by Sharon Lee
Trying to balance the close with the two opposite end thrusters made the lock a fulcrum; Keravath warned him of potential torsional problems if they locked successfully at the change rates he was applying, creating either a trunnion wave in the hull plate or a gudgeon split in the lock itself.
Hands sweated: he lowered the incoming message rate, assigned priorities, turned some channels off entirely. Then the Scout repeated his name, instead of saying, “Pilot,” making him take his eyes off the board and turn his head to look across to the piloting station.
“Jethri, you understand that once we dock we’ll be under local relationship and marriage rules. We need not open the hatch; just docking will do it. Some of these rules are in explicit conflict with the Liaden Code. As I’m not privy to Ixin’s plans for you, you shall wish to be extremely careful—”
“Hold that,” Jethri told him with no uncertainty, turning back to his boards with a shrug. “If it is important you’ll tell me later. Are my prime interior forward and aft thrusters to be considered unreliable for the duration? Do they have a self-heal I’m not informed of?”
“The test cycle can’t be performed in this kind of proximity to a docking target.”
“Lock them out then. I’ll go with these others.”
“Yes, Pilot. Pilot’s choice noted.”
The closing visuals showed three target surfaces—
“If this is manual lock we’ll need you in place. I assume the program is fully functional and I’ll be able to monitor the results here. If that’s the case, do it.”
“Pilot,” said the scout, unsnapping his belts and moving rapidly to the portal to the outer ring, the speaker and function lights bringing news until: “In place, Pilot.”
“Contact should be in twenty-five seconds from my mark. I’ll tell you to act when we’ve maintained position for three seconds.”
“Yes, Pilot. Three-second rule.”
Jethri eyed the main screen until the ship was within ten seconds of contact, then had three screens, each with their own circle and pointer until they disappeared into a blue center—contact!
“Contact. Three count. Lock now!”
“Hold contact! We’ve obstruction. Moment. Hold contact!”
It felt like forever, but the upcount only said eleven seconds when the lights on the board showed good.
“Confirm lock, please?”
“Yes. Locked. Congratulations.”
Jethri smothered the “Yeah, right” he almost said into a loud sniff, quickly pulling the rest of the board into balance for a docked situation, powering down, checking the links to see if outboard power or . . .
“Seriously, Jethri Gobelyn ven’Deelin, congratulations. You have done very well.”
Jethri nodded, pointed the Scout to his seat.
“If you are second board here you will now take the con and finish the shutdown for me to check when I come back. I seriously need to leave this seat!”
The Scout laughed.
“Understood, Pilot. Do relax and get a snack, or tea. Tomorrow we will a have a well-earned day of rest!”
* * *
Jethri was not exactly blindsided by the news that he was to guide the ship to rendezvous. After all, he’d already been led to the board after a fine breakfast prepared by the Scout once before—breakfast a courtesy to the shift pilot!
That was yesterday and he’d been tucked into the second seat with First Board status half a shift before the Jump ended, waiting, cross-checking, three of the screens filled with information on what to expect on arrival at the Spwao System, Vincza the planetary goal, with Tradedesk in orbit, the true goal.
They went over emergency procedures, then into call-signs and—
“If I’m on deck when we arrive,” Jethri asked, “what do I call myself? I’m not a pilot—”
The Scout made several hand-signs, one meaning stop and another meaning something like This again? before wandering over and standing near Jethri’s station and silently staring away into the screens for some moments. Then he rounded fully on Jethri, bending closer.
“What is it, I wonder, that you feel we should call you? What is it that you feel we are doing with these lessons, with this training? Do you feel it a waste?”
Jethri looked into the same screens the Scout had stared at, briefly wondering if he’d met the same lack of answer in those images of space and planets.
Finally, he shook his head Terran-style, and started in.
“No, I don’t think it a waste, if the idea is to—acclimate me. As I hear you, you wish to be sure that someone traveling with you is capable of handling the ship in an emergency. So you—”
“No,” insisted ter’Astin. “Not me. You. Yourself. What is it you are doing? What is it you are accomplishing? What are you experiencing?”
