by Sharon Lee
Seventeen Worlds is not a coincidence, he thought. His father had been a far-seeing man . . .
“Second, if you please, we’ll need your attention here for lift in a short while. The mysteries of atmospheric flight are about to unfold for you—find the weather reports and let me know which of them you think we’ll need to attend to—our projected orbit is already on the top screen!”
As he stored his searches and kicked in the weather call, something tickled at his backbrain, something his father had said to him, or that someone had said to his father within his hearing. There he was, sitting with the fractin frame in front of him and . . .
The blue light flashed, showing a weather advisory on the self-same weather system that had brought in the incoming emergency landing. He shoved the fractin frame back into memory. For the moment, thunderstorms and wind shear were going to be on his mind.
* * *
The trip from Balfour to Vincza was a Jump of a little over nine days. Jethri’d tried for four hours to make it into two short Jumps, but the math wouldn’t make it work despite his surety that there were places that two Jumps could actually cut time. The Scout told him it merely proved he’d had access to old charts at some point and asked him to proceed with the rest of his duties.
“What I discover at Balfour is that your name is worth more among Terrans than mine, young Jethri—which is not entirely a surprise. By being both of Elthoria and having the heritage of Gobelyn’s Market on your resume, even my connections believe you are already a force to be reckoned with.”
Jethri spent nearly a full Terran day in calculation on their way to the Jump point, avoiding a headache but managing to put such tension into his wrists that they popped noisily several times. He finally stood behind his seat, switching hands as he held onto the seat with one and stepped in place in the low G, getting his exercise despite the work needing to be done.
“You’re sure that will work, Captain?”
The Scout let a smile escape: “One of the joys of such things is that the majority of miscalculated Jumps will result in nothing more than the ship continuing in the current trajectory—which is to say orbit—for we’re within a very complex system and even under way, at some power, we’re in orbit around all of these local stars. Although we may look silly to outsiders if we exhibit the full run up and then fail to go more extravagantly elsewhere, I’m not concerned of a failure, nor should you be. It has happened to the best of pilots, I assure you.”
“This is what I have, and this is where it says we can make the Jump. The ship is powered, the stat fields are powered, the Struven Units are live, and we have eight more hours, ten minutes, and counting, since I have locked everything in on my board. The main board is not engaged.”
The Scout made a hand-sign Jethri was learning to mean no difficulty. “I have been shadowing your work, which has been very straightforward. An excellent way to approach this.”
“All I’m doing is plugging in values. There’s not much to it. I’ll probably have us in the outer halo for all I know about . . .”
The Scout laughed out loud. “You are showing true progress. Indeed, all I ask is that we meet the basics on this part of the run. We do have some time constraints on arrival—it appears we’ll have less than five days of local transit before we’re due in port, after all. This is something we’ll work on then, however. I suggest you take a meal and rest; we’ll have you at the board for the Jump itself.”
Jethri stood, stretched, looking at the numbers and charts and maps and feeling an odd sense of understanding of what he was looking at, and what he’d done.
Something changed there, and he got a sense of dread: lights went from red to blue, from yellow to green, from—
The Scout bowed. “Your board is currently live and working; mine is shadowing. Thank you for your efforts in our behalf, young sir. Please announce yourself as Pilot in Charge and that we’re set for Jump. After we Jump I’ll set up a proper training schedule for you; we must arrive at Vincza in good order!”
Chapter Fourteen
Coyander Kenso at Finifter
Tan Sim’s return to Coyander Kenso waited on another round or two of white wine, or maybe it was the music that kept him, odd as it was, or maybe it was the Coyander itself. He had no other profitable place to go now, though he might see if there was an active entertainment section—
And he’d made money easily here, which was a surprise, his spec cargo moving with far more alacrity than he’d supposed possible.
He swirled his glass in meditation, recalling, too, that he ought to report in to the trade hall offices, if only to register his appreciation of the rapid transfers, and drop coin or offer a favor as best fit the office, so that when next he was here he’d be higher on the welcome trader list.
The musicians broke unexpectedly into song, the three of them, the first sound they’d made aside from their instruments since he’d arrived. Two of the instruments were stringed, and one was beaten with an amazing variety of implements. He’d enjoyed the change from his own keyboarding while understanding that he could easily adapt some of this to . . .
The singing was in a local dialect he could barely understand, but it was clear that his attention didn’t matter to the group, whose energy was rising—well, the song was about a night well spent.
At least his day had been well spent. He did wish Jethri might have been with him to see the transactions—he would have been quite pleased to see the last of those pod items moved for profit, and much of the pod cleared for incoming paid freight.
The so-called expansion pod remained one third full—that being the captain’s speculation cargo, remaining unmoved after three ports. Since dea’Blanco insisted on representing it himself it might easily remain as if in stasis for the entire route, the captain seeking to sell it at bars more often than trade halls.
