Balance of Trade

by Sharon

  In the hall outside her office, he went down on a knee and took a few moments to order his paperwork, slap the watch 'round his wrist, and glance through the schedule. Running his finger down the table, being careful with the Liaden words, and checking his timepiece frequently, he established that the shift which was "his own" had just commenced. More searching in the schedule produced the information that "nuncheon" was on buffet in the galley.

  Squinting at the map, he found that the galley was on the short route to his quarters, at which point his stomach commented rather pointedly that his breakfast of 'mite and crackers was used up and more.

  One last squint at the map, and he was on his way.

  * * *

  THERE WERE MAYBE a dozen people in the galley when he swung in. They all stopped talking and turned to look at him, smooth Liaden faces blank of anything like a smile or any honest curiosity. Just . . . silence. And stares. Jethri swallowed, thinking that even a titter, or a "Look at the Terran!" might be welcome.

  Nothing like it forthcoming, he walked over to the cool-table where various foods were laid out, and spent some while looking over the offerings, hoping for something familiar, while all the time he felt the eyes boring bland, silent holes into his back.

  It got to him, finally, all that quiet, and the sense of them staring at him, so that he snatched up a plate holding something that looked enticingly like a pan-paste handwich and bolted for the door, map and schedule clutched under one arm.

  His dash was two steps old when a dark-haired woman swung into his path, one hand held, palm out, and aiming for his chest.

  He skidded to a halt, all but losing the papers, the handwich dancing dangerously on its plate, and stood there staring like a stupid grounder, wondering what piece of politeness he had, all unknowing, shattered, and whether word had gotten out to the crew that they were more forgiving than most.

  The woman before him said something, the sounds sliding past his ear, almost sounding like. . . He blinked and leaned slightly forward.

  "Say again," he murmured. "Slowly."

  She inclined her head, and said again, slowly, in Terran so thickly accented he could barely make out the words, though he was craning with all his ears: "Tea will be wanting you."

  "Tea," he repeated, and smiled, from unadorned relief. "Thank you. Where is the tea?"

  "Bottle," she said, waving a quick hand toward a second table, set at right angles to the first, lined with what looked to be single serving vacuum bottles. "Cold. Be for to drinking with works."

  "I see. Thank you. . . " He frowned at the badge stitched onto her shirt. . . "First Officer Gaenor tel'Dorbit."

  Eyebrows rose above velvet brown eyes, and she tipped her head, face noncommittal.

  "Apprentice Terran, you?" She asked, and put her hand against her chest. "Terran student, I."

  He nodded and smiled again. "I'm Master ven'Deelin's apprentice. I'll be helping you with your Terran. Here. . . " He fumbled the schedule out from beneath his arm and held it out, gripped precariously between two fingers, while the handwich jigged on its plate. "What's your shift? I've got—"

  She slipped the paper from between his fingers, gave it a quick, all-encompassing glance, and ran a slim fingertip under a certain hour, showing him.

  "Hour, this," she said, and waved briefly around the galley. "Here we meet."

  "Right." He nodded again.

  Gaenor tel'Dorbit inclined her head and left him, angling off to the left, where a table for three showed one empty chair and a half-eaten meal; the other two occupants considering him with silent blandness.

  Jethri grabbed a tea bottle from the table and all but ran from the room.

  Using the map, he found his assigned quarters handily, and stood for a long couple minutes, staring at his name, painted in Liaden letters on the door, before sliding his finger into the scanner.

  The scan tingled, the door opened and he was through, staring at a cabin maybe three times the size of his quarters on the Market. The floor was covered in springy blue carpet, in the center of which sat his bags. The bed and desk were folded away, and he couldn't have said if it was the strangeness of it, or the sameness of it, but all at once he was crying in good earnest, the tears running fast and dripping off his chin.

  Carefully, he put the handwich and the bottle on the floor next to his bags, then sat himself down next to them, taking care to put schedule and map well out of harm's way. That done, he folded up, head on knees, and bawled.

