Balance of Trade

by Sharon Lee

  "What is—" Pen Rel began, but by then the duo was on the flat and heading full throttle out, never realizing that they was anything but alone.

  "'ware the deck!" Jethri snapped.

  It had the desired effect, whether either of them had understood the Terran words. Both slammed to a graceless halt. The man with the comp raised it a fraction, as if to ward Jethri away.

  Pen Rel stepped forward, claiming attention with a flicker of a hand, and a slight inclination of the head.

  "Ah, Storemaster," he murmured, and Jethri thought he heard a bare thread of . . . disapproval in the bland, dry voice. "You are somewhat before time, I believe."

  The man with the comp bowed. "Arms Master. I am instructed to supply crew with specialty baking experience, and I have here such a one. It remains to be found that he can operate Elthoria's ovens and bread vats. So we arrive, for a testing."

  Pen Rel looked to the second man.

  "Have you shipboard experience?"

  The pudgy guy bowed lower than Jethri would have thought possible with the duffle over his shoulder, and straightened to show a wide eyed, slightly damp face. "Three voyages, Honored. The Storemaster has my files. . . "

  "Very good." Pen Rel was back with the Storemaster. "Next time, you will come at the mate's appointed hour, eh? This time, you have interfered in ship's business."

  The applicant cook's round eyes got rounder; the Storemaster pursed his mouth up. Both bowed themselves out of the way, even sparing brief nods for the unexpected Terran in their midst.

  "So," Pen Rel said, catching Jethri's eye. He moved a hand toward the ramp. "After you, young Jethri."

  * * *

  AT THE BOTTOM OF the chute was the inevitable uniformed station ape, card-reader to hand.

  Jethri handed over his shiny new shipcard. The inspector took it, glanced at it—and paused, eyes lifting to his face.

  "Elthoria signs Terran crew," she stated—or maybe she was asking. Jethri ducked his head, wondering if she expected an answer and what, exactly, would be seen as discourteous behavior in a Terran, here on an all-Liaden station. That he was an anomaly was clear from the pair they'd surprised coming on-ship. But, then, he said to himself, you expected you were going to be an oddity. Best get used to it.

  "Must the ship clear its roster with the station?" Pen Rel asked from behind him, in Trade. "Do you find the card questionable?"

  The inspector's mouth tightened. She swiped the card sharply through the reader, displaying bit of temper, or so Jethri thought, and stood holding it in her hand until the unit beeped and the tiny screen flashed blue.

  "Verified and valid," she said, and held the card out, still something pettish.

  Jethri grabbed it and slid it away into his belt. "Thank you, Inspector," he said politely.

  She ignored him, holding out a hand to Pen Rel.

  Bland-faced, he put his card in her palm, and watched as she swiped it and handed it back. The unit beeped and the screen flashed.

  "Verified and valid," she said, and stepped back, obviously expecting them to go on about their business.

  Pen Rel stayed where he was, waiting, bland and patient, until she looked up.

  "A point of information," he said, still sticking with Trade. "Elthoria does not hold her crew lightly."

  It was said mild enough, but the inspector froze, her face losing a little of that rich golden color. Jethri counted to five before she bent in a bow and murmured, "Of course, Arms Master. No disrespect to Elthoria or to her crew was intended."

  "That is well, then," Pen Rel said, mildness itself. He moved a hand in a easy forward motion. "Young sir, the delights of the station are before you."

  As hints went, it wasn't near subtle, but apparently Pen Rel was still making his point, because the inspector looked up into his face and inclined her head.

  "Young trader, may you enjoy a profitable and pleasurable stay on Kailipso Station."

  Right. He inclined his head in turn, murmured his very best, all-Liaden, "My thanks," and quick-stepped down the dock toward the bay door.

  On the other side of the door, he pulled up. Pen Rel stepped through, and Jethri fell in beside him. The Liaden checked.

  "Forgive me, Jethri," he said. "What do you do?"

  Jethri blinked. "I thought I was partnered with you."

  "Ah." Pen Rel tipped his head to a side. "Understand that I find your companionship all that is delightful. However, I have errands on the day which are. . . of no concern to one of your station. The master trader's word was that you be put at liberty to enjoy those things which Kailipso offers." He moved a hand in the all-too-familiar shooing gesture.

  "So, enjoy. You are wanted back on board at seventh hour. I need not remind you to comport yourself so as to bring honor to your ship. And now," he swept a slight, loose-limbed half-bow; "I leave you to your pleasure, while I pursue my duties."

  And he turned and walked off, just like that, leaving the juniormost and most idiot of his crew standing staring after, jaw hanging at half-mast.

  Pen Rel had gone half the length of the corridor and turned right down a side way before Jethri shook himself into order and started walking, trying to accommodate himself to the fact that he was alone and at liberty on a Liaden owned and operated spacestation, where the official staff had already demonstrated a tendency to consider him a general issue nuisance. He shook his head, not liking the notion near so well as he should have done.

