Trade Circle: A Space Opera Adventure Series (The New Dawn Book 3)

by Valerie J Mikles

  18

  “It’s called the Trade Circle,” Sky explained, scavenging Oriana’s mechanical supply closet for something the locals could use. It would help if she knew what tribes were in the area. She didn’t recognize the tribal markings on the scout she’d caught, and after so many years she hadn’t expected to. Some tribes would be grateful for a frying pan; others would want a camping stove and fuel to run it. The only reason Sky had brought Oriana here was because it was early in the season and most of the nomadic tribes should not have come this far north yet. “The nomadic tribes that come through this region use the Circle as a way to signal they’re interested in peaceful trade.”

  “Then why do I need a stunner?” Tray asked, holding up the weapon Sky had shoved into his hand. Sky shot him a look and Tray mumbled and apology. A trade scout or ambassador could eat him alive if he backed down like that. Danny always boasted that Tray was a skilled negotiator, but Sky was starting to worry that Danny’s vision was a little colored.

  Oriana’s supply closet was shockingly cluttered, and had no discernible organizational pattern. There were tools hanging on the wall, shelves filled with labeled boxes, and larger bins for hull sheeting. The term closet was clearly colloquial, because if all the shelves were removed, this storage area could fit her Bobsled with room to spare.

  “Do they need tools?” Tray asked.

  “They’re travelers, not simpletons,” Sky replied. Back when she traveled these parts, her methodology consisted of charming the locals and stealing what she needed. Bartering was not her thing.

  “Do they use solar tech?” Tray asked, reaching for a box labeled ‘replacement wafers.’

  Sky glanced into the box of thumbnail-sized solar cells. What nomadic tribes used depended on who they encountered. Whether the tech would buy medicine was another story. The Drava or the Gavameti might have use for it. The Dioda would probably be more interested in the stunner, but only if they could have Oriana’s entire arsenal. If Tray traded weapons for a cure, Saskia would kill Tray with her bare hands.

  “The local dialects are tricky. Speak Lanvarian, but keep it simple. Don’t try to show off with big words,” Sky advised, resisting the urge to wipe her clammy palms on her clothes. She didn’t want Tray to know how much she was sweating this or he’d be too nervous to go.

  “If you know the language, shouldn’t you speak?” he asked.

  “I can’t guarantee the locals will be happy to see me,” Sky said, her throat getting tight. “Don’t mention my name.”

  Tray made a face. “You’re not going to steal my ship and leave me stranded, are you?”

  “Don’t give me any ideas,” she joked, glad that he hadn’t pressed her for details. Shoving a single solar chip into his hand, she turned him to the door and gave him a push. “Now go, and hope you get a bite before the sun goes down.”

  “I know. It’s not safe after dark,” Tray grumbled, like a child who’d been warned by his parents too many times.

  “It’s safe enough,” Sky teased. “It’s just harder to demonstrate solar tech in the dark.”

  Caira Hiron had five children, three of whom still lived with her. Laos was her youngest and her only daughter. She was the only one Caira and Sidney had together, and Caira would have loved to have more, but it had taken her years to get him to commit to the first, and being unable to take him as a primary back then had discouraged her from asking again. Sidney felt bad for getting her hopes up with discussions of enhancing their relationship, but he was also open to the idea now that the tribe had returned to Fox Run, and he felt the emptiness in his tent.

  Sidney didn’t expect to find Caira’s boys in the tent at this hour. Emille was a chef and harvester, and was usually out at first light preparing the morning meal. Orrin was a watchman, and if he wasn’t working odd hours at his post, he’d likely fallen asleep in the tent of whatever friend he’d followed home the night before.

  When Sidney poked his head into Caira’s tent, she was standing in the middle of the floor, gazing serenely past the curtain that blocked off the sleeping area. She jumped when Sidney wriggled in beside her to see what she was looking at. Laos and Brishen had pulled two of the mattresses together and were fast asleep, lying face to face, with their feet going in opposite directions. Laos was sprawled on her belly and Brishen was curled up. The way the blankets were over them suggested they’d been tucked in after falling asleep.

