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

and do your own thing, I suggest you take a leave of absence, or change your status to freelance and—”

“How would that work?” Georgia interrupted.

“Well, since you’ve reached three years of employment with us, we would allow you to keep your press credentials, your translation implant, and your programmable cred. You would be assigned to the freelance desk, which would pay you for any stories they accept.”

“That’s what I want,” Georgia said, getting up again. “I’m available to start right away.”

“Freelancers are always available to start right away, it’s the nature of the business,” Walter told her. He rose as well and offered her a handshake. “I wish you the best, and I’ll be watching for your byline.”

“Thank you. Could I ask what it pays?”

“The freelance editors have leeway in determining compensation, but in recognition of the fact that you are paying your own expenses, the per-story rate is appreciably higher than what our full-time reporters earn on a prorated basis.”

“Can I get an advance?”

“I’m afraid that advances are only available to freelancers who establish a track record with the paper.”

“But I’ve been working for you three years,” she protested.

“A track record as a freelancer. If you intend to travel in pursuit of your story, the freelance desk may be willing to offer a partial subsidy if you’re willing to write about the local cuisine.”

Georgia left the managing editor’s office, and after consulting with the receptionist, made her way through the cubicle maze to a group of desks in the corner of the large space occupied by the Galactic Free Press. Something that looked like an old harpoon was suspended from the ceiling, and a sign hanging from the shaft read, “Freelance Desk.”

“Hello?” she called, looking around the area, which appeared to be empty. “Anybody here?”

“Right behind you,” a voice announced, and Georgia turned to see a silver-haired man with a mug of coffee in one hand and a sticky bun in the other. “I’m Roland. How can I help you?”

“Georgia,” she said, offering a hand, and then realizing that he couldn’t reciprocate. “Sorry. I’m here about becoming a freelancer.”

Roland glanced at the Galactic Free Press ID hanging from a lanyard around her neck and snorted. “Another one, huh? What is it this time? War? Sports?”

“I don’t understand.”

The man set down his sticky bun, half-sat on the desktop next to it, and took a sip of his coffee before responding. “Have you been through the kidnap avoidance training course?”

“I graduated last year,” Georgia said. “I have a certificate somewhere if you need to see it.”

“And are you double-dipping from EarthCent Intelligence?” he asked suspiciously.

“No. I’ve been working as a food writer the last three years but I’m ready to become an investigative journalist. Walter said you might give me an advance if I commit to turning in food stories from the places I visit. Why did you think I worked for EarthCent Intelligence?”

“We get spies in here all the time hoping to use the paper as cover while collecting a salary from two employers,” Roland explained, then took another sip from his coffee. “I’ll have to talk with your section editor, but I suspect we can do something for you. Food articles always pull good read rates. What’s the big story you’re working on?”

“I’m going to investigate Colony One,” Georgia said proudly.

“Nothing there,” the freelance editor told her. “Still, if you’re planning on following them around to their local seminars, you’ll learn something about chasing down leads that may come in handy later.”

“Why is everybody so sure that it’s not a scam? They’re raising an enormous amount of money to buy and recondition a colony ship from one of the human-sized species.”

“But they’re only taking pledges,” Roland pointed out. “The first phase is to get enough funds committed for the aliens to take them seriously, and only then will they try to negotiate a price and a shipyard lease. Colony ships aren’t two-man traders, you know. Between technology transfer issues, resident artificial intelligence, and the fact that the tunnel network might go a thousand years at a stretch without seeing a colony ship retired, it doesn’t strike me as a promising field for scammers.”

“That’s what makes it perfect,” Georgia insisted. “Nobody expects anything to come of it anytime soon, but the promoters must be paying themselves salaries and travel expenses. The scam is that by keeping the focus on sums in the trillions, they can skim off millions and nobody will ever think twice about it.”

“Nobody but you. My gut tells me that you’re off base on this, but the whole point of going freelance is that you can do what you want with your time. When are you planning on leaving?”

“I have to arrange for transportation, and whatever advance you can pay me for food stories will play into my plans. I have three years of savings, but it hasn’t been cheap living here.”

“I admire the conviction of youth. You’re what? Twenty-five?”

“My birthday is today. Becoming an investigative journalist is my present to myself.”

“Check back in with me tomorrow and we’ll see what we can do about that advance, but don’t expect instant riches. The most we ever extend to employees who go freelance amounts to a cycle’s pay.”

“I’ll take what I can get. Thank you.”

Georgia practically skipped out of the main office, where she’d been sharing a cubicle with several other beat reporters ever since being assigned to food writing, and made a beeline for the nearest lift tube.

“Tunnel Trips spaceship rentals, the place that advertises in the paper,” she instructed the conveyance. A thought struck her as the capsule began to move. “Do you think I needed to make a reservation first, Libby?”

“Due to the relatively small size of the rental fleet, reserving in advance is the best way to assure availability