“I’m learning, is what I’m doing. I’m familiarizing myself with the ship. I’m training, so I’m a trainee. I have no status at this though. I have no idea why I’m training except it is your habit, your whim! I’m a stop-gap or a backup or a—”
The Scout made that shake of the hands which indicated dissatisfaction with a result.
“Look you, young sir. What we have been doing here is training you in what I know and can share the while I have been learning from you. I have been practicing my Terran and my Trade as well as learning of the culture of the loopers. I have been hearing and understanding accents. I have had my Terran histories corrected or adjusted dozens of times. And so far you offer me ‘Trainee.’ Trader, please, I’m sure you can do much better than that!”
The Scout looked once more into the screens. “It is true,” he admitted at last, “that we are working with a lack of formal nomenclature here. We might say, I guess, that we are working you as an apprentice might be worked. Or that you are a pilot-intern. ‘Backup pilot’ lacks both dignity and accuracy, I fear.
“In effect we are to be making a presentation as a team here, Trader, and we need each the other’s countenance.”
Jethri saw a light change on the board, noted the manual countdown check, agreed with the status light with a quick touch to the control pad to confirm it, stared ahead into the screens.
He thought back over the training, thought over breakfast. Here he was, doing what he’d imagined himself doing as a child, sitting at the board of a starship in Jump—the same board he’d technically been sitting in when the ship went into Jump.
“Today, sir, today I feel as if I’ve won something, or that I’m a guest, fed by the house and treated properly as one of the house might be treated, a truly honored guest.”
“So, then,” the Scout offered with a touch of a smile, “we should have you name yourself ‘Honored Pilot’?”
Jethri snarfed at that, letting the laugh go.
“That’s a bit much. Still, it is true in a way, it is how I feel, but it could be misconstrued to show me as having a higher level than yourself, which is absurd to any observer. More, melant’i may suffer wounds from within and well as without, may it not? I’d rather not push in that way.”
The scout’s hands made a response Jethri thought of as more or less even which led him into more thought.
“Yet to say I am a guest pilot, then that makes no melant’i inferences as to my level or my ability, nor does it overstate my importance to the ship or your reliance on me. What traffic control might make of it—we should understand that they’ll need to have confidence in my rating!”
The Scout stood and stretched, made one of those all-purpose dancing moves that showed him ready to move, to fight, to think, to act.
“Ah, Ixin’s genius shows through. Norn clearly has not lent me a silly son seeking to burnish his name. So, you may have solved this. And the more accurate we make this, the more we believe it and the more impact we may get from it.”
The Scout took a formal step back, and bowed.
“Hail to Jethri Gobelyn ven’Deelin, Guest Pilot. You will identify yourself as Pilot in Charge when appropriate, and if
asked or pressed you may well say you are on the familiarization stage of a learning survey.”
Jethri bowed . . .
“I will wager, Guest Pilot Jethri, that no one will ask very much about your training levels!”
* * *
In fact, they had not asked after his proficiency levels the day before. The news that Liaden Scout ship Keravath—commanded by Scout ter’Astin, with Guest Pilot Jethri Gobelyn ven’Deelin acting as Pilot in Charge—had arrived, was good enough. The news in fact was received with good cheer and with confirmation of nearby ships and plotted routes, updated communication channels, and quite a bit of background chatter on the off-channels about Scout ships showing up here and Gobelyn not being any Liaden name they’d ever heard of. Scattered replies named half a dozen Terran ships flown by or carrying Gobelyns and chatter went on until three more ships arrived in-system and then two more and another as the trade show took shape.
And today, they also never treated Pilot Jethri as anything other than a complete professional, assigning Keravath a station berth at the still being built Tradedesk Station according to the invitation number and names they had now in hand.