For himself, he’d made the rounds of three minor exchanges and divested himself of the old goods, asking far too much to begin with—and retaining far too much profit.
An odd thought that, the “too much prifit” but he’d seen it happen before and knew when it was true—either he’d misplayed the market and could have done much better, or the traders he’d dealt with had been in a generous mode, willing to bow to future gains by encouraging the new-on-port trader to return soon. Seeing the Coyander Kenso doing more than carrying freight for delivery might have shocked them. Certainly the name of Tan Sim pen’Akla had little enough to do with it, though Tan Sim pen’Akla Clan Rinork—
Ah yes, there might be a truth there. He’d always thought Rinork was a card to be shared carefully, but then Rinork had not always been good to him. Yet when Rinork’s famed card was waved forcefully in an off-world trader’s face the way Bar Jan was wont to do, why then . . .
Yes, he’d heard it said that Bar Jan traded more on his clan than his goods—said carefully, it was when Bar Jan and his mother were elsewhere, and not when the speaker knew that the last pen’Akla was about. And he’d wondered, too, what the melant’i and Balance was between Rinork and Kenso’s people to make such a bargain as the one that had captured him on a moribund route with a ship with crew and captain so depressed that it was a marvel it had the energy to come out of Jump.
He’d seen the contracts Rinork’s man of business built, and if they had more behind them than any other High Clan’s contracts, he’d not seen it—yet the strength Rinork showed, that strength showed more off-world than on, and more in the low places than the high.
Rinork had odd melant’i in some ports, as if there were connections Tan Sim was unaware of. He hoped, of course, he could discover these connections if there were some, or else avoid them if they produced unequal results . . .
The musicians, having finished their set, placed instruments down after perfunctory bows, fell together in a hug more properly a grope and rushed their bows and their goodbyes, leaving the barwoman with a bad expression and the few customers with little else to stare at but their hands.
Glass being empty and paid for, and music done for now, he charted a course to Coyander Kenso that ran through the trade office and perhaps by the trade bar as well. Sometimes the trade bar was good for company, and he’d likely not be having much of that anytime else in the near future.
* * *
“Captain, I have copied all three of your test-mail locations with this request, and yet I still wait. This is a matter you’ve laid directly to my duties, you’ve informed me multiple times that I must not be behindhand in bringing exceptional trade opportunities to your attention, and that you value my experience. With all honor to your sleep, my melant’i as the ship’s trader requires this interruption of your schedule!”
Tan Sim repeated the gist of the message once more into the voice-recall box, and when there was not a direct response, he one by one sent the text messages to the remainder of his shipmates, for all that they might never see the captain to speak to him but at lunch once a relumma . . .
And that message was a request that they repeat his need to talk to the captain on short notice . . .
For effect, he resealed the hardcopy of Elthoria’s request into the message capsule he’d been handed so hastily—if tardily—at the trade office.
“So, Coyander Kenso recalls our existence,” had said the older of the women on duty. “Why, in the five trips on record, I doubt we’ve seen the Kenso nearly so up close as you, sir! And imagine to find you so active at nightside!”
“Why, Trade Mistress bel’Verand, I have had every intention of stopping in person to the office: Coyander Kenso having an expanding route how could I do anything else? In fact, I come to inquire after the proper expressions of gratitude here on Finifter, there being trade halls preferring immediate and personal attention”—here he’d bowed extravagantly to all present—“and others interested in odds and ends only a trader in search of a commission by a hall might know would be welcome.”
His bows grew more profuse as he gave his complete introduction, and eventually, with the telling of tales and thanks for the superb treatment Coyander was enjoying, from first Jump recognition to the very moment—not to mention the careful preparations already under way for their departure, he also managed to give away a reasonable amount of his extra profit to buy the ship’s melant’i back from the brink . . .
He was nearly down to measuring the success of his mission by the backache even he would admit when the assistant trade mistress made a sign to the trade mistress herself and . . .
“Why, there are messages and mail on file for your ship, Trader, and only a few go back more than two trips, if I recall correctly!”
He’d carried an office hamper of junk with him, grunting at the weight of it, for many of the items were local messages printed on actual paper and brought up from the world below to entice ships—and they’d been billed for the storage of it!
He’d watched them drop the paper and file cubes into the hamper with abandon, sighing, and bowing at their efforts. Finally, he’d picked it up—
“And one last, Trader. This one arrived early this shift, and we immediately messaged to your ship that it was here—for yourself!”
She’d dropped the message capsule into the hamper where it swam down into the morass—and so he’d tugged the lot to the so-called lounge, dumping it on the empty table in search of what was surely a message from Jethri, after all this time . . .
From the captain’s suite, the sound of the pressure door finding equality—yes, he’d already known the captain overdid his oxygen along with his alcohol when the ship was at port—and the door slid to reveal the bleak-faced man.
“Trader, you have concerned the technical crew with your incessant messages and your . . .” He paused then, the papers, cubes, and out-of-date message capsule scattered across the table and onto his chair coming to his attention.
