Space Stations

“These infants will either abandon liquor while in space or they will not survive as a species long enough to become a threat to civilization,” Ab'nere replied. “Do not question my orders, Number Six. I have watched species rise and fall a dozen times over during the past two hundred five cycles. I know how to run this station.”

She really needed to supervise the mopping up in A 108, 109 and now up to A 112, and make sure the computer recorded Ab'nere's estimated repair costs rather than actual numbers. Instead, she waited on a very late infant species and an elder who should know better. Etiquette had been breached by all parties involved.

This mode of affairs must not continue. Etiquette ran Labyrinth and kept

misunderstandings to a minimum. She firmly believed that her etiquette prevented war.

A new screen on her spectacles flashed an alarm. “Number Fifteen Son,” she called.

“Aquatic 893 just lost three points of pressure. You must swim in and check for leaks.”

“Oh, Mother, I was just going to bathe,” came the rebellious reply.

“There is plenty of water for bathing in the aquatic arm. And I can see ice forming around portal HO 891C. You must seal that leak now.”

“Can't you do it, Mother?”

“Not if you want to continue living on this station!”

Number Fifteen sighed as if the weight of the universe rested on his shoulders. Then he shuffled along to his assignment.

Ab'nere kept a corner of one lens reserved for Number Fifteen and his minor repair. Like his father, he could repair anything and breathed HO liquids as readily as OH gases. But he was of an age to question everything and withdraw into his own head for amusement to the exclusion of all else.

A Glug, oozed into ONH 323, rotating its midsection to indicate its search for a new contact. Frequent visitors like the Glugs had terminal jacks wired directly into their brains. The creature bellied up to the bar—that is if the amorphous blobs of sludge had a belly—and plugged in to the translation port of the central system.

Those species not interested in hardwiring their brains usually carried portable jacks that fitted in or over whatever passed for ears.

Ab'nere prided herself on not needing a jack. She learned the new languages as quickly as communications opened up new worlds. Each of her eighteen mates had

communicated in a different manner, some of them most interestingly.

But then Labyrinthines tended to have DNA as flexible as their tongues, their ears, and their double-jointed limbs.

“Methane, straight up. Double shot,” the Glug ordered.

Ab'nere suspected this one was Ghoul'gam'esth, their chief negotiator. Glugs were a communal species. What one ate, thought, suffered, the rest of the colony thought, suffered, ate. Identifying any individual proved a challenge to non-Glugs. Only slight differences in coloration separated them. Shape and size constantly varied within each individual. If this one was the Ghoul, then they sent the big guns for the negotiation, showing a bit of desperation. Methane was getting harder to find in its raw state. The greedy Glugs recklessly sought out infant species in search of new sources of their primary food. Often they violated contamination protocols in their never-ending quest for methane. (Galactic scientists had yet to figure out how the species thrived on methane but breathed oxygen.) Rumor had it, this new infant species had an excess of excrement that broke down into large amounts of methane. (Most inefficient.) A trade agreement would benefit them all.

And Ab'nere would collect the commission on the trade agreement, and the docking fees for the transfer of cargo, and library fees for dispensing information on both species. Not to mention what the traders spent on comestibles and ingestibles.

Hopefully, the bankers had not heard of this infant yet and would not know how to compute the trade agreement to their own benefit. How long could Ab'nere keep it hidden?

About as long as she could hide a pregnancy by a Magma Giant. But for now, both were her secrets.

She placed an enclosed globule of methane with a straw and a bright green swizzle stick in the shape of a plumbing plunger on the bar where the Glug could reach it. The useless decoration added refinement to the noxious brew. The new species liked useless ornamentation, too.