Date Night on Union Station (9 page)

“I wasn’t finished with my ale,” Joe protested out of pride, but he knew he wasn’t recovered enough from whatever had happened to take on the tavern heavy.

“I think you’ve had quite enough, sir,” the serving man replied dryly.

Joe mulled that over for a long moment and decided the serving man’s assessment was accurate, even if was based on a misreading of the situation. So he reached in his pocket without rising from his seat and fished out a handful of bloody coins.

“Allow me, sir.” The serving man produced a finger bowl, filled it with water from a carafe on the table, and indicated that Joe should drop in his coins. The serving man swirled the water in the bowl a few times like a prospector panning for gold, then poured most of the pink liquid off onto the floor, without losing a centee.

Watching this operation reminded Joe that the bloody coins had come from his clean dress uniform pocket, and looking down, he found the leather over his left thigh crusted over with dried blood. A small cut that looked suspiciously like a prick from a lady’s dagger or a sharp quill went right through the pocket. So that’s where red ink comes from, Joe thought sourly, annoyed that his only flawless uniform had been bloodied on a date, of all things.

When he looked up again, the serving man bowed deeply and intoned, “That was very generous of you, Sir.” Then the man retreated, leaving the bowl with a few small denomination coins on the table.

Twelve

“I’m not bailing out on the subscription,” Kelly told Donna, trying not to sound like she was asking permission. “But it would look pretty odd if I didn’t show up for the first consulate-sponsored mixer, which, if I may add, was my idea.”

“Why didn’t you just put in a change request to Eemas for a date to meet you there?” Donna asked skeptically.

“Maybe my decade and a half of experience doesn’t make me a singles expert, but I know you don’t bring a date to a mixer.”

“So you could have pretended that you met by chance.”

“Do I really look so pathetic that I need to arrange a back-up date for a mixer?” Kelly asked. “Anyway, it’s too late now, and based on the dates I’ve been on when Eemas had a week to think about it, I don’t want to see who I would get on one hour’s notice after a cancellation.”

“Well, you can explain it to the girls when they ask how your date went. They’ve been nagging me about getting them a baby brother lately and I had to explain that it wasn’t as simple as just ordering one from a catalog.” Donna looked away guiltily and added, “So, uh, don’t be surprised if they start in on you about having a baby.”

“Donna!”

“Well, you’re not getting any younger, and you did have an offer, even if it was a little creepy.”

“A little creepy? That man wanted to pay me to have a baby for HIM, or barring that, to sell him my eggs!”

“I have to go make dinner for the girls,” Donna said, choosing not to extend the conversation. “I’ll see you at the mixer. If it doesn’t work out, you can help me with the nametags and the messaging list, but I won’t be able to get you overtime pay.”

“You get paid overtime?” Kelly asked in dismay.

“Of course, I’m hourly.” Donna sounded exasperated with her friend’s thick-headedness as she rushed for the door. “See you.”

Kelly decided against returning home for another shower before the mixer, in part because her morning ablutions had been an experience in terror as the landlord program was turning downright nasty. If Mr. Right showed up for the mixer, he’d have to take Kelly as she was. Besides, duty called.

“Libby? Do you have anything new on those invasive black vines that were discovered growing on the open ag deck? The farmer denied all knowledge, and he was afraid to touch the stuff himself, so he’s asked the embassy for help.”

A short pause ensued, enough to make Kelly wonder if Libby wasn’t listening, but as usual, the Stryx hadn’t missed a word.

“We ran tests on samples and it’s been positively identified as a new strain of Blanker, which is banned in Stryx space. Maintenance bots have eradicated the vines and are in the process of inspecting the ground level on all of the ag decks,” Libby reported.

“What exactly is Blanker?”

“It’s a bio-engineered mind altering drug,” Libby explained. “I don’t believe you’ve encountered any of the Farlings in your travels, but they are one of the most technologically advanced biologicals in this part of the galaxy, especially in genetic engineering. A few of the outer Farling systems are connected to our tunnel network, but most Farling worlds are beyond our influence. They are not aggressive themselves, but they have been known to provide advanced technology to other biologicals. In short, Blanker gives the user a false sense of confidence, of being in complete control of the situation, while simultaneously slowing reaction times by a few percent.”

“What’s so horrible about that?” Kelly asked. “Does it have long term effects, or do the users build up resistance and need to buy more and more of the stuff?”

“No. It’s specifically designed to be non-addictive and nearly undetectable so it can be introduced into food supplies for a whole community without being discovered.”