  Day 60

  Standard Year 1118

  Gobelyn's Market

  Approaching Kinaveral

  KINAVERAL HUNG MIDDLING big in the central screen. Khat had filed her approach with Central, done her system checks and finally leaned back in the pilot's chair, exhaling with a will.

  Cris looked up from the mate's board with a half-grin and a nod. "Two to six, Central will argue the path."

  Khat laughed. "I look a fool, do I, coz? Of course Central will argue the path. I once had a fast-look at a Lane Controller's manual. First page, Lesson One, writ out in letters as high as my hand was, 'Always Dispute the Filed Approach.'"

  Cris' smile widened to a grin. "First lesson, you say? There was pages after that?"

  "Some few," Khat allowed, straight-faced; "some few. Mind, the next six after was blank, so the student could practice writing out the rule."

  "Well, it being so large and important a rule. . . " Cris began, before the intercom bell cut him short.

  He spun back to his board and slapped the toggle. "Mate."

  "First Mate," Iza Gobelyn's voice came out of the speaker, gritty with more than 'com buzz. "I'm looking for the approach stats."

  "Captain," Cris said, even-voiced. "We're on the wait for Central's aye."

  There was a short, sizzling pause.

  "As soon as we're cleared, I'll have those stats," Iza snapped.

  "Yes, Captain, "Cris murmured, but he might just as easily said nothing; Iza had already signed off.

  Cris sighed, sharp and exasperated. Khat echoed him, softer.

  "I thought she'd lighten, once Jeth was gone," she said.

  Cris shook his head, staring down at his board.

  "It ain't Jethri being gone so much as Arin," he muttered. "She's gotten harder, every Standard since he died."

  Khat thought about that, staring at Kinaveral, hanging in the center screen. "There's a lot more years ahead, and Arin in none of them," she said, eventually.

  Cris didn't answer that—or, say, he answered by not answering, which was Cris' way.

  Instead, he said, "I got a reply on that franchise job. They want me to stop by their office, dirtside, take the test. If that's a go, it'll mean a temp berth for the next ten months, Standard."

  Khat nodded, her eyes still on Kinaveral. "Paitor figures to pick up some training or consulting at Terratrade," she said. "Me, I'll file with Central as a freewing."

  "Sensible. The rest sticking to dirt?"

  She laughed. "Now, how likely is that? Might take a few port cycles til they get tired of breathing dust, but you know they'll be looking for space work, too."

  "Huh," Cris said, fiddling with a setting on his board. "Iza?"

  Khat shrugged. "Way I heard it, she was staying dirtside, with the Market." She held up a hand. "Paitor did try to talk her out of it. Pointed out that Seeli's able. Iza wasn't having any. She's the captain, the job's hers, and by all the ghosts of space, she'll do it."

  "Huh," Cris said again—and seemed on the edge of saying something more when the comm screen came live with Central's request that Gobelyn's Market amend her filed approach.

  Day 63

  Standard Year 1118

  Elthoria

  ELTHORIA KEPT A twenty-eight hour "day," divided into four shifts, two on, two off, which made for a slightly longer work day than the Market's twenty-four hour, two-shift cycle. Jethri, who had been used to reading and studying well into his off-shift, scarcely noticed the additional hours.

&nbs
p; His work now—that was different. No more Stinks. If Elthoria had Stinks, which Jethri took leave to doubt, it was nothing mentioned to him by his new acquaintances, though they were careful to show him as much of the ship as an apprentice trader might need to know. His new status meant no more assisting in the galley, a duty he might've missed, if there'd been any time for it, which there wasn't, his time being entirely and systematically crammed full with lessons, study and more lessons.

  Some things were routine, and it eased him somehow to find that Elthoria kept emergency protocols—in which he was relentlessly trained by no lesser person than Arms Master sig'Kethra. Over the course of three shifts, he was drilled in the location and operation of the lifeboats, shown the various boltholes, emergency hatches and hand-grabs. He was also measured for a suit, it being discovered to the chagrin of the supply master that none of those on draw would fit.

