by John Ringo
"Do you really think the Horvath are your benefactors?" Wathaet asked.
"Of course I do," Tyler said, smiling. "Our Horvath benefactors who find our systems as porous as you do and are listening to this conversation on my cellphone are our friends!"
"Ah," the Glatun said, making a noise something like a sneeze. "Don't worry. The Horvath are most certainly not listening to any conversation I am involved in."
"Really?" Tyler asked.
"Really. Horvath systems are better than yours. But the information systems on what they call a battlecruiser, which is not much bigger than a Glatun admiral's landing barge, are no match for even my ship. And I'll admit I don't have galaxy class systems. The Horvath are most certainly not listening."
"In that case," Tyler said, smiling again. "Of course we're poor. They're stealing all our metals. What I don't get is why the Glatun don't throw them out so Glatun traders get the metals."
"Other than assuring the safety of trade our military tries very hard to avoid non-strategic entanglements," Wathaet said. "That has not always been the case and we've had times in our history of military adventurism and colonialism. But we've given that up mostly."
"I can understand that, too," Tyler said, nodding. "I know this is a shot in the dark, but have people sort of shown you, well, everything we have to trade?"
"What do you mean?" the Glatun said then held up a hand. "Your turn to talk."
"Damn," Tyler said, getting up and trying to remember what he was going to say.
He managed to stumble through some remarks then sat back down quickly.
"You said something about everything you have to trade," Wathaet said. "Your produced items are rather crude and expensive for you to produce compared to fabbers. Not economical for us. There's not much mark-up in the market for things that are simply made by hand. A fabber can produce variation easily. We produce what you consider precious gems practically as industrial waste . . ."
"Got all that," Tyler said. "I mean, you read the comic. Covered that."
"True. And Forella really screwed those natives."
"Well, they deserved it. What about commodity materials?" Tyler asked.
"You mean foodstuffs?" Wathaet said. "I did read the comic. You know as well as I that your foodstuffs are chemically incompatible. We may have some similarity in appearance to terrestrial organisms but our chemistry is radically different. You covered that as well."
"Which is all very good theory but it hasn't been tested," Tyler said.
"Yes, it has," Wathaet said. "By the first contact ship. We're incompatible."
"Did they test everything?" Tyler said. "If not . . ."
"My turn to talk," Wathaet said, getting up. "Where is that . . . Ah. There's the speech . . ."
Tyler sort of tuned out his speech and thought.
"What are you doing before you leave?" Tyler asked as Wathaet sat back down.
"We leave on Wednesday," Wathaet said. "That's when we're picking up our last few trades. Not much on Monday. Why?"
"Let's check," Tyler said. "I'll load up my pick-up with just . . . stuff. You've got something that can tell if it's poisonous, I'm sure."
"Yes," Wathaet said.
"I'll bring a bunch of . . . stuff," Tyler said. "It'll take a bit for you to check them but there might be something that you can find that's worth trading. If so, you make a profit and I've got the lock on a major extra-terrestrial market. Unlikely but why think small?"
"Intriguing," Wathaet said. "I'll do it. On one condition."
"Which is?" Tyler asked, warily.
"Can you . . . do a sketch?"
"Mr. Vernon?"
Tyler looked up from the sketch he was doing and smiled.
"Hey, how you doing?"
"Great," the man said, smiling. Six foot, short red hair, really Irish complexion, green eyes. Miskatonic U T-shirt and jeans. "My name's Dan Poore. I'm a really big fan."
"Glad to hear that," Tyler said, handing the previous customer his sketch.
"Thanks Mr. Tyler," the kid said, forking over ten bucks. "This is great!"
"And thank you," Tyler said, ignoring the mistake. "Would you like a sketch . . . uh . . ."
"Dan," the red-head said. "Uh . . . sure." He dug in his pocket and came up with two fives. "Could you do one of the Glatun?"
"Wathaet? Sure," Tyler said. Might as well get some practice.
"You guys were sure talking up a storm on the stage," Dan said.
"Turns out he did some research on the people he might be meeting and took to TradeHard," Tyler said, starting to sketch rapidly.
"I guess . . . a story about a group of space free-traders would make sense to an alien free-trader," Dan said. "Were you just talking about the comic?"
"That and why I stopped doing it," Tyler said. "And he wants me to come over to the ship and do a sketch of him and the crew and the ship TradeHard style."
"Getting paid in atacirc?" Dan asked, curiously.
"I wish," Tyler said, handing over the sketch. "Thanks for your continued support. Are you part of TradeCrew?"
"Uh, no," Dan said. "But I'd like to get a What's Your Score? T-Shirt."
"Twenty-five bucks," Tyler said, handing over a large. "And thank you again."
"Must be a bit of a come-down doing small cons," Dan said, forking over the money. "I hope I didn't . . ."
"Just love the people," Tyler said, neutrally. "Anything else?"
"No," Dan said. "Thanks."