“We have mail, Captain,” he managed. “We have mail going back seven Standards or more, I gather. Some of it is for you, some for the technical crew, and some for the ship. Also, this, for me!” Tan Sim held the capsule up. “Mail which arrived today and of which I was uninformed—”
The captain was unabashed. “The receipt message is in a queue, to be sure. It would have been discovered before we left the docks, Trader.”
With no little irony Tan Sim began clearing the captain’s seat.
“I’m sure you’re right. It was only a matter of time before it was brought to my attention. And it is a good thing that it is found, for messages to traders like myself often have time value. Please, be seated, and we shall discuss this message, Pilot, and the possibility that we might change our route, with a view to an early departure, if it may be done at all.”
“You would have me change the route?” The Captain sat heavily, rubbing his chin grimly. “To what end, Trader?”
“I am invited,” he said with some emphasis, “and as a consequence so is this ship, to a preview tour and inspection of a multiplanet trade station being built in the Spwao System. And there is a trade show, expanding this time as a show-off. Those who preview it before it is in the final orbit will have first preference for slots, cargo, and routing. Elthoria passes on this news, Captain, being unable to attend. But I am no pilot, and only vaguely understand the timing of such things . . .”
The pilot, having left the captain aside momentarily, closed his yes and said “Spwao. They’ve two planets and some belts as well; not hard in-system travel, just careful. That’d be why the station, so traders don’t have to worry about the dust and junk, but can . . .”
His words trailed off, and when he opened his eyes he managed a smile. Then his eyes focused on a piece of mail with an ancient time stamp, and he swept it away with a grimace, coming more awake.
“I’ll get the technical crew up here to help with this sorting. You have exact information? The invitation, it is not just for you, Trader?”
“Let me show you, Captain. We shall look at it together to be sure we’re on the same wavelength about the potentials.”
Chapter Fifteen
Aboard Keravath in Jump to Vincza
Jethri took it quickly that a Scout’s view of proper training schedule and Norn ven’Deelin’s were related—except that the Scout expected much longer attention and prompter and more accurate recall—call it an order of magnitude more intense.
Everything they did was practice of some kind: meals included a description of cooking methods, a discussion of nutritive values and alternatives, warning of missing vitamins and minerals, and expectable allergic reactions from particular frontier populations.
The Scout played music in the background—Jethri was to be able to describe type and mode if not artist and creator of the last three pieces at any time. They spoke Liaden, except when they didn’t—the Scout switched languages in midsentence, often demanding Jethri explain Terran in such detail and history that the trainee felt truly ignorant of his own heritage, and stupid to boot. Given options of modes in Liaden he often was challenged as to choice and then asked to describe it in Terran or Trade, whichever was least able to handle the question.
It was a little like being with Grig when he was in a mood—Grig also expected one to know what one knew at all times, and he’d ask strange questions sometimes that didn’t make sense until days later. The Scout, it turned out, would drop in questions about space flight in a discussion of tea and spices; he’d ask about textiles during a simulated test of the thrusters . . .
There was quite a bit of that simulated thruster stuff, for once the actual gut-wrenching part of pushing the Jump activate button and watching everything on the screens go miraculously blank at the appropriate moment, much of what he did at the boards was ship training. Where it might vary from another ship the Scout was clear, and when what Jethri was learning was generic, ter’Astin was clear on that too.
By day five of Jump, Jethri was into his twenty-eighth cumulative hour of what the Scout was prone to calling “the station connect quick-drill” with the m
ode in the comrade side of things—Jethri played with translations and got “easy-style station attachment” from the Trade version and “playing at station-lock” from the Terran.
The playing part felt right part of the time: it was fun to see the problems coming up and avoid them, more like a puzzle than work.
They’d gone fairly quickly from easy mode to hard as far as Jethri was concerned—his board was locked to the sim and all the screens on the bridge were synced to the same thing. He had played at what the ship could do at first, finding that Keravath was nothing if not responsive—at least in drill—and seeing that as far as he could recall, it had about three times the fine control he’d seen displayed on Gobelyn’s Market.
Once he was familiar with the basic controls, he’d started out at what the Scout promised him was “one-twelfth speed” and a zero-zero-zero-zero-one status—the ship being one ship length away from the simulated docking tube with no relative motion and all axes in perfect alignment, and latching equipment perfect.
They’d worked with perfection the first two days, then lurched into a bad latch, the while upping the volume and incidence of radio chatter and outside infofeeds; by the start of shift on day five they were pursuing a docking collar with a slow roll and uncertain latch that would require Jethri to hold station while a supposed manual connection was locked from within the airlock.
The work wasn’t play this time. The Scout pushed him, the sounds were annoying, the ship gave him prompts about thrust variations in two units, forcing him to find an alternative for his preferred heel-and-toe approach to nodding the final hands’ widths to connection.