  Other things, they weren't so routine—more of that, which is what he'd figured to find. For instance, he had a trade locker all to himself, which was scrupulously the same size as his stateroom, it being the policy on Elthoria that traders should have as much room to work in as they had to sleep in. He wished he'd thought to convert some of his cash to something useful out of the Market—but he hadn't had much time to cry about that missed opportunity, either.

  First thing on shift, right after breakfast, he sat with the tutor-tapes in the ship's library, brushing up on his written and spoken Liaden. Then, he met with Protocol Officer Ray Jon tel'Ondor, which was more language lessons, putting dry learning into practical use. Master tel'Ondor was also of an ambition to teach Jethri his bows, though he made no secret of the fact that Jethri was the least apt pupil he had encountered in long years of tutoring arrogant young traders in protocol.

  After Master tel'Ondor, there was exercise—a mandated ship's hour every day at the weights and the treadmills, then a shower, a meal, and more reading, this on the subjects of trade guild rules and custom regs. After that, there was the Terran-tutoring with Gaenor tel'Dorbit. The first mate being of a restless habit, that meant more exercise, as they walked the long hallways of Elthoria. Despite the extra walking, Jethri quickly came to look forward to this part of his duty-day. Gaenor was younger than Master ven'Deelin and Pen Rel, and she smiled nicely from time to time in her lessons, which Jethri particularly liked.

  Gaenor's idea of being tutored was to just start talking—about the events of the previous shift, her family's home in a dirt-based city called Chonselta, the latest book she was reading, or the ship's itinerary. Jethri's responsibility was to stop her when she misspoke, and say the words over in the right order and pronunciation. So it was that he became informed of ship's policy, gossip and ports o'call, as well as the names of certain flowers which Gaenor particularly missed from home.

  The first mate having access to just about every portion of the ship, Jethri also found himself informed of various lockers and pod connections, and was introduced to each of the ship's company as they were encountered during the ramble. Some of the crew seemed not so pleased to see him, some seemed . . . puzzled. Most seemed not to care much, one way or the other. All were grave and polite, like they oughta be, Jethri thought, with the first mate looking on. Still, he thought that these catch-as-can introductions at the mate's side. . . helped. Helped him put names and faces and responsibilities together. Helped them to see he really was part of the crew, pulling his weight, just like they were.

  One person who seemed outright happy to welcome him was Vil Tor, ship's librarian. As it happened that Vil Tor also had an ambition to add Terran to his speakables, Gaenor and Jethri had taken to including the library as a regular stop. This time out, though, they'd found the door locked, lights out. Gaenor sighed, slim shoulders dropping for a moment, then turned and started back down the hall, swinging out with a will.

  "This our ship, Elthoria," Gaenor said, as they hit the end of the hall and swept left, toward Hydroponics; "will be inputting to Spacestation Kailipso. . . "

  "Putting in," Jethri panted. "Elthoria will be putting in to Kailipso Station."

  "Hah." Gaenor flicked a glance his way; she wasn't even breathing hard. "Elthoria," she repeated, slowing her pace by a fraction, "will be putting in to Spacestation Kailipso—bah!—Kailipso Station—putting in to Kailipso Station within three ship days. There is a—a . . . " She stopped entirely and turned to face Jethri, holding two hands up, palm out, signifying she had not the necessary Terran words to hand.

  "It is to have a meeting of the masters, on subjects interested in the masters. . . "

  The immediate phrase that came to mind was "jaw-fest," which Jethri thought might not be the sort of Terran Master ven'Deelin wanted Gaenor to be learning. He frowned after the polite and after a moment was able to offer, "a symposium."

  "Sim-po-zium," Gaenor said, her mouth pinching up like the word tasted bad. "So, there is a sim-po-zium upon Kailipso. The ven'Deelin attends—the ven'Deelin will attend. The crew will be at leave." She moved her shoulders, not quite a Terran shrug, but not quite admiring of Kailipso Station, all the same.

  "Don't like Kailipso much?" he ventured, and Gaenor's mouth pinched again before she turned and recommenced marching down the hall.

  "It is cold," she said to the empty corridor, and then began to tell him of the latest developments in the novel she was reading. He had to catch up, hoping that she put his delay down to his being somewhat less fit, and not his taking a moment to admire her walk.