  He did get to thinking, as he walked, that Master ven'Deelin surely knew what Kailipso was—just as surely as Pen Rel did. And certainly neither of those canny old hands was likely to turn him loose in halls where he might find active danger.

  He hoped.

  An overhead sign at the junction of halls where Pen Rel had vanished offered him routes, straight on to Main Concourse, right hall to Station Administration, and left hall to Mercantile Station. Working on the theory that there would be information booths in the Main Concourse, Jethri went straight on.

  * * *

  INFOBOOTHS WERE THE least of the wonders offered by the Main Concourse and its affiliated sections. He explored Market Square first, finding it not a trading center, as he had expected, but a retail shop zone offering goods at exorbitant mark-ups.

  Nonetheless, he browsed, comparing prices shop to shop, and against his best guess of trade-side cost. Some of the items offered for sale were, by his admittedly unscientific calculation, marked up as much as six hundred percent over trade. He took a bit of a shock, for he saw in one window a timepiece identical to the one Norn ven'Deelin had casually given him—and found its price at three kais. 'Course, a master trader wasn't going to ever pay shop-price, but—He glanced down and took a second to make sure the slap strap was secure around his wrist.

  Kailipso being a station, there were special considerations. Stations were dependent on outside supply; if one needed what was here it was very much a seller's market.

  That got him to wondering just how much this particular station was dependent on outside supply, so he hunted up another booth and got directions to Education Square. Of course, it was opposite the Market, which meant a long walk back the way he'd come and through the Concourse, but he didn't grudge it. Station lived a thought lighter than Elthoria, so he fairly skipped along.

  Education was almost useless. The tapes offered for rent were every one narrated in Liaden. He was about to give up when his eye snagged on a half-sized shop, sort of crammed in sideways to the hall, in a space between a utility bay and a recycling chamber.

  The small opening spilled yellow light out into the hallway, and a table was sitting almost into the common area, holding the fabulous luxury of six bound books. Behind them was a hand-written sign, stating that all sales were final, cash only.

  Jethri moved forward, picked up the topmost book with reverence, and carefully thumbed the pages.

  Paper rustled, and a subtle smell wafted up. He allowed the book to fall open in his hands and found the Liaden words almost
absurdly easy to read as he was at once captivated by an account of one Shan el'Thrassin, who was engaged in a matter of honor with a set of folk who seemed something less than honorable.

  "May I assist you, young sir?" The voice was soft, male, slightly hesitant in Trade. Jethri started, ears warming, closing the book with a snap.

  "I apologize," he said. "I was looking for information about the history, economics and structure of the station. I am looking to fill some hours while visiting. . . . This. . . " Carefully, he bent and placed the volume he had been reading back in its place on the table. He experienced a genuine pang as the book left his hand.

  ". . . I cannot possibly afford this. If I have offended by using it without pay. . . "

  The man moved a hand, slowly, formally. "Books are meant to be read, young sir. You honor them—and me—with your interest. However, you intrigue me, for is not the entire square full with sight and sound recordings of the awesome past and glorious present of our station?"

  Jethri ducked his head. "Sir, it is. However—while I read the written form, my tongue and ear run far behind my eyes."

  "Hah." The man's eyes gleamed. "You are, in fact, a scholar. It is nothing less than my duty to assist you. Come. I believe I have just what you are wanting."

  As it happened, he did: A thin paper book simply entitled Guide To Kailipso Station.

  "It is slight, but well enough to satisfy the first level of questions and engage the mind upon the second level," the shopkeeper said easily. "It will, I think, serve you well. Though used, it is new enough that the information is reasonably dependable. "

  "I thank you," Jethri said. "However, again, I fear that my coins may be too few." And of the wrong sort, he thought suddenly, with a sinking feeling in his stomach. He was wearing his trading coat, but what he had in his public pocket was Terran bits and his fractin. He'd clean forgotten to stop at ship's bank to pull money out of his account in proper tor and kais. . .

  The man looked up at him. "Do you know, young sir, I believe we are in Balance. It is seldom enough that one sees a Terran. It is rarer to see a Terran unaccompanied and unhurried. To meet and have converse with a Terran who reads Liaden—even the gods must own themselves privileged in such an encounter." He smiled, slight and gentle.

  "Have the book, child. Your need is greater than mine."

  Jethri bit his lip. "Sir, I thank you, but—I request an elder's advice. How should a young and inexperienced person such as myself Balance so generous a gift from a stranger?"

  For a moment, he thought he'd gone well beyond bounds, though by all he knew there ought to be no offense given in asking for a clue to proper behavior. But the man before him was so still—

  The shopkeeper bowed, lightly, right hand over belt-buckle. "There is," he said, straightening to his full, diminutive height, "a . . . protocol for such things. The proper Balance for the receipt of a gift freely given is to use it wisely and with honor, so that the giver is neither shamed nor regretful of his generosity."

  Oh. Feeling an idiot, Jethri bowed, low enough to convey his thanks. He hoped. "I am grateful for the information, sir. My thanks."

