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

After a quick introduction, Larry’s father asked the reporter, “Did you come for Rendezvous? It’s going to be a wild one this year.”

“I was traveling with Larry chasing a story that didn’t pan out and I thought I’d write a few articles about trader food culture while I’m here. I’m a freelancer for the Galactic Free Press.”

“Do you cover the Conference of Sovereign Human Communities? The council election next week will determine whether the Traders Guild will become a member.”

“Larry told me all about it while we were exercising in Zero-G. There’s a full-time reporter on Union Station who covers CoSHC, but I’m afraid I haven’t paid very close attention. I’m not sure I understand why so many traders are reluctant to join.”

“Old minds, old ways,” Rachel put in.

“We actually looked into it a few years ago, but some of the CoSHC members at that time didn’t believe that the Traders Guild rises to the level of a community,” Phil explained. “I’ve been on the council for over twenty years and I’ll admit that we’re a pretty independent bunch, but it doesn’t take the Prophet Nabay to see which way the human diaspora is heading. I’m stepping down because I’m too old a dog to learn a new trick, but Larry is running on the pro-CoSHC platform for my seat, and I think most of my old supporters will line up behind him.”

“Is it a full-time job, being on the council?” Georgia asked.

Rachel and her husband exchanged a look and burst out laughing.

“Did I miss a good joke?” Larry asked as he joined the group.

“I was just curious whether you’d have to stop trading if you win your father’s council seat.”

“It’s nothing like that. The council only meets once a year at Rendezvous, though if we do join the Conference of Sovereign Human Communities, I suppose somebody will have to act as our representative. But CoSHC only has the one convention a year, and most of the business is done over the Stryxnet.”

“In all the time Phil has been on the council, I doubt he ever put in more than a couple days a year while we weren’t at Rendezvous,” Rachel said.

“So how do the traders know who to vote for?” Georgia asked.

“It’s basically a popularity contest,” Larry told her. “Most of the council members have either been traders for decades or they grew up in it, like me.”

“But still, how many people could actually know you? There must be hundreds of thousands of independent traders.”

“A couple of million, at least, but you have to be at Rendezvous to vote. I have twelve days to convince voters, and the election is on the last night. It pretty much comes down to the speeches.”

“Haven’t you noticed what a beautiful speaking voice my son has?” Rachel teased.

“The Traders Guild is less one big community than a collection of smaller groups,” Phil said. “Those of us who trade the same routes or make our home port different places tend to get to know each other. My friends and I will be talking up Larry, and his friends will do the same. By the way, I stopped at Chintoo orbital and got you ten thousand printed markers at wholesale. You owe me four hundred creds.”

“Twenty-five markers to the cred is dirt cheap,” Larry said. “Are they any good?”

“The artificial Sharf who handled the printing guaranteed they’re the same product he makes for Mark-Up, but without the branding, of course. Give it a shot.” Phil drew from his pocket two cylinders about as wide around as Georgia’s pinky and twice as long and handed them over.

“Vote for Larry, Phil’s son,” Georgia read the printed message on the side of the marker. “That’s pretty straightforward.”

Larry removed the cap and sniffed the soft tip of the marker. “Yup. Smells just as bad as a Mark-Up.” He drew a line on the back of his hand, recapped the marker, and then flipped it over. “Now comes the real test,” he said, and ran the flat end of the marker over the line he had just drawn. It disappeared completely.

“What do traders use these for?” the reporter asked.

“Didn’t you notice all of the printing on containers and crates in my cargo?”

“I just didn’t make the connection because I never saw you writing on anything. Can it erase lines after they dry?”

“Everything would be covered with cross-outs by now if they didn’t. Thanks, Dad. Between your friends and my friends, we should get most of them handed out in time for the election.”

“But take a look at these,” Phil said, pulling a rectangular package out of his back pocket.

“Playing cards?” Larry examined the smiling woman’s face on the box and then extracted the deck. “Beth Anderson? I’ve never heard of her. Is she on every—they’re all different!”

“Actually, each candidate repeats through all four suits for the same value of card, and the face on the box gets the jokers as well. So the opposition has a candidate standing for all thirteen council seats and they’re running as a package deal.”

“These are pretty nice cards, other than the faces,” his son said, executing a one-handed cut and tossing an arc. “Somebody spent some money.”

“They’re giving these away all around Rendezvous,” Rachel informed her son. “I picked up that deck at the Vergallian market this morning when I went to buy fresh vegetables. All of the vendors were giving them away. I asked one girl who was running her family’s farm stand, and she said that a Human came around last week and offered all of the vendors twenty creds a day to give them out.”

“Somebody has deep pockets,” Larry observed as he worked his way slowly through the deck, studying the images. “You know, I don’t recognize a single one of these traders.”

“Neither did we,”