  Day 65

  Standard Year 1118

  Kinaveral

  BEFORE THEY CLEARED a freewing to fly, Kinaveral Central wanted to be assured that candidate could find her way through a form or six. That done, there were the sims to fly, then a chat with the stable boss, at the end of which a time was named on the morrow when the candidate was to return and actually lift one of Central's precious ships—and an observer—for the final and most telling part of the test.

  In between now and then, Khat knew, they'd be checking her number and her ship, and verifying her personals. She'd hoped to have the test lift today, but, there, the stable boss needed to know if the applicant free-wing tended toward sober in the morning.

  No problem for the applicant on that approach, Khat thought, walking down the dusty, noisy main street. Not to say that a brew would be unwelcome at the moment. Make that a brew and a handwich, she amended, as her stomach filed notice that the 'mite and crackers she'd fed it for breakfast were long past gone.

  Up ahead, she spied the flashing green triangle which was the sign of an eat-and-drinkery, and stretched her legs, grimacing at the protest of overworked muscles. That'll teach you to stint your weight exercise, she scolded herself, and turned into the cool, comfortably dim doorway.

  A lightscape over the counter showed a old style fin-ship down on a flat plain, mountains marking the horizon. Beneath, a tag box spelled out the name of the joint: Ship 'n Shore.

  There was a scattering of folk at the tables—spacers, mostly—and plenty of room at the counter. It being only herself, Khat swung up onto a stool 'neath the tag box and waved at the barkeep.

  "Dark brew and a handwich for a woman in need!"

  The keeper grinned, drew the beer and sat it on the counter by her hand. "There's the easy part," he said. "What's your fondness for food? We got local cheese and vegs on fresh bake bread; potmeat on the same; 'mite paste and pickles; side o' fish—"

  Khat leveled a finger. "Local cheese without the vegs?"

  "We can do it," he promised.

  "That's a deal, then. Bring her on."

  "Be a sec. Let me know how you find the beer." He moved down counter, still grinning, and Khat picked up the mug.

  The beer was cold, which was how she liked it. Bitter, too, and thick. She'd brought the mug down to half-full by the time her handwich arrived, two generous halves sharing a plastic plate with a fistful of saltpretzel.

  "Brew's good," Khat said. "I'll want another just like it in not too long."

&
nbsp; The keeper smiled, pleased, and put a couple disposable napkins next to the plate. "Just give a yell when you're ready," he said.

  She nodded and picked up one of the halves. The unmistakable smell of fresh bake bread hit her nose and her stomach started clamoring. For the next while, she concentrated on settling that issue. The bread was whole grain, brown and nutty; the cheese butter smooth and unexpectedly spicy. Khat finished the first half and the brew, waved the empty mug at the barkeep and started in on the second round.

  Couple times, folk from the tables came up to the counter for refills. A crew of three came in from the street and staked out stools at the end of the row. Khat paid none of them particular notice, except to register that they were spacers, and nobody she knew.

  At last, the final saltpretzel was gone. Khat pushed the plate away with a regretful sigh and reached for her mug. A couple more sips, settle her bill and then back to the lodgings, she thought, with a sinking in her well-full stomach. Wasn't nothing wrong with the lodgings, mind, except that they was full-grav lodgings, and dirtside, and subject to the rules of the lodge-owner. But still, Market's crew had a section to themselves, inside which each had their own cubby, with cot and desk and entertainment bar. No complaints.

  Excepting that Captain Iza was nothing but complaints—well, she hated dirt, always had; and didn't have much of a fondness for worldsiders. Without the routine of her ship, she stood at sevens and eights and spent 'way too much of her time down to the yards, doubtless making life a hell for the crew boss assigned to Market's refit.

  Zam had suggested the captain might file as freewing with Central, for which insubordination he had his head handed to him. Seeli'd come by no gentler treatment when she spoke to her mother, and Dyk declined even to try. Paitor had his own quarters at Terratrade, and when the temp slot went solid on Cris their second day a-ground, he all but ran to the space field.