  The man waved a dismissive hand. "Surely, it is the duty of elder to instruct the young." Once again, he smiled his slight smile. "Enjoy your holiday, child."

  "Thank you, sir," Jethri murmured, and bowed again, figuring that it was better to err on the side of too many than not enough, and moved out of the shop, trying not to let his eyes wander to those shelves full of treasure.

  * * *

  HE FOUND A VACANT bench in the main square and quickly became absorbed in the guidebook. From it, he learned that Kailipso Station had come into being as a way station for cargo and for galactic travelers. Unfortunately, it very shortly became a refugee camp for those who managed to escape the catastrophic climatic upsets of a colony world called Daethiria. While many of the homeless colonists returned to the established Liaden worlds from which they had emigrated, a not inconsiderable number chose to remain on Kailipso Station rather than return to the conditions which had forced them away in the first place.

  Kailipso Admin, realizing that it would need to expand quarters to support increased population, got clever—or desperate—or both—and went wooing the big Liaden Guilds, like the Traders and the Pilots, and got them to go in for sector offices on Kailipso.

  Where most ports and stations would automate scut-work, Kailipso used people wherever possible, since they had people—and they not only got by, but they thrived.

  So, Kailipso expanded, and soon enough became a destination all its own. Like any other station, it was vulnerable to attack, and dependent on imports for luxury items and planet-bred food. If it had to be, though, it was self-sufficient. On-station yeast vats produced enough boring, wholesome nutrition to feed Kailipso's denizens. Off-station, there were farm pods—fish, fruits and vegetables—which made for tastier eating in sufficient quantities to keep those same denizens in luxury if they could so afford.

  Kailipso also offered recreation. There was a power-sled track, swimming facilities, climbing walls to challenge a number of skill levels, and more than two dozen arenas for sports Jethri had never heard of.

  The guide book also provided a list of unsafe zones, accompanied by a cutaway station map with each danger outlined in bright green. Most were construction sites, and a few out-ring halls that dead-ended into what looked to be emergency chutes, marked out as Danger: Low Gravity Zones.

  He likewise learned from the guide book that the Kailipso Trade Bar was in the Mercantile Zone, and that it was open to all with a valid license of trade or a tradeship crew card. There, at least, he could directly debit his account on ship, and get himself some walking-around money. A brew and a looksee at the ship-board wouldn't be amiss, either.

  So thinking, he came to his feet and slipped the book away in to a leg-pocket. He took a second to stretch, luxuriating in the lower grav, then headed off at a mild lope, bound for the Mercantile Zone.

  * * *

  HE RAN HIS CARD through the reader; the screen flashed blue, and the door to the Trade Bar swung open before him.

  Valid and verified, he thought, grinning, and then remembered to put on his trading face—polite, non-committal, and supposedly unreadable; it wasn't much, set against your usual Liaden's ungiving mask. Still, grinning out loud in a place crammed with folks who just didn't couldn't be polite. And polite was all he had.

  What hit him first were the similarities to the Terran Trade Bars he'd been in with Uncle Paitor or Cris or Dyk. The high-info screens were set well up on one wall, showing list after list: ships in dock; traders on duty; goods at offer, stationside; goods at offer, dockside; goods sought. The exchange rates were missing, which made him blink until he realized that everybody on this station was buying in cantra and kais.

  The milling of bodies seemingly at random around the various stations—that was familiar too—and even the sound—lots of voices, talking at once, maybe a little louder than needful.

  But then the differences—damn near everybody was shorter than him, dressed in bright colors, and soft leather boots. Jewelry gleamed on ears, hands, throats. Not a few wore a weapon, holstered, on their belts. For the most, they walked flat, like born mud-grubbers, and not like honest spacers at all. And the slightly too loud voices were saying things in a quick, liquid language which his ear couldn't begin to sort.

  He found himself a corner where two booths abutted, and settled back out of the general press to study the screens. Stationside goods at offer tended toward art stuffs and information—reasonable. The longest list by far, though, was for indenture—folks looking to buy their way off-station, maybe all the way back to Liad, by selling out years of their lives. By Jethri's count, there were forty-eight contracts offered, from sixteen years to thirty-four, from general labor to fine craftsperson.

  "Well, what do we find ourselves here?" a woman's voice asked, too close and too loud, her Trade almost unintelligible. "I do believe it
's a Terran, Vil Jon."

  Jethri moved, but she was blocking his exit, and the man moving up at her hail was going to box him in proper.

  "A Terran?" the man—Vil Jon—repeated. "Now what would a Terran be doing in the Trade Bar?" He looked up into Jethri's face, eyes hard and blue. "Well, Terran? Who let you in here?"

  Jethri met his eyes, trying with everything in him to keep his face smooth, polite and non-committal.

  "The door let me in, sir. My ship card was accepted by the reader."

  "It has a card," the woman said, as if the man hadn't heard. "Now, what ship in dock keeps tame Terrans."

  The man glanced over his shoulder at the boards. "There's Intovish, from Vanthachal. They keep some odd customs, local." He looked back at Jethri. "What ship, Terran?"