“Then I really don’t get it. There are humans all over the galaxy addicted to substances that destroy their minds and their bodies. To buy another dose they’ll steal from their parents or sell their children into slavery. Who would care about a drug that makes people a little overconfident while slowing them down just a hair?”

Then Kelly’s analytical side took over, and without waiting for Libby to reply, she began thinking it through out loud.

“If there was a war on and you could get it into enemy supplies, but no, they’d be testing for that. It sounds like it could shift the odds a little in a sporting event, help the gamblers against the spread, but there aren’t any professional Earth leagues on this side of the galaxy. The only humans around here I can imagine having a problem with Blanker are the competitive gamers,” she concluded.

“Exactly,” Libby confirmed her hypothesis. “From Phalnyx to blitz chess, from Nova to Artellian poker, the one thing humanity excels at is playing games. The Natural League is founded on the premise that the biologicals who developed space travel without Stryx intervention are superior in every way to the species we’ve fostered. But you humans have an unexpected knack for games, and I’m sure you’re aware that the rise of human champions at competitive tournaments has boosted Earth’s game exports by several orders of magnitude. Outside of Stryx space, the most common cause of shooting wars is market share.”

“I guess I’ll have to take your word for that,” Kelly replied. “So you’re suggesting a conspiracy between alien game manufacturers and Natural League members with fragile egos to cheat at the Union Station tourney?”

“The probability is in excess of 99.94%,” Libby answered modestly.

“Why does the universe have to be so weird?” Kelly complained. But then again, it made perfect sense, in an alien sort of a way.

“Speaking of our weird universe, I hear that somebody cancelled on her dream date tonight.”

“Why don’t you just admit that you run Eemas. I promise I won’t tell anybody.”

“Alright, I run Eemas, and I had you set up with the perfect match tonight. Why did you cancel?” Libby sounded genuinely annoyed.

“Libby, I may not be a maestro of relationships, but those first three guys you picked for me were the worst. I understand that compared to all of the other Eemas clients, working with humans is new to you, but I’m beginning to wonder if you just don’t get us,” Kelly vented. “I mean, what kind of success rate do you have with humans compared to everybody else?”

“You’ve got a point there,” Libby admitted, and Kelly could almost hear the smile in the Styrx’s synthesized voice. “Before I extended the Eemas service to humans, the success rate was so close to perfect that publishing a percentage didn’t even make sense. Humans have single-handedly dragged down my success rate by almost a full point, which means over half of my attempts at human matchmaking are failing. I’ve issued more refunds in the last two decades than in the previous millennia.”

“So why do you keep promoting the service to humans?”

“For one thing, it’s a business, and for another, I like a challenge. At this point, I’m mainly using the dates to learn more about human relationships. Do you want to hear my conclusions?”

“Uh, OK,” Kelly replied, not really sure this was a good idea, but unwilling to try to explain her discomfort to Libby.

“Uniquely among the biologicals, large numbers of humans either don’t know what they want or they lie to themselves about what they do want. It’s why your immersives and literature do so poorly in translation. To use your own words, the rest of the galaxy just doesn’t ‘get’ humans. Your development as a species depends on natural selection, yet your mating selections are most unnatural.”

“Is that why you don’t provide pictures or videos before the dates, just the vague physical description? You think we’re too picky or something?”

“No, I like to leave the door open to chance. The important thing when you go on a blind date is that you’re open to meeting somebody new. Maybe you’ll mistakenly meet the wrong person, but it’s simply meant to be. I often schedule multiple Eemas introductions for the same location at the same time, just to give nature a chance.”

“Doesn’t sound very omniscient to me,” Kelly objected.

“Humans are tough to quantify. At the risk of sounding egotistic, I’m afraid the fault lies with human inconsistency, not my analytical ability. So if I may ask again, why did you cancel your date?”

“Oh, that’s just because the embassy is sponsoring a singles mixer,” Kelly replied, but she was no longer sure that it was true.

“I see,” Libby responded after an artificially long pause, confirming Kelly’s suspicions that the Stryx didn’t believe she knew her own mind.

“Anyway, I don’t believe my dates were really dates at all. You’re just using me to catch bride-stealers or cancel contracts and the like.”

“Or perhaps I concluded from your personal data that you needed preparation,” Libby offered the alternative explanation. “Matchmaking isn’t a simple service, it’s a process. Maybe I’m just making sure you’ll be in the right state of mind to accept Mr. Right when I drop him in your lap.”

