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Foog

The Kornak's Horn was a grubby little bar in a grubby little town and Trang wondered why he'd ever agreed to come to this grubby little world at the ass end of nowhere.

He waved an arm at the bartender, a skinny orange humanoid of indeterminate sex and species. "I'll have another glass of whatever this skunk piss is I'm drinking." The... being, Trang decided was the best word, set the drink down in front of him, but waited for a palm scan before taking its hand from the glass and walking away with a superior sounding grunt. He shook his head slightly and took a sip of the foul tasting liquid. Half the sentients in the Union spent a lot of time snickering up their sleeves at the poor, backwards humans. Of course, most of the other half were regarded pretty much the same way, some of them by each other, though not always for the same reason. Everyone needed someone to feel superior to, he supposed, but his experience showed it was all bullshit anyway.

Trang suppressed a shiver at the next mouthful and then a groan as a short, squat creature in a trenchcoat sat down next to him. If he'd known his contact was going to be a Xiya, he would've stayed home on Providence no matter how big a retainer he'd been offered.

Humanish looking, though with an odd variety of skin tones, most of them some form of orange, the Xiya were a nice enough species, he supposed. That is if you didn't mind them latching on to some of your worst literature and then trying to become characters from it in order to deal with you. Small details were adapted to fit themselves, of course, and the effect achieved was usually at least nauseating.

Fighting off the beginnings of a headache, Trang worked out the reason for the odd contact phrase he'd been given to use. He gulped from his glass and let the shudder have free reign.

The stubby little being jacked up the barstool and leaned hard towards him without turning, speaking out of the corner of its mouth in an exaggerated whisper. "My brother's goat is very flatulent."

Trang pressed a hand to his temple and sighed. "It's an ill wind that blows no one any good," he mumbled.

Bright yellow eyes and a dazzling array of beige teeth beamed from under the brim of some kind of hat. His mind supplied the word fedora, though he couldn't recall ever having seen one before. A hand shot out from the trench coat and Trang dutifully tickled palms with the alien.

"You are Wallace Trang, yes?" Not really a question. What other civilized being in that pit could possibly have guessed at the proper response to an outstretched Xiyan hand? "I am Foog, Kymbflikpk Foog. I am happy that you have finally arrived. Ah, my good bartender, Flemlik Ooze, if you please. Scrambled, not whipped."
A glass of thick brownish goo was placed in front of Foog, who cheerfully submitted to the palm scan before tossing the substance into his (?) mouth. Slowly draining likely would have been a better description since it took a second or so for the goo to actually start flowing. Trang had a hard time watching, but waited for Foog to finish before bringing up business.

"So why exactly do you need a Facilitator? And why me specifically?"

Foog's eyes darted left and right and he craned his short neck to scan the entire room. No one other than the bartender was present. "Not here." He lowered his voice to what passed for a whisper. "I am staying at the hotel on the corner. Room thirteen. Knock twice, count to six, then twice again. I will know it is you." Foog hopped down. "Finish your drink before following me."

Trang regarded the glass with a suspicious eye. "Do I have to?" he muttered, but Foog was already gone.

Thud. Thud.

One, six.

Thud. Thud.

The door whizzed open and Foog was standing there, hands on hips, collar of the trench coat still pulled up high. Male, Trang decided. The stance was definitely masculine, at least in human terms. "You count quickly." They stared at each other for a moment. "Are you coming in?"

"I guess so."

Every piece of furniture in the room was the standard size for a multispecies hotel, which meant a bit too small for Trang and much too large for Foog. Not quite right for any species in fact, the manufacturer having decided everyone should be equally uncomfortable. Trang squeezed himself into a chair and Foog climbed up into another after turning it to face him. The two stared at each other for several long moments.

"In the bar," Foog said finally, "you requested an explanation. Have you time for the full story?"

"Your credit."

Something that might have been a grin passed over the little being's face but was quickly replaced by a serious, almost dour, scowl. "I work for the... Xiyan Historical Service is a good translation. My job, primarily, is research into our species' past. We have a long history and have been in space longer than any other local species. Unfortunately, our civilization has also suffered a number of... setbacks over the last several thousand cycles. This has made us something of a long running joke among most of the rest of the intelligent species of the galaxy since our civilization seems to… collapse much more frequently than everyone else's.