  It wasn’t the first time Sidney and Caira had found them like this. When all the beds were full and they were forced to share a mattress, Laos took the top half of the bed and Brishen took the bottom, then they’d share a pillow in the middle.

  Breezing past Caira, Sidney clapped his hands loudly. “Let’s go!”

  “They’re sleeping,” Caira hissed, grabbing his hands to silence him. Brishen was startled awake, but he remained perfectly still. His body tensed as his senses tuned in and his eyes darted around, like he couldn’t remember where he was. His whole body quaked when Laos groaned and rolled over, her flailing arm whacking the top of his head. The familiar dance was one of the only reasons Sidney could come up with as to why the two never slept side by side.

  “Laos! Time to meet the visitors,” Sidney said. The bait had Laos on her feet within seconds. Grabbing a fresh set of clothes, she went behind a screen and changed. Sidney figured the modesty was for Brishen’s sake, because she normally just gave everyone a verbal warning not to look.

  “Sidney!” Caira admonished. He hadn’t told her that he planned to take Laos into a trade. They both knew that Laos was wary about interacting with people from other tribes, which was why Laos wasn’t trained as a trade scout. If Laos hadn’t begged him to tag along, he never would have thought to bring her.

  “What? No one stays a scout forever,” Sidney shrugged.

  Brishen sat up, smoothing the borrowed pillow and folding the blanket. “Shri Caira, I didn’t hear you come in. I’m sorry I took your bed,” he murmured in a low, gravelly voice, addressing Caira by an unnecessarily formal title. He was a shy man, and whenever Sidney told him to speak up, the typical response he got was ‘never mind; it’s not important.’ Laos had him wrapped around her little finger.

  “That’s quite all right, Brishen,” Caira assured, using her motherly tone with him, which put him slightly more at ease. After so many years of being a guest in her tent, it was surprising Brishen didn’t feel at home here.

  “She didn’t come home last night,” Laos called over the screen. “The two of them have been sleeping together half a year now.”

  Brishen flushed, sneaking glances at Sidney. Awkwardly, he nudged the mattresses, trying to restore order to the sleeping area.

  “Laos, you don’t need to advertise,” Sidney chastised, rubbing his face.

  “Brishen, want to see inside the airship?” Laos asked, coming out behind the screen, fresh linens covering all the essentials dictated by modesty. She picked up her leather vest from the floor and started adding the layers that transformed her from girl to scout.

  “I can’t take an entourage, Laos,” Sidney interrupted. “We’re heading to the Trade Circle, not their ship. Your grandpa wants me to take an extra warrior just to look after you.”

  “That’s what Brishen is for,” Laos pouted, pointing to her friend. “Please, daddy!”

  “It’s all right. Go without me,” Brishen said, his voice cracking as he shifted uncomfortably. Despite his stature, he looked like a scared, little boy, and it made Sidney angry. This was the man who had rescued his daughter from the Nayak. Brishen had nearly bled out from his own injuries, but refused to put Laos down until he’d carried her to the medical tent. Sidney wanted to smack him, shake him, and remind him of how strong he’d once been.

  Sidney looked from Laos’ pouty face to Brishen’s embarrassed, averted eyes. He’d never been very paternal, but these two stirred something in him that no one else in Drava did. “I want you both in trade scout robes, but you don’t say a word.”


  “Thank you, dad—”

  “Protocol, Scout, or I will cut out your tongue,” Sidney warned, holding up a finger.

  “Yes, Ambassador,” Laos said with mock seriousness.

  “I really don’t—” Brishen began.

  “Don’t come if you don’t want,” Laos said, grabbing the rest of her gear, then pushing Brishen toward the door. “They’re gonna get all handsy in a minute, and you do not want to be here for that.”

