It’s a Con World Afterall

Irene Radford

Ab’nere Labyrinthe, owner of the Labyrinthe Prime space station and last of the full-blooded Labyrinthians, adjusted the focus of the monitor built into her out-sized spectacles. She ran a full sweep of the station looking and listening for anything that needed her attention before she retired for a well-earned nap.

The human Minister of Trade, upon arrival had promptly dubbed Labyrinthe Prime as the “First Contact Café” and the name stuck. All twenty-three regular species who used the station as a hub of trade and point of contact with other races had added the sobriquet to their vocabulary within hours of first contact with humans.

She hid a yawn behind her three-fingered hand. Abstractly she stared at the smooth brown skin and wondered just how much more she could accomplish with the opposable thumb of the humans.

Twenty-three species frequented her station. She’d mated with most of them. Each of her eighteen children looked exactly like her, except for one or two admirable traits gleaned from their father’s DNA.

Perhaps she should choose a human as her next mate, just for the advantage of those wonderful thumbs.

“And then we drop a Glugg on top of the Arachnoid and kill him.”

The whispered voice jolted Ab’nere to full awareness. Her wide ears flapped and twisted, seeking the source of the voice. Finally she brought the ears all the way forward, covering her face and blocking all sensory input, except what her spectacles picked up. She narrowed her observations to a tighter beam on the assassins.

“You sure a Glugg is heavy enough to crush an Arachnoid?” a second voice, meeker in cadence, more feminine, said.

Ab’nere had to strain to hear the wispy words.

“Listen Mags, I checked the stats. It will work. We eliminate him and take over the galaxy.” The first voice came through stronger, more sure of itself.

“Number One Daughter,” Ab’nere summoned the director of security for her space station. “All security personnel to ONH3, first recreation bar on the heavy level of Human docking bay and reception lounge.”

“Mother, what is the nature of this emergency?” Number One asked. Ab’nere’s monitors showed the director of station security activating her own communications and monitors. This female child had inherited a second set of eyes hidden in the back folds of her magnificently proportioned ears. Very useful in a security chief.

“We must foil an assassination plot against the Arachnoid Minister of Trade,” Ab’nere said. She searched the images from all security cameras on that level, seeking a clandestine couple plotting murder and mayhem. Unfortunately her contracts with the visiting races rarely allowed cameras in private quarters.

Then there were the ammonia breathers. They enjoyed being watched and recorded in all of their most intimate as well as public activities. Their attention span also required ammonia breathers to refer back to those recordings as reference points to what they were supposed to be doing.

“But, Mother...”

“Do not contradict me! I overheard two humans plotting the assassination of the Arachnoid ambassador.”

“Mother, you may be mistaken.” Number one sounded hesitant. Not useful.

“I am never mistaken. See to it before I promote Number Six the telepath to your post.” Ab’nere severed the connection. She stood and straightened her brown robe, the same color as her skin. Rule number twenty-two of the first contact etiquette book — which she had compiled — never approach a meeting looking disheveled. It gives the impression of too much haste, lack of concern for others, and brings dishonor to your own race.

Satisfied that she projected an air of calm dignity, though anxiety made her limbs twitch, she glided onto the revolving platforms of the lift that would take her upward in her administrative wing through lighter and lighter gravity until she reached the weightless center of the station and the tram that would transport her to the sector reserved for the newest species to visit her station.

The charming naiveté of the newest traders had turned deadly.

If an assassination occurred during the first ever Inter Galactic Planetary Government Heads of State Convention, the reputation of First Contact Café as a safe haven would be ruined forever.

Ab’nere touched her tongue to her appropriate dentalia, keying in her command codes to override the express tram in the core of the spinning station. The machinery continued its quiet hum. She keyed in the codes again more firmly. Still the tram did not come. She kicked the offensive devise in frustration; a clear violation of rule number ten of the etiquette book.

