Freelance On The Galactic Tunnel Network by E. Foner (best beach reads of all time TXT) 📗

“John. I’m registering as a candidate.”

“How many years a trader?”

“Sixteen.”

“Are you a member of a party?”

“Since when do we have parties?”

“Since this year, but if you didn’t know that, you’re running as an independent.”

“Of course.”

“Do you want anything after your name on the ballot?”

“EarthCent Intelligence,” John said, and the conversations in the line behind him suddenly trailed off.

“Excuse me?”

“I have a side job as a handler for EarthCent Intelligence. I run agents. Lots of traders have side jobs.”

“Oh, you’re that John. I’ve heard of you. And you’re sure you want to reveal it on the ballot? Are you recruiting?”

“Always, but that’s not the reason for full disclosure. I’m running for the council because I want the Guild to join the Conference of Sovereign Human Communities. It’s only fair people know up front that I’m with EarthCent Intelligence so there won’t be any accusations of election interference. I’m running for me, not my employers.”

“All right, I know better than to contradict a man with a gryphon.” The registrar tapped something out on his tab, then held it up to capture an image of John’s face. Then he handed over a piece of yellow ribbon and said, “Tie that around your arm and you’re all set. If you want to write a bio to go with the picture, your face is your password for accessing the edit mode.”

“Thanks. Did registration just open?” John asked, indicating the line behind him. “It looks to me like there are at least three times as many candidates as I remember having to vote for in the past.”

“Everybody else is here to register for the first night of the Tall Tales contest. The speeches by council candidates are basically a warm-up act to make the storytellers look good.”

“Thanks,” John said, nudging Semmi with his foot as he turned to go. Ignoring the beer tents, he led the gryphon to the fair, where thousands of traders had spread their blankets. Some were there to make deals, but most of the older traders were only showing one or two items, usually of alien manufacture. Judges were circulating looking for the most interesting artifacts, questioning the owners about how they were acquired, and taking images.

Semmi proved to be worth her weight in gold as an attention magnet, and John found himself wishing that he had added “Gryphon” rather than “EarthCent Intelligence” to his ballot entry.` He had an excellent memory for faces and was able to greet dozens of traders by name, not counting those who he had paid for information over the years. By the time dinner rolled around, Semmi had mooched so much food that she wasn’t hungry, and when John suggested she might want to get some exercise, the gryphon lumbered into the air and began flying laps around the Rendezvous grounds. Not having begged any food for himself, John got into line for the bar-b-que.

“Are you speaking after the cookout?” asked a man whose nose looked like it had been broken in a fight and never been set properly.

“If there’s time,” John replied. “The registrar hinted that the Tall Tales contest has priority. I take it from the ribbon that you’re running?”

“I’m Phil’s son, Larry,” the other trader introduced himself and offered a handshake.

“John, EarthCent Intelligence. I’ve done business with your father a few times over the years, a good trader.”

“Since you’re not wearing a playing card with a picture of you pinned to your shirt, I’ll assume you’re one of the good guys.”

 “Are you saying that the candidates running against joining CoSHC are giving away whole decks of cards?”

“Yup. The opposition is prepared and they’ve spent some serious creds on swag.”

“So how many of them are there? Fifty-two?”

“They’re running exactly thirteen candidates, one per seat.”

“While our side risks diluting the vote over too many candidates,” John said with a frown. “Maybe I should withdraw my name. I didn’t discuss my plans with anybody beforehand, because in past elections, everybody ran as independents.”

“As it happens, we’re lucky you signed up because one of the current council members who was planning to run again isn’t going to make it here in time,” Larry said, shuffling a few steps closer to the grill. “The anti-CoSHC candidates are all pretty young and nobody seems to know much about them. It would have been nice if their biographies were printed on the backs of the playing cards, but as my dad pointed out, that would have made them useless for poker.”

“A pre-marked deck that everybody can read.” John snorted. “Did you prepare a speech for tonight?”

“A journalist friend helped me write one. You?”

“I’ve got a whole spiel I do for the casual agents I recruit for EarthCent Intelligence, and most of it applies.”

“Do your best for humanity? That sort of thing?” Larry asked.

“You’ve heard it?”

“EarthCent is nothing if not consistent. Two burgers,” he told the woman working the grill. “All the fixings.”

“Same for me,” John said. “Is everything…?”

“Vergallian vegan,” the grill cook replied. “It’s the real stuff, not what you get on alien worlds.”

“You know, we probably shouldn’t eat together,” Larry said after they paid for their food.

“You’re right,” John agreed. “It’s an opportunity to sit with some strangers and maybe scare up a few votes. I guess I’ll see you when the speeches start. Do we put our names in a hat?”

“Yes, they’ll announce it to everybody around an hour from now. Good luck.”

The enormous hand-stitched dining hall tent that doubled as the main venue for speeches had obviously been manufactured on a tech-ban world in the Vergallian Empire. There were so many poles holding up the dark green canopy that it felt a bit like entering an old-growth forest that had been filled with hundreds of rows of folding tables and many thousands