  Sidney laughed at her bluntness. Despite Laos’ warning, he was still surprised when Caira wrapped her arms around him.

  “Not now. I have to speak to the Supply Manager and then . . . wrangle my child,” he said, wriggling to get out of her embrace.

  “I can’t believe you’re taking her,” she chuckled, exhaling hotly over the pulse point on his neck.

  “Are you jealous?” he teased. He sensed her approval, and that gave him the confidence to relax a hair.

  “You don’t need an entourage,” she crooned, turning him around and digging her hands under his clothes. Sidney opened her shirt and pressed his body to hers. There were rewards to opening himself to her, and no reason to deny himself her love.

  19

  The morning was cool and damp, the forest filled with a mist thicker than the fog that rose off of Olcott Bay on chilly mornings. Tray’s father had taken him to the bay a number of times, introducing him to the plant managers, foremen, and fisherman. There was nothing more important than a solid rapport with one’s business associates, and were it not for the laborers, there would be no wealth.

  “Never forget where you came from,” his father had always warned. Tray had been obedient to a fault because of those trips. Even on Oriana, Tray knew he’d never sunk as low as those on the ‘other half’ of the socioeconomic line. The show his father made of spending a day at the docks was a sign of respect to the workers. He pretended to care about them long enough to earn their loyalty. Then when they went home in the evening, his father would criticize their smell, their education, and their faltering family values.

  Family values. Tray was his father’s pride and joy, and the only family he acknowledged openly. Tray was not allowed to talk about his dead mother or inquire about his missing half-brother. It was only after he’d inherited his family’s businesses that Tray learned he had an uncle and two cousins working on the same docks he’d visited as a child.

  Tray always found memories of his father confusing. On the one hand, he was glad to be rid of that hateful, vindictive, controlling monster. On the other hand, the lessons he’d learned, the education he’d received, and the adulation for every accomplishment was the purest form of love he’d ever known. Even this morning as he buttoned his vest and trimmed his nails, he could hear his father’s gentle, firm voice lecturing him on the importance of appearance in business negotiations.

  Tray was dressed to the nines today, hair neatly arranged so that his perfectly tamed ringlets were on display but not in his face. He got an ego boost when he came out of his bunk and Hawk did a double take. Confidence alone made Tray feel two inches taller. The only compromise Tray had made in his appearance was that he wore work boots instead of shiny dress shoes. It was a two mile hike from Oriana to Sky’s Trade Circle. He’d polished the shoes as best he could and they were new enough not to be scuffed from wear.

  Sky walked with him about a half mile, then she pointed down the path and told him he’d know the place when he found it. She was so pale and jumpy that he wanted to give her a pat on the arm and offer baseless reassurances just to diffuse the tension. Her fear did not help his calm, but he squared his shoulders, put on his business face, and told her he’d vring if he needed help.

  The Trade Circle looked like a well-used campsite. It was surrounded by tall stones, with a fire pit in the middle. It reminded Tray of an amphitheater his middle school drama team had created for some festival or other. A stone on the north side was engraved with a message written in three languages, one of which looked similar to Lanvarian, though Tray couldn’t decipher it. A covered stack of chopped wood beneath the sign had a more obvious purpose. Sky had said that smoke was part of the signaling to the nomads that someone had come to trade.

  Gathering a minimal amount of firewood, twigs, and brush, Tray started a fire using a concentrated burst from his stunner. He’d pulverized half the wood before getting a spark, but he didn’t have a chemical lighter, nor did he have the patience or skill to make fire naturally.

  For the first half hour, Tray jumped at every sound, thinking a stranger was approaching. After nearly firing his stunner on a flock of birds and a few small rodents, Tray started to relax. His new business associates would be wary of that kind of nervous behavior. Still, Tray wished he had Saskia backing him up. The next hour was as boring as watching moss grow. Tray sat on one of the rocks, and set up the picnic lunch he’d packed. He had enough food to share, but was hoping he wouldn’t have to. It was stupid to come out here alone. He tried not to worry about Danny and Saskia. They hadn’t had any seizures overnight, but it was scary not knowing what was wrong with them. He kept looking to the sky, expecting to see Oriana fly off without him.

