’t room for a more elaborate horizontal arrangement.
“It’s no big deal,” Dorothy said. “I had a bit of a run-in with some of those Lood creeps on the Physics Ride last week.”
“During your big date?” Flazint asked. “How was it?”
“It was nice. Well, we got into a fight with the Loods, and later, when I thought David was reaching for my hand on the way home, the dog decided to walk between us. But David invited me to dinner at Pub Haggis next weekend, and he’s going to cook it himself.”
“Wow, you’re so lucky. Frunge guys don’t enter the kitchen unless it’s to drink out of the liquid fertilizer jar without using a cup.”
“I’ve caught my dad and older brother doing that with the juice when they thought nobody was looking,” Dorothy said in commiseration. “Anyway, David started shooting the Loods after they insulted me, even though he doesn’t have an implant and couldn’t tell what they were saying. And I sort of lost my temper and told them where I work.”
“Oh, well. At least with the lost-and-found so busy now they won’t catch you alone. I’m going to ask for a raise if the bots start bringing us baby Shugas or Nangors. Those aliens can’t seem to leave a room without forgetting something.”
“They’re pretty lame,” Dorothy agreed. “My mom says it’s because the Cayl enforce strict rules against littering. When those aliens are at home, if they put something down and forgot it, they’d probably be fined, or eaten or something. Mom thinks that without a Cayl garrison to make their local authorities enforce the rules, the guests don’t know how to behave.”
“Excuse me,” a Tzvim said, sidling up to the counter. “I seem to have mislaid a collection of Grenouthian documentaries I purchased earlier this morning.”
“Holo-cubes or permanent storage?” the Frunge girl inquired.
“The collection was zapped onto the permanent memory of my—oh, no. This means I’ve lost my open ticket as well. Just look for a small, blue sphere with a slot in the center. I don’t know if they’ll let me back on the ship without it.”
“Trust me. We’ll do everything we can to see you on your way,” the Frunge girl said, rolling her eyes at Dorothy. “I’ll check the overflow bins.”
“I’ll check the belt,” Dorothy replied, as she began rummaging through the recently arrived objects under the intake end of the counter.
The system was bogging down under the sheer volume of stuff the bots had been finding abandoned since the guests arrived for the open house, necessitating double staffing. Fortunately, the aliens from the Cayl Empire were turning up at the lost-and-found almost as fast as the bots were bringing in new finds.
“I think I found it,” Dorothy called out, holding up a blue sphere. “We just need to confirm it’s yours and we’ll release it.”
“Of course it’s mine,” the Tzvim declared, making a grab for it over the counter and missing. “Where are you going with that?”
“Just to the end here, to put it through the scanner. The bots take a recording of every object where they find it, so the filing system can keep track of the items that haven’t been moved to shelf storage.”
Dorothy placed the blue sphere on the potter’s wheel and gave it a gentle spin.
“Tzvim data locker and passenger transponder,” the artificial voice intoned.
“There, you see?” the alien said aggressively. “Hand it over and I’ll be on my way.”
“Does the data locker contain a collection of Grenouthian documentaries purchased this morning?” Flazint asked the filing system.
“Data locker encrypted. Requesting assistance.”
“If the sphere is damaged, you girls are going to pay for this,” the Tzvim threatened.
“Decryption completed,” a different voice said. “Checking contents.”
“Is that you, Libby?” Dorothy asked.
“Yes,” the Stryx librarian replied. “The documentaries recorded on this device are pre-release copies from the Grenouthian editing studio. Please wait while I review our security imaging and contact the studio to determine if the transaction was legitimate.”
“I paid good currency for those documentaries,” the alien protested. “Is it my responsibility to determine if the individual selling them had all of the proper authorizations?”
A hologram sprang into life above the 3D scanner’s turntable, showing the turtle-backed alien in a corridor outside the main Grenouthian studio on the station. He held a bag out to a young bunny who accepted it, looked inside, and then withdrew a device similar to a flashlight from his pouch. The Tzvim held up the blue sphere and the Grenouthian zapped it with the data transfer device. In just a few seconds, the transaction was done and the pair split apart.
“You see?” the alien repeated querulously. “Perfectly legitimate trade.”
“Awaiting confirmation from the studio,” Libby said. The hologram continued to play, showing the Tzvim walking down the corridor to a lift tube. He entered the tube with the blue sphere still in his hand and gave the capsule his destination. Thirty seconds later he emerged in the all-species entertainment district, where he was met at the tube by another of his kind.
“Get it?” Geed asked bluntly.
“Got it,” the alien confirmed, displaying the blue sphere.
“Celebration,” the Tzvim emissary said, flashing her teeth.
The two Tzvim linked arms and strolled off in search of a drinking establishment near the Empire Convention Center. Libby speeded up the action, as the pair took corridor seats in front of a Dollnick bar and began ordering and quaffing glowing concoctions, one after another. Eventually, they bumped fists and headed off in their own directions, the blue sphere forgotten on the table, which was littered with the detritus of the celebration.
“Confirmation of an unauthorized transaction from the Grenouthian studio,” Libby reported. “Wiping data. The studio will reclaim your payment from their former employee and forward it to the Grenouthian ambassador, who will return it to your emissary.”
“This is illegal search and seizure,” the Tzvim shouted, working himself into a passion. Dorothy and Flazint both backed away, and a pair of maintenance bots streaked into the room, as if summoned by rubbing a magic lamp.
“Take your sphere and go,” one of the bots said in its mechanical voice.
The alien swept the blue sphere off the turntable, glared at the girls and the bots, and then stomped out.
“Thank you. Come again,” Dorothy whispered to Flazint, and the two girls struggled to suppress their giggles. But they stopped almost immediately as a trio of gold-masked Loods strode in.