"The past is very important to us, chiefly our own but others' are very interesting as well. Historical and archaeological research are constantly pursued on every planet we inhabit. My people are fairly good at information gathering, espionage you might call it in some circles, though I am not certain the word is completely correct in this instance. Not as efficient as humans, perhaps, but we are not nearly as incompetent as the Chktrn. We do better than we might in some areas since others have difficulty taking us seriously and often speak more freely than they might. I have a number of underlings and contacts in a wide variety of locations who gather information for me. One such underling, Shpermklop Moyl by name, recently reported to me a rumour of ruins on the planet Plk'maar. It is a world that might have been colonized by my people about two thousand cycles ago."

"Might have been?"

The grin on Foog's face might have been interpretable as sheepish had he been human. "Two thousand cycles is a long time. Records are misplaced, buildings burn down, computer systems are upgraded, civilizations collapse. It's a rough universe. The point I am making is that I would like to go to Plk'maar to examine these ruins in at least some detail. I must know if they are truly Xiya and try to discover what happened to the colony if they should prove to be. It has become important to us to know as much as we can about every part of our past."

"I can see why." Trang shrugged. "Doesn't sound to me like you need a Facilitator. Book passage on a ship that's going in that direction or hire one yourself. Then you can poke around the ruins till your heart's content. How hard can it be?"

"Quite a bit harder than you would make it sound. There is a problem with the location of the planet."

Something tickled the back of Trang's mind. "Location? Just a second." His brow furrowed and eyebrows scrunched down to meet over the bridge of his nose. "Plk'maar would have sort of a Mk'cha ring to it if, say, you added an extra cough or gargle on the end."

Foog nodded. "The planet orbits a star that lies well within the region of space claimed by the Mk'cha Hegemony. It is not possible to simply hire a ship and go there. I have tried. People laugh."

"People laugh because you're out of your miserable little Xiyan mind. Nobody enters Hegemony space if they want to get old. The Mk'cha are extremely jealous of their borders and have no tolerance for trespassers." We're all lucky that they're happy where the borders are.

"That is why I need a Facilitator," Foog replied. "And you specifically. You have a reputation for being able to ignore any border, no matter how rigidly guarded, for bypassing any security, for ignoring cultural misunderstandings and misperceptions. These are skills very much needed for this undertaking."

"Obviously." Trang shook his head. His headache was coming on full force. "Sorry. Can't help you. Your colonial history isn't worth my life and that's what crossing that particular border would cost."

Foog leaned forward in his chair. "I am authorized to pay you three hundred thousand credits if you will agree to take me, assist my search, and bring me back to Xiy."

Trang tried not to choke. Three hundred thousand credits was as much as he'd make in three decent years, for one job! That would make a nice addition to his retirement fund. But was it worth the risk? He wondered how much Foog was really authorized to pay and arbitrarily doubled the initial offer. "Six hundred thousand." Wonder what he's willing to pay.

"I could probably convince the service to authorize a payment of three seventy-five."

Foog didn't seem like much of a bargainer. Seventy-five thousand was much too big a jump for a first return. At the absolute most he should have gone to three and a quarter. He'd probably even started too high. The little alien might have realized his mistake but it was too late to take it back. Had he even expected to bargain? Maybe not, but he had set the stage, and the movement.

"Five fifty."

"Three hundred ninety."

Was that a wince? "Five hundred."

Foog heaved a sigh. "Four hundred. Please do not ask for more."

Over budget. But… "Tell you what. I'll probably regret this, but I don't want to get you into too much trouble. So how 'bout four twenty-five, half in advance, plus fuel and expenses, and a high yield life insurance policy payable to my choice of beneficiary."

An orange hand shot out so quickly that Trang was already tickling palms with the alien before he managed to stop to think he might have misread the bargaining entirely. "Agreed," Foog grinned happily. "Shall I draw up the contract?"

Trang shook his head slightly, half disgusted with himself. "Amendment, I already regret this. Yeah, draw up the contract. I'll look it over and print it."

Facilitator is a lovely job title. What it really means is guy/girl who does what needs to be done regardless of borders, security, property rights, or other inconvenient laws, traditions, customs, cultures, religions, beliefs happens to be involved. For money. Preferably lots of money. The more the better.

Part investigator, part espionage agent, part computer hacker, part perpetual student, part lawyer, part xenologist, a Facilitator picked up whatever skills he or she thought might someday be useful and used them on behalf of his or her clients. Unlike the old adage about customers, it doesn't matter if the client is always right, or even ever. The client is always paying. Far more important. And, of course, the more the client is paying, the more important it is.

There are many different kinds of Facilitators of many different species. Some excel at one type of contract or another and sometimes these specialties can be attributed to species of environment. Humans, it was widely recognized, generally produced the best all round, jack of all trades, do anything for enough credits kind of Facilitators.

Even if they were probably an inferior species.