For his part, Jethri managed calm despite the thudding of his heart and the occasional flash of sweat or flush of cheek; as Pilot in Charge he asked his Second to reduce extraneous comm chatter, and take care of minor housekeeping while the ship measured distance to their goal and checked the orbital changes he requested—and the scout provided backup there, out of his head, while Jethri calculated and double-calculated to be sure.
In the meanwhile he observed the system, surprised enough to mention to ter’Astin: “That’s a pretty big station for one planet, isn’t it?”
A chuckle drifted over from the Scout—
“Ah yes, for one small planet it is. But their intention is for it to be the system’s station, since the planets offer such interesting weather, and indeed it is seen as a regional trade hub. That the system also is well-connected as a direct Jumplink to five others makes it an excellent candidate for such investment! And it is rare for such a station to be built from scratch—this one’s modules are still coming together—but what you see has been in progress with a single vision since your father’s era as a commissioner, if I am not mistaken. Built in orbit here, tested here, and to be moved to the intermediate orbit over time, starting very soon. The reading is quite interesting, but I’ll hold it for when you are not flying PIC!”
Finally, Jethri called through to the station, offering a flight plan to Traffic Control and receiving a noncommittal, “We’ll get to you there, Scout, we’ll get to you . . .”
“For clarity, Control, I am a guest pilot. Only Captain ter’Astin is a Scout here!”
“We’ll make a note of that, Pilot Jethri. We’ve also got a bunch of incoming not quite as nimble as you, so we’ll get back to you. We’ll expect you to yell if it looks like someone’s pushing you!”
The screens looked clean enough and their basic orbit and path hadn’t been argued with, but Jethri mounted a tight scan, continuing to broadcast the basic Keravath ID without an assigned flight number.
Finally came a double call—“Here’s your new flight ID number there, Keravath, repeat it to me and broadcast if you will, and I’ll be switching you over to someone with courier chops to be sure we’re all working with the same parameters. We don’t often get to play like you do, you know! If there’s a Scout sitting beside you, I’m guessing you’re double-checked. Here’s your new contact!”
Off comm Jethri looked to ter’Astin, unsure.
“Is my flight plan flawed, Scout?”
Jethri’d seen enough docking vids to know how clutter-free most large trading zones were, but this one had showed up as a busy and crowded place, with orbiting bundles and ships as well as odd bits and pieces of . . . stuff. He’d tried to think ahead . . .
“This course you suggest, Jethri, is a good way to enter into an extremely active construction zone. Keravath is completely at ease with such maneuvers, which would be inappropriate to a larger vessel. Going over your plans—correct me if I am wrong—you have cited and avoided the areas with the largest amount of free-motion equipment. You have decided that by minimizing time spent in these several orbit-trees we will be exposed to fewer correction necessities. You have correctly checked all of our inertial flywheels as well as the jets and have seen that with ‘a little hurry’ as I heard you speak to yourself, we can avoid as well that incoming crowd of heavy tradeships. I have seen you check against the posted planned routes of local commuting vessels. This is an adequate use of Keravath.”
Jethri nodded, avoiding the telltale of wiping sweat off of his brows. Then he bowed as properly as he could from his seat, student to mentor, thankful of advice.
Permissions granted, Jethri started in, eyes busy, barely knowing he’d spent two hours while waiting for one last touch of business.
“Keravath here, Pilot in Charge Jethri Gobelyn ven’Deelin preparing to enter duty-free Tradedesk docking zone. Vincza Control, my marks have matched yours this last three hours, will you confirm.”
“Guest Pilot, we have you moving in good order to Zone Three; can’t miss your spot because it’ll be the only one open on the arm. We confirm your vector, time marks, and velocity have all matched within acceptable limits; your calibrations continue to echo good. You’ll see blue is your guide here in Zone Three, repeat please? And I’ll need your choice of Trade or Terran on the final approach.”
“Blue is my guide in Zone Three, Keravath’s calibrations echo positive. We will be working with Terran units and with Terran language, Liaden as backup but Trade’s usable.”
