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

the journalists in your new syndicate, you’ll save some creds.”

“The Galactic Free Press thanks you,” Ellen said. The opening chords of Beethoven’s Fifth played from her back pocket and she pulled out her cell phone. “Hello?” Her expression changed to one of disgust and she tapped the disconnect.

“Telemarketing call?” Marshall asked sympathetically. “I pay extra for a service that blocks them if you want me to give you the details. Earth must be the only planet in the galaxy that allows communications spam, but they cling to the old cell phone network as a matter of pride.”

“Prank call,” Ellen told him. “Some clown saying he’s the President of EarthCent.” The phone rang again, and this time the freelancer said, “Jerk,” before hanging up.

“How do you know it’s not actually the president?” Marshall asked.

“Why would the president call me? Besides, nobody that high up would place a call themselves. They’d have a secretary do it.”

Beethoven’s Fifth began to play again, and Marshall said, “Let me have a look.”

Ellen handed the phone over, and before he answered, the trader tapped an icon she’d never noticed, and then held the device a couple of feet in front of his face as the video function went live.

“Hello? Yes, it is her phone. Yes, Mr. President. Yes, she’s right here.” He handed the phone back to Ellen, who blushed like a schoolgirl.

“I’m so sorry about calling you a jerk,” she began. “I thought you were a prankster.”

“Happens all the time,” the EarthCent president assured her. “I just got off a tunneling network conference call about a promotion we’re running in conjunction with the Galactic Free Press at Rendezvous this year. Your managing editor, Walter Dunkirk, participated as well. Our head of public relations, Hildy Greuen, decided at the last minute that she’d like to attend Rendezvous in person, but there isn’t a direct passenger service from Earth to Aarden. Walter mentioned that you were just wrapping up some business here and would probably be leaving for Rendezvous later today.”

“EarthCent’s head of public relations wants to hitch a ride on my ship?”

“We’ll pay,” the president offered hopefully.

“I’m not worried about that, it’s just—it’s a two-man trader. The trip to Aarden will take almost forty-eight hours in the tunnels, all of that in Zero-G, and—”

“Hildy is an experienced traveler. Whenever we go somewhere, I’m the one who gets sick.”

“I was just packing up to leave,” Ellen said irresolutely. “I already reserved a slot with—”

“She’s at the base of the elevator now so she could take the monorail to your location and be there in less than twenty minutes. You’ll be saving her a full day on the elevator, and at least three days travel.”

“Okay. Give her my number so we can do the location thing when she gets here.”

“EarthCent owes you a debt of gratitude,” the president said. “If you ever get caught up in customs, give me a call.”

“Earth doesn’t have customs.”

“We’re working on it.”

Ellen turned to Marshall after the call disconnected and found the older trader smiling broadly. “What?”

“You hung up on the President of EarthCent twice,” he told her. “I’ve been wondering where I was going to come up with a new story to tell at the Rendezvous competition. I’ll have to embellish a little, but it’s got great potential.”

“I’m not sure it’s something I want to be known for.”

“Could you give me a hand with the shade tent? I can take it down myself, but it’s faster with two.”

“Of course,” Ellen said, and in ten minutes, the standard canopy deployed by human traders who made frequent visits to planetary surfaces was folded up and stored away in the hold.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Ellen, and I hope to see you at Rendezvous,” the older trader said. “I have an open slot from the tunnel controller so I may as well get going.”

“An open slot? How come I had to reserve a time?”

“You didn’t, but if you contact the controller ahead and ask for a reservation, the AI will make one for you. They aim to be accommodating. If you’re all packed up, you have just enough time to walk to the monorail station to meet your guest. I noticed that the battery on your phone is running down. I don’t know if it will last long enough for her to find you if it has to broadcast the location beacon.”

“Thanks again for everything,” Ellen said, and after commanding her ship controller to secure the vessel, she started for the monorail station. Behind her, Marshall’s ship silently ascended into the sky, gathering speed as it went. Her phone rang just as she reached the switch-back ramp that rose to the elevated station.

“Hello?”

“Is this Ellen?”

“You must be Hildy. I walked over to the station to meet you.”

“How very kind. I just arrived and I’m heading for the exit ramp.”

“Can I come up and help you with your bags?”

“I travel light. Just look for the EarthCent hat.”

Less than a minute later, Ellen saw a woman in her mid-fifties with an EarthCent baseball cap coming down the ramp with a single bag. The luggage wasn‘t even floating—just a hard-sided case with two wheels.

“Thank you for wearing your Galactic Free Press ID,” Hildy said by way of greeting. “It’s probably the only one on the planet, which makes it easy to pick you out in a crowd.”

“The paper traditionally sources all of its Earth news from the teacher-bot newspapers and syndicated journalists, which is why they sent me here in the first place.”

“Stephen told me he heard something about your mission from Chastity,” the head of EarthCent’s public relations said, falling in alongside the reporter, who took a moment to remember that the president’s full name was Stephen Beyer. “And thank you for taking me on such short