A brightly painted cab drifted to a halt before her at last. Four beings occupied circular chamber. Two were humans. One of them wore the latest breathing mask. A translucent ammonia breather and a green tentacled water breather, also with high tech adapters, filled the remaining space.

“Out!” Ab’nere commanded.

“Sorry, Ms Abner,” the male human said. He was garbed in the latest fashion of pseudo EVA suit. He did not look sorry. Neither did his female companion. She wore wispy black rags that sort of covered her rotund sexuality. An expression of triumphant gloating crossed her very pale face. Her black lips curled into a sneer revealing two very sharp teeth extending beyond a normal bite line.

“Rule of etiquette #3, you may not reveal teeth when greeting another species,” Ab’nere snapped. “Now out of my tram. This is an emergency.”

“We’ll make room for you,” the human male replied. He eased his body behind the female and wrapped his arms around her in a totally disrespectful display of affection.

Ab’nere did not have time to argue with him. She squeezed into the space between the ammonia breather and the tentacled one, tucking her ears behind her head so that they draped across her back in elegant folds. Then she hunched in on herself trying to avoid impolite contact with either being. She touched the appropriate screen in her spectacles to direct the lift to the Oxygen/Nitrogen/ Hydrogen atmosphere arm of the station. A greenish tentacle reached out and grabbed her wrist.

“We have an appointment,” it said in surprisingly good human language. Of course his syllables were garbled by the breather covering most of its head.

“Do you know who I am?” she asked, drawing up to her full height, which placed her about in the middle of the tentacles or the waist of the ammonia breather.

The overly pale human female giggled. Her male companion whispered, “Stay in character, Jax.”

What did that mean?

“You are Abner Labyrinth,” the ammonia breather replied. His standard human was also very good. Ab’nere was not aware that either of these species had had enough contact with the space-faring infants to learn their language so well.

“This is my station. Either allow me to respond to an emergency or you and your minister of trade will be ejected from Labyrinthe Prime for as long as I live.”

All four lift passengers responded with uproarious laughter revealing dangerous numbers of teeth. The human female crossed one arm across her chest and clenched her fist. “Great, Juliet. You’ve got the character down pat. That costume is so dull and ratty its perfect. But how did you get so short.”

“I am not a character. I am...Ab’nere Labyrinthe...” Ab’nere gulped back her anger. She could not afford to lose the trade provided by any of these species. Her percentages depended upon their goodwill.

Living in austerity for a time just so these audacious upstarts learned their place warred with her need to pay off huge mortgages with the bankers of D’Or.

“You do not understand,” she ground out, fighting for calm. “The Arachoind Ambassador is about to be assassinated by having a Glugg dropped upon him. Only the weight of a Glugg and its methane excretions will break down an Arachnoid exoskeleton. I must prevent this tragedy.”

“So that’s how Eamon plans to take over the galaxy.” The tentacled one stretched a very human hand out of the green covering and smacked his forehead. At least Ab’nere thought the region of his abuse was a forehead.

“Thanks for the tip, Ma’am,” the human male said. “I claim the right to challenge Eamon and foil his plans.”

“No, I have the right of challenge. He resurrected himself after I killed him last week,” the female chimed in.

“My right of challenge. Eamon cheated me out of...”

“Don’t forget what he did to me!” All four beings spoke at once, quite belligerently.

Ab’nere prodded the numerous pockets of her brown robe seeking a cross-species aerosol sedative. “Quiet! I cannot think in this cacophony,” she shouted. Another breech of etiquette.

What had the humans reduced her to? Before they came, she never lost her temper.

Silence reigned. Ab’nere took a deep breath and willed her twitching ears to lay flat. “You must settle this amicably.”

“She’s right,” the human female, Jax, said. All four began shaking their hands, pointing digits, striking various parts of their body, and turning circles within the tight confines of the tram. At last the human male ended the silent communication with a raised fist.

“I, Caleb Death Ray, win,” he proclaimed. “And thank you again, M’am. Now we know how to counter Eamon. He’s the best gamer in the IGPGHS. No one has ever come near to matching his experience points.”

