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

she the one who got blitzed at the awards dinner and fell off the stage?” Walter asked.

“Ellen has a bit of a control problem with social drinking, but it’s never interfered with her work.”

“Has she ever been to Earth?”

“That I’m not sure, but I’ll get ahold of her and let you know if she’s available.”

“Works for me,” Chastity said. “Walter?”

“I suppose it’s worth a shot,” the managing editor said. “Roland, let me know if you need more resources. The two of us have to run if we’re going to make the Grenouthian reception.”

“Why do you go when you know they’re only going to gloat about scooping us on the Swiss bond story?”

“Because if you let them brag a little, they always end up giving away something they’re still working on,” Chastity said. “Besides, they did beat us fair and square.”

As soon as his employers left, Roland pulled up the database he used to track the location of all the freelance journalists who were regular contributors. He scrolled through the list with impatient hand gestures until he located the reporter he was looking for and barked a short laugh.

“Libby,” Roland said out loud. “Could you ping Ellen for me?”

“I’m afraid she’s muted her implant.”

“Can you tell me her exact location?”

“I don’t think that would be appropriate at the moment.”

“How about where she isn’t? Could you tell me if she’s sleeping it off on her ship?”

“She is not.”

“Is she on a date?”

“I wouldn’t call it that.”

“In a bar?” Roland waited a moment to confirm that Libby wasn’t responding, and rose from his desk. “One of those dives near the Empire Convention Center?”

“Does she ever drink anywhere else?”

“You don’t approve,” Roland continued the conversation over his implant as he threaded his way through the newsroom. “Ellen claims she gets all of her best leads in bars.”

“There are better ways to meet people. I offered her a discounted membership to my dating service.”

“I don’t think she’s the type.”

“You have an incoming ping from Katya Wysecki.”

“I’ll take it,” Roland said, stepping into the lift tube capsule and instructing it, “Empire Convention Center,” before continuing, “Hello, Katya.”

“Have you found me a replacement for Georgia?” a woman’s voice came over his implant.

“How is that my job? Besides, she’s going to be submitting food articles during her travels, and now they’ll come out of my budget instead of yours. I’d say you won on the exchange.”

“You don’t have anybody who wants to move from freelance to full-time?”

“I don’t understand. I would have thought with all the publicity around the All Species Cookbook launch you’d be flooded with candidates.”

“The problem is that none of them can write. I wasted the entire day reading story samples from would-be reporters that were no more than recipes. Food writing requires a certain flair.”

“How about Scotch Frank? He recently moved back to Union Station and he’s looking to pick up more work.”

“Your distillery reporter?”

“He doesn’t just cover distilleries. A lot of the microbreweries he visited were combined with pubs, and I remember you telling me how much you enjoyed his piece about wine tasters.”

“That was hilarious. Okay, have him ping me, and if it works out, I’ll put him on our payroll to make up for you taking on Georgia.”

“You still win because they’ll both be writing about food. Hello?”

“She disconnected,” the Stryx librarian informed him.

The doors slid open and Roland immediately turned left in the corridor, heading away from the convention center towards the strip of bars that culminated in the station’s red-light district.

“Libby,” he subvoced. “Have you ever played Hot/Cold?”

“You’re really pushing it today,” the station librarian replied. “I wouldn’t be doing this if you weren’t on Ellen’s emergency contact list. You’re getting warmer... warmer… warmer… colder.”

Roland turned around and headed back towards the last bar he had passed, a seedy-looking place without a name above the doors.

“Warmer… hot,” Libby declared over the freelance editor’s implant as he entered. “You’re on your own.”

Roland strained his eyes in the dim lighting trying to locate his wayward freelancer. There was a long bar running the length of one side of the room, and the other side featured a row of high-backed booths, obviously intended for privacy. Looking closer at the table in one of the empty booths, he saw a small machine that he initially took for an antique jukebox remote, but on closer inspection proved to offer a Dollnick audio suppression field for one cred per hour. Then loud laughter from the end of the bar caught his attention.

“You almost made me soil my armor,” a man’s voice protested. “I’ve got to hit the head.”

“Hit it for me too,” a woman’s voice replied.

“Ellen,” Roland called out as he approached the reporter. “Fancy bumping into you here.”

“I’m not available,” she replied immediately. “I’m leaving tomorrow and I can’t tell you where I’m going because it’s a sheecrit.”

“Did you mean secret?”

“That’s what I said. Are you getting something to drink? Frode. Give my editor a drink.”

“No, thank you,” Roland said, waving off the Drazen bartender. “This is a major opportunity, Ellen. I wouldn’t have tracked you down otherwise. Our publisher and managing editor are—”

“Can I get some peanuts?” the reporter interrupted him, grabbing at the Drazen’s sleeve as he passed. “The good ones, with the salt.”

“Try to concentrate for just a minute, Ellen. There’s an opportunity on Earth—”

“How did you know I was going to Earth?” the reporter demanded. “Did you sic EarthCent Intelligence on me?”

“I didn’t know you were going to Earth, but it’s highly fortuitous. The old news syndicates have broken down and we’re left dependent on the student-run papers and Children’s News Network—”

“Reporting for the student papers was the best job I ever had, even though it didn’t pay,”