“You,” the center figure in the trio proclaimed, pointing at the human girl. “Somebody in your Little Apple stole my purse. Return it immediately or face the consequences.”
Relieved that it wasn’t the young Lood from the Physics Ride, Dorothy put on her best customer service smile and tried to calm the agitated alien.
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir, but this is a lost-and-found and we don’t receive stolen goods. Are you sure that your purse wasn’t lost?”
“Look here,” the Lood ordered imperiously, and for a moment Dorothy thought he was going to remove his mask. Instead, he held up a hand, wiggled his fingers to draw her eyes, and then put the hand in the pocket of his expensive cloak. His fingers continued right through the pocket to the outside of the garment. “Some scum sliced my pocket open and stole my purse while I was engaged in defending myself from ruffians.”
“I see,” Dorothy said, wondering where the two maintenance bots had gone. “But I’m afraid that means the thief has your purse, unless he removed the money and threw it away. Could you describe it?”
“Describe it?” the Lood shouted. “It looks like my purse!”
One of his companions intuited that this description was unlikely to move the process forward, and he removed his own purse from his cloak. It was made out of some sort of tanned skin or artificial substitute, and was tooled with a detailed hunting scene taking place in grasslands.
“His purse looks like this, except the animal being killed is a Shorinth rather than a Jalop,” the companion explained helpfully.
“Black purse with a dying Shorinth,” Dorothy repeated “We’ll just take a look.”
This time it was Flazint who located the purse in one of the overflow bins after several minutes of searching, during which time the girls struggled to ignore a running commentary on their inefficient methods offered by the angry Lood. The purse was heavy and made the sound of shifting coins as the Frunge girl placed it on the scanner’s turntable.
“That’s my purse!” the Lood declared, approaching the counter and reaching for it. He jerked his hand back in surprise as it encountered an invisible barrier that flashed yellow and delivered a shock.
“We have to check out all items,” Dorothy said. “It’s for your own protection, to prevent somebody dishonest from claiming it.”
“Lood change purse and assorted coins from the Cayl Empire with a current exchange value of eighteen-hundred and seven Stryx creds,” the cataloging system’s voice announced.
“And it’s mine,” the Lood declared, rubbing his hand. “Are we through here?”
“Why would a thief return a full purse?” the helpful member of the trio asked.
“Don’t forget we’re talking about a human thief,” the third Lood said. “They’re all idiots.”
“Libby?” Dorothy asked. “Do you have a holo of how the purse was stolen?”
“Retracing,” Libby answered. A hologram appeared above the turntable, showing the purse lying on top of a mound of kebab sticks and food wrappers in the trash receptacle where a maintenance bot had found it. The scene seemed to jerk around for a moment as the Stryx librarian matched the bot’s recovery record against images from the security system, then a positive lock was achieved.
“Can you start a minute before the loss?” Flazint asked.
Three cloaked figures, viewed from above and behind, popped into existence near the trash receptacle. They were engaged in a loud dispute with a woman wearing an apron.
“Do you think because I’m human I just fell off the turnip cart?” the angry woman asked in English. “That’s three breakfast specials for nine creds total, and you’re lucky I don’t charge you for that bottle of vinegar you dumped all over your toast.”
“And this is a ten-cred coin,” came the voice of one of the Loods. He held out the tiny copper-colored disc they were arguing over. “It includes a tip for your fine service.”
“It’s not ten Stryx creds,” the woman said. She lifted her arm and waved a large ladle at the aliens. “I’m not afraid of anybody who has to hide behind a mask, so fork over something that my register likes and I’ll make the change.”
“Watch out,” one of the Loods shouted. “She’s got a Frazzleopper.”
All three aliens drew long knives out of back scabbards concealed under their cloaks, and in bringing them around their bodies, one of the Loods sliced through the cloak of his neighbor. The change purse dropped out into the trash can.
Several large men pushed into the scene, brandishing kitchen knives and meat cleavers. At their head Dorothy recognized Ian, who was wielding a Claymore that usually hung over the bar in Pub Haggis. David followed behind his employer with an iron frying pan.
One of the Loods reached for his mask but another one knocked his hand away. “Don’t,” he admonished. “There’s too many of them. We’d never make it out of here.”
“That’s nine creds you owe me,” the woman repeated, waving her ladle under the middle Lood’s nose.
“Of course, it was just a misunderstanding,” the alien gritted out. “Z’harp. You changed some money with that Thark, didn’t you?”
“Cheapskate,” muttered Z’harp, who the girls now recognized as the helpful one of the trio. He returned his knife to its sheath and dug out a ten-cred piece from his purse. “Your kitchen implement looks very much like a neural overload device used by Shuga cutthroats,” he said apologetically to the woman. The hologram blinked out.
“Here you go, sir,” Flazint said, handing the purse to its owner.
The Lood accepted the purse angrily and stuffed it in the pocket of his cloak, where it immediately dropped through the slit and landed on his foot. He glared wordlessly at the companion who had cut open the cloak with his sloppy knife-play, and that Lood quickly bent to retrieve the purse.
“Pay the fee, Z’harp,” the leader said. “Z’ding is taking me shopping for a new cloak.” He strode out of the lost-and-found with an unhappy companion in tow.
“How much will my older brother’s error cost me this time?” Z’harp asked in a resigned voice.
“There’s no fee,” Flazint told the Lood. “Some sentients tip, but it’s not mandatory.”
Z’harp reached into the change purse with the scene of the Jalop hunt and pulled out a five-cred piece, which he placed on the counter. Then he looked at it and hesitated, as if he had mistaken the coin for one of smaller value. Z’harp cleared his throat nervously.