by Sharon Lee
“Do forgive me. I did stop rather suddenly when I heard your lock operating, and I should have given you far more room, but I am unused to the protocols and dimensions on this station and I did not intend to interrupt either your passage or your conversation.”
Jethri beat back the urge to redden, recalling that he had not, in fact, answered ter’Astin’s last gibe, nor had ter’Astin been speaking loudly for all that the lock’s own sounds had a certain depth to them.
“Galandaria need not ask forgiveness for a greeting properly given on a strange port,” ter’Astin assured her prettily. He received a nice bow of acknowledgment in return.
Jethri tucked that phrase away, it sounding to be one very useful in the long run for someone whose very living depended on meeting others. Especially, he noted the mode, in which “strange port” carried, not only unfamiliarity, but the implication of alienness; of on-dock behavior even wild or unruly—which of course this place had small resemblance to, outside Wynhael’s minor pettishness.
“Indeed, Scout,” Samay pin’Aker said. “I had not considered the matter in those terms, for surely those with melant’i must be considered equals when they stand among those without.”
Her brief concentration on the scout gave Jethri the opportunity for a longer look.
Though her shirt with the Barskalee ship logo and her three-digit crew number would have her simply ship-born, as would her haircut—ship-short, but long enough to see that her hair was brown, and had a tendency to curl—she had what he’d come to think of as the High House nose. This was short and long at once, the face being long and the projection of the nose short—less pronounced than on the mythical average Terran face. In all, hers was a pleasant face, particularly when she favored him with a smile. Her phrasing and accent—obviously, he had study ahead of him in the House books, for Tan Sim would have by now known who her close kin and her cousins were, and the amount of her quarter-share.
“We should explore that idea, of the distribution of melant’i,” the Scout said thoughtfully, “as time permits. I fear that the Code’s strictures may not fully address the necessities of wider commerce.”
He bowed then, briskly, reminding them all of press of business, and in short order they parted, invitations to visit as time permitted having been dutifully exchanged as well.
Jethri wondered if the station gravity ran light, as easy as his steps were as they marched off to the control room—
“I believe, young sir, that you ought sometimes to review recent portvids as much as you stare for dust on your boots as you prepare to exit the ship.”
The Scout was smiling, his hands making a motion Jethri lacked the reading of.
“Yes, do look quizzical, my charge. That artfully accidental meeting took Samay pin’Aker a triple tour of the passageway if not more to arrange. It was all our luck that she didn’t have to chase after us to ask directions!”
It was a Terran shrug he offered first, followed by a Liaden bow requesting elucidation. “I’m in orbit without referents,” Jethri admitted.
“I mean that the trade assistant walked the passage before our lock at least three times in each direction, slowing as she came closer and speeding away once she was distant.”
“But why should she? If she’s a trader why should she not merely address the ship—but she’s not a trader!”
“Exactly. Her duty may well not be in the trade hall but on the ship itself. It is my thought that she was sent—or she sent herself—to catch sight of you and make your acquaintance.”
They reached the end of the passage, and turned left. A small group of Terrans was clustered mid-hall, and Jethri held his reply in reserve, even as he slowed his pace.
“Midcentral Crystal Logistics, that’s who!” a woman’s voice said excitedly. “I saw the ship! Saw it last time, at the dock here, waiting for the Uncle. Sure, it had a different name, and a different company but that’s easy. And you know who’s listed as PIC? Senior Pilot Dulsey Omron! Can’t be anyone else but him!”
There were five of them, three apparently pilots and the other two perhaps locals, and one with her back turned said, “Give me time to count the times Dulsey is a name first or last on a galactic census!”
“You say it—but the ship’s the deal. Have you seen it? Halfway between a courier and a family trader, got a couple pod points and a couple blisters just big enough to hint they’re able to defend themselves. I’ll see if I can find some images out of our files . . . That ship, with Dulsey, and it can’t . . .”
The three pilots looked up; Jethri sighed silently, blaming himself for a boot-scuffle on the deck plate when they switched grav sections for interrupting his eavesdropping.
Their arrival at the group merited several nods, two bows, and—
“Damme if you ain’t the pretty proof of a Gobelyn on port, boy! Been years. Bet you don’t remember me! But I seen you on the same deck with your Da, more than once.”
Jethri was inclined to agree with her on that not remembering: dyed black-and-pink streaked hair, fluorescent green short boots, legs barer than bare as they were captured in distracting yellow shorts that showed a touch of skin above as it led to a formfitting shirt worn under an overtight pilot’s jacket. She had his attention as she turned, and then he heard her say “Damme” in his head again, and smelled the brew on her—and memory stirred.
The hair, that was a change, but the voice and even the pose reminded him of someone standing too close to him on Gobelyn’s Market’s kitchen deck, leaning over him, that was it, so she could stroke Dyk’s shoulder.
He extended a hand, and gave her a cordial shake, remembering to “smile Terran” broadly.