* * *
Special Agent Daniel Nolan Poore got in the van and was swept head to foot before he opened his mouth.
"He's meeting with the Glatun. Didn't get into when. Says he's just doing a sketch of the crew and the captain."
"Why do they want a sketch?" the Senior Special Agent asked.
"Said that Wathaet's a fan," Dan said, shrugging. "Makes sense."
"Write it up," the SSA said. "Long-hand. I want somebody with a camera, and I shouldn't have to point this out but a chemical camera, getting shots. I don't want the Horvath or the Glatun to realize they're under surveillance."
Two
As he drove back to Boston on Monday, Tyler had to admit that he'd much rather work for Chuck on Day Shift. When he'd gone to the general manager and asked if he could scrounge through the rejects that were being returned Chuck had just waved. Among other things, Chuck was a fan and while that didn't get Tyler many points it allowed them to communicate better.
People generally didn't buy something in grocery stores that was dinged, scratched or otherwise marred. They'd eat stuff that had so little nutrition that they might as well eat the box but woe-betide if the box was crushed. So anything that wasn't visually perfect got sent back to the vendors and either got credited or sold through outlets. There were rules against giving it to most food banks for that matter. Most of it was just thrown away.
Most of the damage occurred over the weekend so Tyler had had plenty of stuff to pick through and he'd gotten just about one of everything. The likelihood of any of it being compatible to the Glatun, much less valuable, was small. But long shots occasionally hit and it was this or cut trees.
Tyler really wanted to wangle a ride on the ship. There was no way that was going to fly but it was a childhood dream.
He hadn't just come up with TradeHard on the spur of the moment, he'd wanted to be Wathaet from the time he was a kid. His grandfather was in his sixties before they ever met but he remembered the old man's stories like they were yesterday. Granda had been a crewman, eventually rising to captain, on tramp steamers that plied the South Seas trade back when they were still converting from sail to steam. His stories of trading for copra, fights with gangs in pre-Communist Shanghai and, as they both got older, beautiful island maidens, were some of the highlights of Tyler's childhood. That and books, mostly SF books once he found them. Combine Norton and Heinlein and Poul with Granda and you got TradeHard, what Tyler really wanted to do when he grew up.
He'd considered going into t
he merchant marine rather than college but it simply wasn't the same as when Granda was a crewman. American crewmen, especially, ran under so many rules, unions and regulations that it wasn't much different from being part of any other corporation. The soul was gone from it.
Space, though, had to be different. There was just too much variety available. Sure, there were problems. But they'd be bigger . . . grander.
"So for two fifteen minute speeches you managed to make our gate fees," Drath said, sourly. The ship's purser blew out a line of spittle and recovered it. "And that only by smuggling out that guy's stash of gold coins. How the hell did he hang onto those, by the way?"
"Look up 'survivalist,'" Wathaet said. "It's a really bizarre religion these people have."
"Unless we can find a rich buyer with a queer jones for alien folk art we're not going to make fuel! And that doesn't count the damned mortgage. We are so screwed."
"I know," Wathaet said, lifting his mane in a shrug. "Meeting that guy who used to do the TradeHard comic. He's bringing some stuff for me to look at. Not much chance any of it will be worth anything but at this point . . ."
"It's about all we can hope," Drath said. "Well, I hear Norada Lines is hiring. Back to being a cargo handler."
"Yeah, good for you," Wathaet said. "I'm not qualified on anything bigger than a Class IV. I'm going to be doing the Tranat run for the rest of my life. I hate Tranat station! It's a damned gas mine! There aren't even any good bars!"
"Hi," Tyler said to the armed guard at the gate. The Spinward Crossing, which was smaller than he'd realized, was tucked into a warehouse in a half-finished industrial park near Reading. Why they'd picked the Boston area was anyone's guess. Most of the ships that had landed in the US had landed near Washington or LA. "Vernon Tyler. I'm supposed to meet with Captain Wathaet."
"Yes, sir," the security guard said, consulting a list. "Could I see some ID?"
"Why are there guards on the ship?" Tyler asked.
"Believe it or not, some people can't sort out the difference between Glatun and our Horvath benefactors," the guard said, handing back his ID. "So far we haven't had any protestors but there have been . . . incidents in other countries."
"Ah," Tyler said. "I'm not going to cause an incident."
"No, sir," the guard said, opening the gate. "Have a nice day."
"Captain Wathaet," Tyler said as he parked the pick-up. He'd been directed to bring it actually into the warehouse so he was able to park it right by the ship. That was after another security check which had searched the back and underside of the pickup, presumably for bombs.
"Mr. Vernon," Wathaet said, stepping down from the cargo ramp. "A pleasure to see you again. What have you brought?"
"Rare and costly viands from the four corners of the earth," Tyler said, cheerfully. "You'll understand if I don't get into exactly what rare and costly viands."
"Of course," Wathaet said as Tyler started unloading. "Bring them up in the ship. I've set up a table and some chairs. It occurred to me after we made this agreement that I was placing myself in trade against the writer of TradeHard. I'm not sure that's a good idea."
