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

fumbled it to the ground. “Why can’t Earthers get implants like everybody else?”

“There’s no infrastructure to support implant communication functions here,” Marshall answered, even though she had intended the question as rhetorical. The phone vibrated again as Ellen was trying to unlock the screen, and this time she did drop it. “You can change it to an audible ringtone, you know.”

“Right after I take this,” she said, bending over and successfully tracing out her lock-code on the screen with the device still resting on the blanket. “Hello?”

“This is Bryan Livingston. I’m at the fairgrounds. Can you push me your location?”

“Do what?”

“Here,” Marshall offered, stepping into the narrow green margin between their blankets. “I’ll enable it for you.”

“Just a sec,” she told Bryan and handed over the phone. “I thought you said the elevator messed up the location signal.”

“It’s the timing of the satellite signals that the elevator stalk alters,” the trader said, swiping and tapping at the screen. “Location push is a direct function, phone-to-phone. It will run your battery down in just a couple hours if you leave it on continuously, but it works anywhere because it’s based on signal strength. See the blinking blue dot on the screen?”

“Is that him?”

“Yup. You’re in the bottom right corner by default, don’t ask me why. You can monitor his progress if you want.”

“He’ll get here when he gets here. Do I need to leave the call open?”

“No, you can hang-up. It’s a completely different function.”

Ellen watched enviously as Marshall sold a hundred seasons of an old Vergallian drama to another customer for five times what it would have cost her to buy a legitimate copy on any Stryx station. The same guy turned his nose up at her disposable stunners when she offered one at break even.

“No thanks,” the drama addict rejected her offer. “There’s a woman selling them for twenty-five over by the exotic pets section and she’s throwing in free holsters.”

“I don’t understand,” Ellen complained to Marshall. “How can the traders here be selling goods below cost?”

“Maybe they got them in some sweet barter deals and now they’re just cashing out,” the other trader said. “I’m the old-fashioned type, so when I’m looking to acquire stock, I always go for the best value rather than gambling on hot sellers. I’ve noticed lately that quite a few of the younger Guild members are crowding into the same trades.”

“Are you going to Rendezvous this year?”

“Never missed one yet, and there’s the election this time around to boot. It’s about time we get representation with the Conference of Sovereign Human Communities. I’m always surprised when traders tell me they’re going to vote for anti-CoSHC candidates, and the same people are pushing giving the vote to non-owner operators.”

“That I don’t get at all,” she agreed. “It would turn the Traders Guild into an organization of delivery pilots.”

“Ellen?” inquired a tall man who was holding a cell phone level in front of himself like a compass.

“Bryan? Pleased to meet you.”

“Are you selling these?” Bryan asked, picking up one of the Dollnick retail packs. “I’ve been thinking about starting to carry a stunner on the job.”

“I paid thirty creds wholesale, but there’s someone here selling them for twenty-five,” Ellen informed him reluctantly. “I can let you have one for that.”

“How about two? My wife reports on local politics and things are getting a bit heated in our area.”

“Two for fifty,” she agreed. “How was your trip in?”

“It’s just an hour and a half by floater on auto-pilot. I belong to AirShare so it’s cheaper than renting. You said that you’re scouting freelancers for the Galactic Free Press?”

“Yes, in part. I’ve been contacting all of your colleagues who used to work for the news syndicates and had articles picked up by my paper. If you have anything you’re working on right now, I can put you in touch with the head of the freelance department, but my real job here is to convince you to organize a new syndicate. My bosses would rather work with one group than manage hundreds of new freelancers.”

“A number of us have been discussing setting up our own syndicate, but we’re still trying to work out how to finance the office and support staff with enough left over to make a living,” Bryan told her. “Most of us do some work for the local rags, primarily sports reporting or politics, but aside from the main daily in a few of the big city-states, none of the papers have the readership to pay for investigative journalism.”

“That’s what my boss figured. I don’t want you to think that I’m here handing out candy, but if you can put together a convincing business plan, the Galactic Free Press may be willing to help subsidize your launch,” Ellen told him.

“Just like that?” the journalist replied skeptically. “If we set up as a new syndicate, that means we’ll be selling the same stories to your potential competitors.”

“I’m just a freelancer they tapped for this job, not management.”

“You know, I wouldn’t have agreed to see you if I hadn’t read your story about the longevity scam. That was a fine piece of reporting.”

“And I really appreciate that you’re here,” Ellen said. “I hate talking over that cell phone, and none of the other journalists from your old syndicate were willing to come, even though I’m pretty sure some of them lived closer than you.”

“They delegated me,” Bryan said. “Everybody is scrambling to make a living, and there was no point in all of us coming if you were really here to pitch us some scheme where we pay you to get our stories published.”

“Is that even a thing?”

“It is on Earth. Some of the papers that used to buy our syndication feed replaced us with vanity news.”

“People writing about themselves?”

“Pretty