“You’re Blinda Bushey, as close as I know. Don’t ’member your ship, sorry. Must’ve been the kitchen . . . ’cause I wasn’t much on the trade deck those days. Dyk gave you his wine limejel recipe for your pasta log with cheese. I got the extra three maize buttons because . . .”
“You better not remember that particular ‘because’ out loud!” She sounded jolly enough, but she looked serious, and her face showed a touch of color, while her hand was tucked into the protective arm of a pilot not much older than he was. She was half-turned now to block the pilot’s view of Jethri, or to make her urgent lean toward him less obvious.
“Yes’m,” he mumbled, recalling that the because was her and Dyk leaving him in charge of the galley while they did some private back-room work when Iza was off on port. Dyk hadn’t often run off for fun, but if it came to him he seemed to like it well enough.
“So there,” she said, waving her unencumbered arm at her fellows, “I told you I heard a familiar name there coming in. You flying a Scout ship, Jethri? Wow, like your dad you are, just do exactly what you want to, and show up at the big shindigs like any plus-side pilot will!”
Jethri had schooled himself on the melant’i of the situation he was entering, even as he’d dressed. It was almost guaranteed that as he went among Terran traders, someone would bring up his status on the rosters, and his father. He had vowed to answer these questions, impertinent as they doubtless would be, as if they were the merest commonplaces—which they were rapidly becoming.
He therefore managed a credible light bow of acknowledgment and a hand wave presenting ter’Astin: “The good Scout, Captain ter’Astin, allows me as guest pilot this trip. I am learning much!”
Blinda laughed, gave the Scout a well-practiced lookover and a half bow that started as a nod.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your walk, Scout, but I’ve known Jethri since he first learned to wear shoes, and some of his old shipmates and—”
“I’d have it no other way.” The Scout gave back a rather exact copy of Blinda’s salute, and one to each of the other’s in the party, and a hinting hand motion to Jethri. “One always must affirm networks!”
“We have been asked personally to the control room,” Jethri explained, “but if we’re on station, we’ll find each other again . . .”
&n
bsp; “We will, we will. Bet you’ll get a call for all the party suites, anyway, once the show’s really under way, and we’ll get all caught up. And you, you’ll have to tell me what lucky ladies’ve been . . .”
The pilot in possession of her hand gently tugged Blinda out of the way, and the bemused pair from Keravath moved on.
The Scout spoke, gently. “I am lacking a book of Terran clans, my friend. I therefore beg that you will enlighten me, when we are back on ship, about your sudden new tension.”
Jerthri shrugged and picked up his pace. Blinda wasn’t a relative any closer than ninth or tenth cousins lawfully removed, of that he was sure, and he could play that tune.
“Not really a clan matter, but ship-friend stuff. Some ladies,” he managed, “some ladies treat a guy they knew before they became adult . . . just like they’re still just kids!”
He made the explanation in Terran, and it was a real complaint.
Ter’Astin chuckled. “There’s a melant’i order of such things, my friend—age having consequence, after all. Though I admit that some who overexert charm may tend to overexert connection and consequence far beyond fact!”
* * *
The control room was not on the level marked for it: Jethri’s push of the button opened a pressure door leading to an elevator. Once in the car they were queried by remote and could feel the device start moving only after they answered. There were numbers and letters showing on the read gauge—but what was floor A7B and why did the car pass floor 33C and Z16 to get there?
The scout laughed softly as Jethri felt the car go through a gravity field, so truly he had little idea of which end was up, or where, exactly, they were.
“Excellent security,” the scout said when they had passed through one more change of gravity and decelerated to a stop.
The door opened, not into the control room itself but to an ante-chamber occupied by a smiling guard sitting behind a commanding console.
“Welcome to Tradedesk Control,” she said. “Please, your names?”
They gave them; she repeated them to open space, and nodded toward a side panel which opened by splitting half to the floor and half toward the ceiling.
Inside was a corridor with a waiting guide who ushered them past two of the largest control rooms Jethri had ever seen, both dark and unused, and into one just as large which was lit, active, and filled with the sounds of low-key voices.
“Pilots! So good to see you!”
While the room had dozens of occupied workstations on one level, their guide directed them up four steps to a dais overlooking the rest of the room, a see-through shield between its single occupant and the rest of the action.
“I’m Director ViChels Carresens; please join me.”
They did, exchanging hand grips Terran-fashion, and then sitting in the quiet around his console, behind what was probably more than just a sound screen. The area was rather homey for a control room—clearly this was the director’s office as well as workstation. Several screens showed images of children and oddities, and bins held papers and notes galore.
“I witnessed your approach, Pilots, and commend you. Pilot ven’Deelin, a very precise understanding of the situation with our commit. Our assistant flight ops has won a bet by suggesting that a first-time-in Scout ship would link within sixty seconds of the best link time yet—and you did.”
He turned a screen toward them, pointed at the graph.
“Here’s the average time for all links so far, here’s the average time for first-time links, and here’s yours. Only two first-time links have been achieved in better time. Congratulations!”
Jethri felt himself reddening, suppressed the urge to say, “But I’m not a pilot.” He glanced at ter’Astin, who looked back at him with bland interest.