“IGPGHS?” Ab’nere quickly ran the initials through her data base, secured in yet another portion of her spectacles. In the human language, they matched the translation of the Inter Galactic Planetary Government Heads of State.

In growing dismay, she reached out and gave the tentacled one an impolite squeeze on the tip of a digit that tended to dangle uselessly at his side. It squished beneath her fingers much like the foam insulation packing for transporting fragile Arachnoid egg sacks. No moisture leaked out around her grip.

She gulped hard then brushed her hand down the semi-transparent skin of the ammonia breather. “Plastic? You but wear a plastic body suit with internal organs painted on the underside!”

“Yeah, best costumer on Earth ran this up for me. I’ve won six awards for coolness with it. I’m Matt, by the way.” He extended a plastic coated hand for a human greeting.

“And I’d have won five of those awards with this octopus costume if you had stayed home like you said you would,” The tentacled on replied.

“Rule 5718B allows last minute entries as long as I have my character registered with the board,” Matt insisted.

“But rule 5719 says that last minute entries have to be benign characters and you killed me last time.”

The two costumed humans wiggled in the tight confines to face each other, nearly suffocating Ab’nere.

She twisted her face toward the door of the cab with barely enough space between her flat nose and the flatter metal surface to gather a little air.

The pale human female threw in a comment that made no sense to Ab’nere. The other human followed suit. The uproar in the confined space of the tram became deafening.

“Wait one moment!” Ab’nere screeched. She worked hard to keep her ears from folding closed across her face, even though they’d be crushed by the two arguers. No sense in showing her agitation and lessening her negotiating advantage. The others fell silent.

“Who are you and why are you on my station?”

They all spoke at once, accompanied by the multiple and inexplicable gestures. Ab’nere watched carefully for the patterns of communication. She had never had trouble deciphering new languages. The existence of a secret form of communication excited her. How could she exploit this for economic advantage?

“We are the Inter Galactic Professional Gamers Histrionic Society. We booked the entire station for our convention.” Caleb Death Ray seemed to have become spokesperson for the group.

Ab’nere took a moment to digest that piece of information. “You mean this is all a...a game? As in a child’s amusement?”

“Never say that!” All four beings reared back, expressions of horror on their faces.

Ab’nere took advantage of the extra space to gulp atmosphere.

“But this is a game, not reality.” She liked that they adored rules and numbers; that they had ambition, ingenuity, and, sigh, opposable thumbs. She could use these beings in her own plans to rule the galaxy through trade.

“Define reality,” the water breather impersonator said, hesitantly.

“Is there a true threat to the Arachnoid Minister of Trade?” Ab’nere asked.

“Ah, no, not him. But our gamester registered as an Arachnoid may see his investment in a really cool costume go up in smoke.”

“You people are very good in your impersonations. If I sent you throughout Labyrinthe with missions to disseminate information — some of it true — and record useful bits of conversation, could you convince others of this?”

“Wow, you mean like real spies?” Caleb Death Ray gasped. His eyes rolled up in near ecstasy.

“Consider it an extended gaming convention directed by me. Any dropping out of character will be severely penalized.” Ab’nere smiled to herself and allowed her ears to flutter a little.

The tram glided to a stop and the doors opened onto the ONH wing.

“Get us a rule book, Ab’nere Labyrinthe.” The human male bowed himself out of the enclosure. He even pronounced her name correctly, something no other human had accomplished so far.

“I shall record and number the rules carefully. Your convention will never end.” Ab’nere bowed politely to the exiting creatures.

All four of them trooped toward the lift, bouncing off the walls and ceiling in the light gravity near the core. They sang a catchy tune that quickly became an annoying earworm as they progressed toward their normal habitat.

“It’s a Con World after all.”

“Hey I need a caffeine hit,” the tentacled one said. “Where’s the nearest coffee?”

oOo

Copyright © Irene Radford