Freelance On The Galactic Tunnel Network E. Foner (ebook reader for pc TXT) 📖

“The gryphon must have heard it before,” a heckler called out.

“My point is, if the parents hadn’t been so intent on keeping their shame to themselves, the villagers would have figured out much quicker that slavers were kidnapping and selling their children. Independent traders fall into the same trap, holding our cargoes, costs, and travel plans close to the vest, because in one sense, we’re competing with each other. But in another sense, we’re all one family, and without sharing information, we can’t protect ourselves from coordinated attacks by forces that prey on independents.”

“Are you trying to recruit informers for EarthCent Intelligence?” somebody shouted.

“What I’m getting at is that the Conference of Sovereign Human Communities is, above all else, an information-sharing organization. For years they wouldn’t consider accepting the Traders Guild as a member, and some of us were angry about that, and maybe now that makes us want to reject their offer. But CoSHC is a player on the human stage in a way that the Guild alone can never be, and we’ll be stronger with them than on our own.” John paused a moment to gather his thoughts, and Semmi peered up at him from under her wing, as if to ask if he had finished.

“That’s the first political speech I’ve ever made and I hope you enjoyed it more than the gryphon,” he concluded.

Seventeen

“Welcome home,” Larry greeted his paying passenger. “I was beginning to worry that you and my mom had decided to stay up there. I’ve heard that Flower can be very persuasive.”

“It was a lot of fun,” Georgia said, and passed Larry a box that was surprisingly heavy for its size. “I don’t know where you want to keep this, but it’s a soaked fruitcake, a gift from Flower. Supposedly they’re best if aged for at least six months.”

Larry opened the locker where he stored canned goods and wedged the cake into the top shelf. “Don’t let me forget it’s in there.”

“I ran into a famous freelancer from the Galactic Free Press while we were on Flower, and she asked me to work with her on a story about traders refinancing their mortgages and losing their ships. Would it reflect badly on you if I tag along while you campaign and try to get interviews?”

“I’m fine with it, and I can’t see anybody not voting for me because you’re doing research. They can always refuse to answer.”

“Great. I’ll even kiss babies for you. Just let me grab a bite of breakfast first.”

“Just hold that thought and come with me. Our first stop this morning is Fanny’s Famous Pancake Breakfast. It’s an annual event at Rendezvous and all of the candidates are expected to show up. Fanny’s like a hundred years old.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that,” the freelancer advised. She topped off her large purse with felt-tipped markers printed ‘Vote for Larry, Phil’s son,’ and then followed the candidate down the ladder from the bridge and out the cargo hatch. Larry ordered the controller to secure the ship and led them deeper into the campground. “How can you tell where we’re going?” Georgia asked.

“Fanny and her family operate a converted Drazen supply ship she traded for around thirty years ago. It’s the tallest ship in the trade fleet. See?” He pointed at a vessel that stood head and shoulders above the surrounding ships, most of which were of the two-man Sharf variety.

“It’s huge,” Georgia marveled. “I didn’t know humans were allowed to operate ships that big.”

“There aren’t any rules about ownership, it’s just a matter of what we can afford,” Larry explained. “Fanny is old enough to be one of the original independent traders and she’s smart enough to have made a lot of money. Rather than retiring, she put her creds into a ship with twenty decent-size cabins and plenty of room for cargo. Everybody you see serving pancakes today is a member of her family.”

Somebody had rented a hundred folding picnic tables for the event, but even so, there were plenty of people left eating while they stood. That worked well for the candidates, who preferred to circulate and meet as many people as possible. Georgia took advantage to keep asking younger traders about refinancing until she came across a young man who was more than eager to share his story.

“I’m Daryl, and I’ll talk on the record,” he told her immediately. “Those bastards stole my ship on Braaken while I was at the local trade grounds. When I got back—”

“Hold on a second,” Georgia begged him. “Do you mind if I record this on my tab?”

“Please do,” Daryl said, and waited for her to get out her Galactic Free Press tab and set the mode. “As I was saying, I was trading on Braaken, and when I got back to the parking area, my ship was gone with all my stuff on board. At first I thought it had been jacked by choppers, but there was—”

“Choppers?” Georgia interrupted again.

“You know, thieves who steal ships to chop them up for parts. Anyway, a trader I know who was parked nearby came running out and gave me a sheaf of paperwork. Actual paper, can you believe that? She tried to stop the repo team from taking the ship, but they told her that I’d defaulted on the mortgage and they were engaged in a lawful repossession. I didn’t even know that they had the override codes for the controller, but it turns out all of that stuff was included in the original Sharf mortgage data.”

“So your mortgage was one of those bundled into a security—”

“About ten months ago I got conned in a deal for fuel packs,” Daryl spoke over her. “The seller rigged them out with thin-film battery overlays in the power ports, so