“Thank you, sir,” he said to the director.
“Don’t thank me—I intend to mention this at every occasion. Please understand the other speedy links were performed with no other ships attached to the arm, and by pilots trained in our simulators.”
Jethri pressed his mouth straight. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw ter’Astin give him a gentle, seated bow.
The director went on, “It would be interesting to see what you do while we’re in transfer—Nubella Run is set to dock in just a few days.”
Jethri looked to the Scout and the director laughed.
“Yes, I forget, not everyone is as wrapped in my schedule as we are in this office. My family—the Carresens—donated Nubella Run to the effort—she will be docked and bound to the station, and will be the motive force for our move. A brave task for any ship!”
The smile faded, and he looked suddenly more businesslike.
“But I bring you here for another topic—and that is this writ.”
The saying of the word “writ” was punctuated by a slap of hardcopy pulled from a bin.
“The link-news squeezed into your log-in included several bits of legal stuff—including this writ. And I’m concerned about it, actually, in terms of effect on trade. I haven’t the full access without you invoking it—all I know is that you can invoke it.—and as a signatory to . . . an agreement . . . well, it wouldn’t look good if we start arresting people for you.”
The Scout beat Jethri to the holding out of a hand by a moment, and he took the flimsies silently when given, flipping through, and handing them over to Jethri.
Jethri read Plea for on-demand invocation of Writ of Replevin and he blanched.
“I hadn’t understood entirely the means by which this was to be disseminated,” the Scout admitted, “and perhaps neither did my companion.”
“Didn’t,” Jethri whispered it. “And I didn’t think of it. They’ve built it into the autonews feed?”
Carresens nodded. “Right in with confirmations of arrival and all that. It started printing out before you were on the docks.”
Jethri went back over the page . . .
“If you’ve come here on some kind of a hunt, I hope you’ll understand that we need confidentiality and quiet. It wouldn’t be neighborly to start cuffing folks, if you know what I mean.”
“That’s not why we’re here,” Jethri said, “At least not here here. We’re here because I got the invite, and this . . .”
“What the guest pilot is saying,” the Scout took over, “is that we have a destination farther on at which this . . . writ . . . may be required. We ask that you, too, keep it in confidence. Here, we are on a trade mission for my associate and we have no expectation that anyone connected with this writ’s necessity will cross our path.”
The director looked down at the papers and pushed them back into Jethri’s hands.
“You hold these. Properly they are yours, in any case. If it becomes necessary to invoke them, you will talk to me first. Is that clear? I will see to follow-up, if required. Do not, I ask, make a fuss.”
Out of the midst of the console came a buzzing noise, and Carresens said: “Go Blue.”
“Trainee Molunkus on the module mover’s got an anomaly in the power unit again. Only happens to him. If I send . . .”
“Hold, Blue!”
The director turned to them with a shrug. “So that’s it. You’re here for trade and networks and that’s fine and we’re glad to have you. I’ll smile at you when I see you, righto? And I wish you luck down the road catching up with whoever’s a problem. In fact, if you catch them, let us know—we’re really just getting started in the trade center business and we need to know how these things work. Just not right now.
“Oh, and check in at the guard desk on your way out of Control. There’ll be some tickets and such for you there. Thanks for coming by!”
The Scout stood a second behind Jethri, both knowing a dismissal when it was delivered.
Chapter Seventeen
Tradedesk
After the day of tours and lectures—the first official day of the event—Jethri returned to Keravath to shower and change clothes for the evening reception in the Hall of Festiv
als. Ter’Astin came in while he was primping—the Scout’s word, not Jethri’s—and did some primping of his own. It seemed a little unfair, Jethri thought, that a pilot’s jacket was considered to be the equivalent of formal trade wear, though the Scout did take the trouble to upgrade his standard dark sweater to a creamy shirt with a collar banded in green, and to set an earring to dangle seductively from one ear.
Toilettes complete, they left the ship together in amity, Jethri giving a brief overview of a day filled with discussions of trade volume and preleased warehousing, as well as tours of transfer docks and demonstrations of the internal pod-breaking room.
For his part of the conversation, the Scout offered the information that Wynhael had managed a docking in the end, being relegated to a zero-G low pressure sub-corridor where the next module of the not-quite-finished auxiliary hotel would eventually be attached.
“No more than they bargained for,” Jethri said.
“Indeed, it did seem that they would be rid of the coin, no matter the market.”
Between them as they traveled toward the Hall of Festivals, they managed to bow, nod, or shake hands with over a dozen fellow attendees. Eventually, Jethri had learned only that morning, Tradedesk would encompass a number of smaller halls, as well as the great hall, but for this night only the large hall was public, the others being reserved for official needs and food preparation or else still skeletal.
Jethri was aimed foremost at dinner, and while the scout promised to eventually come to the repast, using the ticket given him by Control, the errands that had occupied his day had spilled over into station evening hours.
“A few people I must yet speak with, here or rumored to be here,” he murmured. “When I am done, I will find you, doubtless surrounded by admirers, and the trade assistant on your arm.”