"Those who can do, those who can't write," Tyler said, pulling out a set of trays with Dixie cups on them. The Dixie cups had been the most expensive part. "I've really got no experience of this sort of thing. Even if we find something I'm pretty sure I'm going to get screwed. I have prepared two hundred and twenty three different possible trade items for your examination. Each of them is of the highest possible quality and chosen from some of the rarest and most sought-after substances on Earth."
"You're behind on your cellphone bill and your ex is still looking at the email she hasn't sent about being behind on your child support payment," Wathaet said, taking out a small hand scanner and starting to scan the cups. "I'm pretty sure that these are from the tossed out trash in the stockroom of your store. But it's not under surveillance or in inventory so I'm not positive."
"Bastard," Tyler muttered, setting the cups down on the table. It looked to be some sort of polymer and was sort of scratched and worn. For that matter the small . . . hold he supposed was beat to hell. "I hate it when people know more about my life than I do."
"Like I said," Wathaet said, "it's like not trying to look through an open window. Nothing, nothing, poisonous as hell which is interesting . . ."
"What's that?" Tyler asked.
"Thirty-seven."
"Wow. If we ever do get into regular trade with your people, don't ever ever accept a Coke."
"Thought that was what it was," Wathaet said. "We'd been warned. And our implants can process it. Would only make us mildly ill. This one is interesting. Not for us. It's compatible to Rangora systems. Not sure what it would taste like to them."
As he was scanning he was picking up and sniffing anything that wasn't registering as toxic. He paused with one and set down his scanner. His snout practically turned inside out as he gave a long sniff. The mane that ran down his back stood up like a startled cat.
"This smells . . ." Wathaet said, carefully dipping a finger into the tarry substance. He took a small taste and rolled it around in his mouth. "This is . . ."
Suddenly he drove his snout into the cup and began licking frantically.
"You okay?" Tyler asked, worriedly.
"Yeah," Wathaet said. His tone wasn't muffled because he wasn't actually opening his mouth. But it should have been because his snout, which was just a bit too wide, had ripped open the Dixie cup and was covered in a brown-tarry substance. A long, purple tongue emerged and began licking the substance off. "What is this stuff?"
On the long shot, which seemed to be playing out, that something would be compatible and interesting to the Glatun, Tyler had put the various foodstuffs into the cups and marked then with numbers. That way only he knew what they were. The '156' was barely visible since it had been ripped.
"Huh," Tyler said, consulting a hand-written list. "Dragon's Tears. Figured it would be that."
"What is Dr. . . . Wha-buh . . . Wheeeeeeeeeeet." The Glatun shook his head and opened his mouth. "Garglaaafawwowluple?"
"What is Dragon's Tears?" the collar transmitter asked.
"Did you just speak Glatun?" Tyler asked.
"More or less," Wathaet said, shaking his head. "I couldn't handle my plants for a second. That stuff has a kick! I think we might be onto a winner here. What is Dragon's Tears? It's not anywhere on your information systems."
"Tears of a Dragon," Tyler said. "Nearly impossible to get, very rare and almost secret. You have to make a dragon laugh and cry to get them. First you have to tell a dragon ten jokes it's never heard before. If you tell it one joke it's heard you have to start over again. And you'd better tell them fast and well or it will eat you. If you make it through that, then you have to tell it ten sad stories that make it cry. When it starts to cry you dash forward and catch the tears."
"You are such a liar," Wathaet said. "First of all, dragons are a legend like the trakal of my people. Second, if something was that rare and costly you couldn't afford it. Third, all my instruments say that this came from a plant."
"True, but it's going to make great marketing," Tyler said.
"You got any more?" Wathaet said, contemplating the empty cup with slumped shoulders. "Seriously, this is really good. Who knew?"
"I've got some more," Tyler said. No cameras that could see in the truck bed. "But, seriously, I do need some trade for it. I'll get some more out of the back of the truck and we'll trade."
When Tyler got back there wasn't one Glatun but three clustered around the table. He'd brought a squeeze bottle and some Dixie Cups.
"Why don't we try mixing it with a little water," Tyler said. "I don't have enough to fill these cups. I'm thinking . . . hundred weight of atacirc per weight of tears."
"You've got to be joking!" one of the Glatun snapped. They pretty much looked alike but this one had a longer snout than Wathaet and darker blue skin.
"Hey, Tyler," Wathae
t said, the collar transmitter faithfully replicating his slur. "Meet Drath. He's the purser. Han'les all the . . . cargo an' stuff. An' Fabet's a eng . . . enga . . ."
"Ship's engineer," Fabet said, leaning forward. "So what is this stuff?"
"Dragon's Tears," Tyler said, squirting a generous measure into a cup and handing it to the purser. If he was reading things right the purser was going to be the guy he needed as hammered as possible for the negotiations. "Very rare and precious."