“I’ve got to get going or I’ll be too late to meet anyone.” Kelly rose abruptly and headed for the corridor. Then a flash of bravado led her to add, “I’ll let you know tomorrow whether or not you can cancel my remaining introductions.”

“I think I’m safe there,” Libby responded dryly and withdrew from contact.

Thirteen

The opposing battle fleets scrambled and unscrambled themselves in the intricate ballet that preceded a full-scale commitment to total war. Paul controlled the blue fleet, Joe the red, and although they sat just an arm’s length apart over the glowing Nova cube with its holographic projections, they were barely aware of each other’s presence. The game was famous for its intensity, and even combat veterans of multiple fleet actions like Joe were liable to break into a cold sweat just skirmishing over the initial dispositions. Beowulf sat by the man’s side, occasionally whining softly or scratching the floor plates when he didn’t agree with Joe’s choices.

A full game of Nova lasted on the order of four hours, although the exact timing depended on how long it took the host star to explode, which was a random element in the game. The fleets were evenly matched in size and strength, an artificiality never encountered in the real world, which meant that victory went to the player with the best battle management abilities. A blast of X-rays released from the star teetering on the edge of self-destruction signaled the start of the game.

“Damn!” Joe muttered as tiny flashes in the left wing of his formation witnessed the compromise of his starting position. “Aren’t you even going to let me compete, boy?”

Paul didn’t answer, intent on the holo-gesture controller on his side of the Nova cube. Practiced finger movements allowed him to maneuver and fight the squadrons, even individual ships within a squadron, a level of control that Joe could only marvel at. He ground his teeth and executed one of his previously programmed fallback plans, bringing the right wing and high squadrons to cover the retreat of the left, which left his forces in a defensive hedgehog.

With Paul already ahead on ships, Joe would have to transition to the offensive at some point before the star went nova and Paul won on points. He moved his hands within the controller space and dripped beads of sweat as Beowulf whined louder and nipped at his arm. It was beginning to look like he could lose his fleet before the star even popped, the ultimate humiliation for a Nova player. It was time to get serious.

“What do you know about girls?” Joe managed to ask in a casual tone, even as one of his tunnel projectors took a direct hit. “I’ve been thinking it’s time we had a little talk.”

“Don’t bother, Joe.” Paul didn’t miss a beat as his ships attacked and swirled around Joe’s staggering formations. “The Stryx school covered all that stuff in the biologicals survey last year, and they say we have pretty outlandish mating habits. Speaking of which, what happened to your big date tonight?”

Beowulf barked frantically and gestured at the incoming flare with his nose, but Joe’s forces were hemmed in, and the hot plasma from the star tore through his reserves like water from a dam bursting above a matchstick boat race.

“Triggering a flare is cheating!” Joe griped, even though he knew that it was within the rules if you had the ability to pull it off. What it meant was that Paul had been decimating Joe’s fleet with just a fraction of his own forces as the rest concentrated their weapons on the star’s photosphere to create instability. Joe had been so busy defending he’d never even seen it. But now, with his operational forces shrunk to half of their original size, he was more comfortable maneuvering and chose to beat a strategic retreat. His best hope now was that the induced flare would speed up the nova clock. Beowulf shook his giant head and curled up to go to sleep.

“Sorry, Joe,” Paul apologized, easing up on his attack pressure. “I’ve been waiting to try that against somebody good. I’ve passed the final qualifiers for the station tourney, and there are going to be some Natural League grandmasters there. I just don’t want to look bad.”

“Alright,” Joe grumbled. “Then I’m glad I could be of service. But I’d been hoping to fill in some time this evening after my date cancelled, and it’s been what, fifteen minutes?”

“Are you trying to get married, Joe?” The ships in the Nova cube sorted themselves back into distinct colored masses as the opposing forces regrouped.

“Well, I’ve never had a chance to put down roots. This junkyard is the first home I’ve had since I was a kid. I was thinking it might be nice to give it a shot, being a real family and all.”

“Is it my fault you aren’t married yet?” The boy lifted his eyes up from the game for the first time, looking both younger and more vulnerable than Joe had seen him in some time.

“Yes,” Joe answered, then took advantage of Paul’s momentary shock to trigger his pre-programmed last stand. A haze of flashes filled the Nova cube as suicidal attackers struck home and wreaked havoc among the boy’s recently reformed battle groups before he could recover. Conversation over, the two players became reabsorbed in the game and fought it out for another half an hour, before the star ripped itself apart prematurely. Paul still won the game handily on points, but Joe felt he’d achieved a moral victory.

“Never take your mind off the game, kiddo,” Joe crowed to the boy. “Oldest trick in the book.”

