Freelance On The Galactic Tunnel Network, E. Foner [the unexpected everything txt] 📗

that gambling addictions are common with some types of artificial intelligence.”

“Weird,” Georgia commented. “Have you ever been here before?”

“I try to stop a few times a year. There’s a large contingent of human contract workers, at least two million, and what with the families, they always need shoes.”

“You deal in shoes? I thought you’d trade something high-tech, like, I don’t know.”

Larry gave her a minute to think before replying. “Earth’s idea of high-tech would be obsolete in an alien museum exhibition of their pre-tunnel network days. We’re really that far behind. And kids go through shoes pretty quick. I try to keep around a quarter of my capital invested in children’s shoes and clothes because they’re almost as good as cash. For the rest of my cargo, I play it by ear and try to increase value through bartering.”

“Some of the restaurateurs I interviewed for articles on Union Station bought special ingredients from traders to supplement the staple crops grown on the ag decks.”

“Food is risky for traders, especially if it doesn’t keep. I’ll carry seeds, or even root vegetables on occasion if I can get a good price. Anything edible is welcome at mining colonies, so canned food is always a good bet, but the truth is, I like dabbling in alien goods. My dad used to say I was just one notch above a treasure hunter.”

“Treasure hunters are bad?”

“Well, they usually waste their lives searching for treasures without finding anything.”

“Ooh, I think I need to use the bathroom.”

“That’s because traffic control is matching us up to the orbital’s radial acceleration so it can set us down. As your weight returns, it feels like your bladder is getting squeezed, and—”

“I got it, I got it. How long will it be?”

“Just another minute or so, you can hold it. I bet we’re already in the core.”

“How come there’s nothing on the view screen?”

“I left it off in case it makes you nauseous. Are you game?”

“Try me.”

“Controller. Viewscreen on.”

The large panel came to life with a view of parked spaceships and cargo handling equipment, all of it upside-down and slowly rotating away from them.

“Is this place constructed the same way as Union Station?” Georgia asked.

“All space habitats are, at least, they are if the inhabitants want to weigh something,” Larry explained. “There’s no technology for creating localized artificial gravity, so living in a giant centrifuge is the only option. A good-sized orbital like this one has an open core just like a Stryx station, though on a much smaller scale.”

“I’ve never really understood the difference between an orbital and a space station.”

“Different species use the terms any way they want, but the tunnel network standard is that space stations can be anywhere while orbitals have to orbit a planet or a star. You see how the deck isn’t rotating past us anymore? That means traffic control has matched our velocity and will be setting us down any—” there was a gentle thud as the ship’s landing gear made contact with the deck, “—second.”

“That’s it? I don’t feel my normal weight. Can I go to the bathroom now?”

“Yes, but don’t use the vacuum attachments. Just do your normal thing and it will flush automatically when you get up.”

Georgia ripped off her safety harness and disappeared into the small bathroom while Larry stood up and stretched.

“Welcome back to Lorper, Captain Larry,” an odd-sounding voice came through the trade ship’s console. “Your navigation controls will remain locked until departure. Please drop your ramp and stand by for boarding and customs inspection.”

“On my way,” Larry replied. “Georgia, I’m heading down to the cargo deck to meet the customs inspector. Controller, open hatch.”

The alarm buzzer sounded again, and after descending a few rungs of the ladder, the trader took the rest of the distance in a fireman’s slide. Then he made his way to the main hatch, which doubled as a ramp, and pressed the actuator button. As usual, the customs inspector was waiting by the time the ramp hit the deck.

“Is that you, Janice?” Larry called to the woman, whose face was hidden by the long visor on her official cap.

“You’re in luck again, smuggler,” Janice said, looking up with a smile. “I don’t know how you always manage to arrive during my shift.”

“I bribed a Drazen supervisor to tip me off.”

“Big spender. Any banned drugs, banned weapons, or banned books?”

“Banned books?” Larry asked in surprise as the customs inspector moved past him into the hold. “That’s a new one. Is there a list?”

“Gotcha,” Janice said. “I’m eleven for eleven with that line so far today. Traders are so gullible.”

“Takes one to know one,” Larry retorted, as she played a hand-scanner over his netted-in-place cargo. “Don’t you miss it at all?”

“Days at a time in Zero-G doing monotonous exercises? Eating out of squeeze tubes. Pissing into a—hello. Who’s this?”

“Georgia Hunt, Galactic Free Press,” the reporter introduced herself as she stepped away from the ladder.

“Janice. Inspector Number Sixty-One,” the uniformed woman replied. “Were you going to declare her, Larry?”

“Georgia? She’s just hitching a ride.”

“All working press must register with the orbital’s administration. I assume from the introduction that you aren’t here on vacation, Miss Hunt.”

“No, I’m working. I didn’t know about registering.”

“I can handle it right here,” Janice said, returning the scanner to her belt and pulling out a small tab. “There’s a hundred cred fee.”

“A hundred creds? I don’t even know how long we’re going to be here.”

“How about twenty?”

“Play nice, Janice,” Larry scolded the inspector. “What do I owe you for the cargo?”

“Just the standard bribe, and I still have to look at the bridge.”

“Go on up. I trust you.”

“And your controller will be recording my every move, no doubt,” the customs inspector said. She holstered her