A chuckle there—“Can’t cuss nearly as good in Trade, Pilot, agreed. We’ve got you set Terran, Liaden, Trade. Come to relative zero zero zero twenty five center line on your marker and we’ll go from there, working centimeters per second on all fronts from there. Get your zero zero zero twenty-five center line.”
Jethri shook his head with the irony—he’d spent more than twenty hours learning and fussing to be ready to take the full load of docking and now Vincza Control was nicely talking him in to dock past a row of unmatched ships, all marked with flashing lights and radio beacons, on a quiet channel; the video feed from Control matched nicely with their own docking guides.
“Thirty seconds, Keravath. Very clean . . .”
“Port, this is Wynhael, will we be docking this day? We have—”
“Wrong channel, Wynhael, please cease transmission on this link, we’ve got docking in progress.”
Keravath was in motion, the guides lined up, the target straight ahead, clock tick showing twenty-two seconds—
“This is a docking channel is it not? My information—”
“Off channel Wynhael!—”
Jethri gathered in all the information, blues and greens as should be, docking probes centered—he had no time to get words in edgewise!
“Control please acknowledge, Keravath docking commit.”
“These frequencies are nonstandard—“ declared Wynhael.
“Commit marked Keravath, go!”
There was talk around him but Jethri stuck with it, compared the video images felt the slightest of vibrations, saw zero zero zero zero, heard the clunk as the lead link locked, called “Outboards?”
“Outboard stabilizers are good, we’ll lock you all the way around. Thank you, Pilot, for putting up with that nonsense!”
Control went on for a few confused words about uppity Liadens, and laughed, and then went silent a moment, flustered.
“Sorry, Keravath. I didn’t mean to . . .”
“This is Scout ter’Astin,” came the voice from the actual Board One, “and you have our agreement on this issue, I assure you!”
From somewhere on the other side of the connection came laughter and what sounded like cheering, then the familiar Control voice.
“Keravath—Guest Pilot, when you have a chance please come on by our office on Deck Six
at your earliest opportunity. I owe you a thanks for a smooth docking on your side, and thanks to both of you, I won the office pool for the day. Welcome to Vincza!”
Chapter Sixteen
Tradedesk, Dockside and More
“Samay pin’Aker Clan Midys, trade assistant on Barskalee,” said the ship-dressed young woman before him. She performed a complex and well-nuanced bow of welcome and greeting, with overtones of respect well-earned and a hint of approval and appreciation. There was a smile at the corners of her mouth and eyes and a flawless grace about her.
This artful welcome was more than gracious, considering that she had the drop on him. He’s come this close to heedlessly, and vigorously, backing into her, as he gestured to Scout ter’Astin to give over his chiding ways. She might as easily—and with perfect justice—given him a setdown.
Gone from Jethri’s lips and his mind was the retort he’d been preparing in answer to ter’Astin’s most recent gibe, urging him to act as if the day had length and the universe not entirely breathless for his arrival as the beauty of the season. True, he had stopped one more time to use the ship’s inner vid system to look over his clothes, attempting to consider both the Terran and the Liaden necessities of being a properly dressed trader on his way to a business meeting of unknown import.
Such was the power of the lady’s art, not to mention her lurking smile, that he immediately knew himself appropriately attired for the work in hand, even if all he did was return the lady’s bow and flee to Keravath’s safe interior. He chose not to flee; a retreat would surely damage his melant’i.
The lady had managed to bow to him, and to the Scout, without pausing and without overtly changing mode—yet it was obvious that this member of Clan Midys was in fact more pleased to meet the young trader than the Scout.
She beat him to the now necessary, “Forgive me,” part of the exchange as well, her voice quiet and musical, nearly lost in the echoes, hums, and air-moving noise of the passageway.
Jethri managed to pronounce his name and home ship, as did Scout ter’Astin, but they needed to repeat them a moment later, because the woman continued her “Forgive me” rather breathlessly. In the repeat, Jethri remembered to report that he was Guest Pilot on Keravath, but wasn’t sure she gathered that, her flow of eloquence being rather lengthier than expected.