Beowulf came out of his nap with a soft growl and lifted his head, tilting an ear towards the entrance of Mac’s Bones. But after an elaborate stretching routine, he clunked back down on his rug and returned to his dreams.

“It’s Jeeves,” Paul reported. “He was coming by for a game tonight, but I told him to hold off after you ended up staying home. I just let him know we finished, so I guess he was in the area.”

“He was in the area because you didn’t expect me to last this long,” Joe grumbled. But he was proud that the boy could beat him easily at most games, and he could always claim the credit of having been Paul’s first teacher. “Who’s this Jeeves? I don’t remember hearing you mention him before.”

“Oh, you’ve met him. He’s the Stryx kid that went out on that tug job with you a few weeks ago, the one where you brought back that Sharf cabin cruiser. I ran into him at the gaming club after that, and we’ve been playing pretty regular since.”

“He’s a Stryx kid? I thought he was on the immature side. I guess that explains the attitude anyway.” Joe grimaced, recalling the robot’s continual put-downs. “First Stryx I ever met with a self-esteem problem.”

“I didn’t realize you were such an expert on Stryx,” Jeeves voice broke into the conversation, causing Joe to jump up and spin around. The small robot floated soundlessly through the makeshift door into the improvised living room of the converted ice harvester, looking oddly naked without all the attachments he’d borne the last time Joe had seen him.

“Hey, Jeeves,” Paul greeted him. “I tried that flare trick I’d been developing. It worked great.”

“Of course it did,” Jeeves replied dryly, leaving no doubt in Joe’s mind that the Stryx was crediting Paul’s success to weakness of his opponent, but the boy didn’t seem to notice. “I believe there’s enough time for us to play before you need to sleep.”

“What are you going to spot the boy?” Joe asked, having better sense than to match wits with an adolescent robot.

“We play straight up,” Paul told him, showing a rare flash of pride. “Jeeves always wins, of course, but I think I’m improving faster than he is.”

“I’ve learned a great deal from playing Paul, which is especially remarkable given his early training.” The robot addressed his remarks to Joe, who couldn’t help wondering if all young Stryx had issues interacting with human adults. Maybe that’s why they spent so much time playing with children, Joe thought, which gave rise to an idea.

“So, you’d say that playing against Paul has been valuable to you?” Joe inquired innocently.

“Very much so,” Jeeves replied, in a show of youthful solidarity.

“And how have you been compensating him?”

“Hey, we’re friends,” Paul protested. “And whatever he says, I’m sure I’m learning more from him than he’s learning from me!”

Jeeves pivoted from one human to the other while he floated in place, like the needle of a compass dragged between headings by a magnet. The strict adherence of the Stryx to an honest barter economy was what enabled them to control so much of the galaxy without having to conquer by force. Everybody, even the species that hated the very idea of a non-biological intelligence, knew that the Stryx represented the best chance for a fair deal. The main opposition to the Stryx came from the empire-building cultures who couldn’t risk attacking areas under Stryx protection, and the Natural League members, who resented what they saw as Stryx favoritism to backwards biologicals.

“The old one is correct,” Jeeves addressed Paul. “The games were my idea, and my own schooling is finished. I really should be providing something in return. Perhaps you’d like to move to more civilized quarters on a residential deck?”

“No, I’m fine here with Joe,” Paul replied in embarrassment. “Never mind all that and let’s get started.”

“If you want to work off your obligation to the boy, I have a little job you can help with here,” Joe spoke over Paul’s protest. “I promise that the profits will go into fixing this place up so it’s less like living in a spaceship that happened to crash into a junkyard. Maybe I’ll even hire some housekeeping help so Paul can stop eating sandwiches for every meal.”

“May I enquire as to the substance of this little job?” Jeeves voice reflected a newfound respect for Joe’s negotiating skills.

“Just helping me to identify some of the junk I’ve got lying around out there. Half the time I can’t guess close enough what something might be to even start asking Libby questions about it,” Joe admitted. “It’s not the stuff I buy, but the junk that was here before I took over. Some of it could turn out to be dangerous for Paul or even for the station. Like a gravitational vortex mine leftover from the Founding Wars.”

“Vortex mines?” The little robot sounded like he would have raised an eyebrow if he’d had eyebrows. “Alright, you have a deal. Now run along to your date while we serious gamers get down to business.”

“Date cancelled,” Joe and Paul spoke simultaneously.

“It’s a wonder they all don’t cancel,” Jeeves commented absently as he began arranging his forces for the game.