  By the third hour, Tray was wishing he’d brought a Virclutch to work on. Sky had warned him not to display any tech he didn’t want stolen, but Tray had better things to do than sit here in the middle of the woods. Annotating the maps they’d made of the area came to mind.

  “Sky, how long should I stay here?” he whined, activating his Feather. His fire had died, and he didn’t want to make another one.

  “I told you not to say my name,” Sky hissed, keeping her voice low.

  “It’s not even your real name,” Tray pointed out. He wasn’t sure when he’d figured out that ‘Sky’ was an alias, but it didn’t matter so long as she answered to it. Rolling his eyes, he picked a name at random. “Fine, Meryl. How long should I stay here?”

  “We’re not in industrialized Quin, Tray,” she said, her voice calming slightly. “A tribe has to see your signal, decide whether to send an ambassador, assess their supplies, and then walk from wherever they’re camping. We might not get any hits until tomorrow.”

  “I’m not sleeping out here,” Tray said adamantly. He’d been part of some slow-paced business deals before, but at least he knew his messages were getting out. Tray heard footsteps and saw a flash of color. He hoped it wasn’t another rabbit. “Hold on. Someone’s here.”

  “Turn off and hide your Feather,” Sky said urgently.

  “That is the polite thing to do,” Tray’s father would have added. The advice—free yourself of distraction—was something Tray adhered to in any new business association. Slipping off the Feather, Tray tucked the device into an inside pocket on his jacket, then unconsciously smoothed the material.

  “Hello?” Tray called, staying near the remnants of his fire.

  A man appeared, coming around one of the larger stone pillars, exuding confidence and strength. He was dark-skinned like Tray, and wore a bright red turban and matching red and gold robe. The sash across his chest was adorned with gemstones, and when he opened his mouth, Tray saw sparkling gems set into his teeth as well. If this was how the nomads displayed status and wealth, then Tray severely underdressed. Cautiously, Tray opened his jacket wide enough to show off the bright blue vest he wore.

  “Hello,” Tray said again, smiling and holding out his hand.

  The man looked doubtfully at Tray’s outstretched hand, and spoke in a deep, neutral tone. Tray missed all the words but one: empty.

  “I came to trade,” Tray assured, retracting his hand. When Sky had said to keep it simple, he didn’t realize that meant no handshakes. “I—”

  The man drew a gem-studded blade and Tray’s jaw clenched.

  “Is that to trade?” he asked hopefully.

  “Your people assaulted a Nayak scout,” the man replied, his guttural tones making the words almost indecipherable.

  “We did?” Tray asked.

  “A
ye.” The man stepped closer, his grip on the blade changing to an offensive one.

  “We didn’t hurt anyone,” Tray said, backing away, putting the fire pit between himself and the man. “We didn’t. No one’s hurt.”

  The man in red said something else, and suddenly, they weren’t alone in the circle. A half a dozen men emerged from behind the tall stones bordering the amphitheater. Two had crossbows; the rest had blades, clubs, and other blunt weapons. He was surrounded.

  “Oh, Saskia, where are you,” Tray murmured, feeling for his stunner, but not drawing it. “This is a Trade Circle. We’re here peacefully. We came to trade. My name is Tray Matthews of Oriana.”

  “You are a powerful people,” the man crooned, emboldened to step closer now that he had warriors backing him up. “You have waited days to come to the Trade Circle. I do not believe your intentions with our land are sincere.”

  “We mean you no harm. We’re only passing through,” Tray said, holding his hands up to show they were empty.

  “Our scouts overheard your plans to destroy this forest for lumber,” the man continued.

  “They misunderstood. Put the weapons away,” Tray ordered.

  The man tipped his head, his blade lowering just a hair. Then a pulse rifle blast pulverized the stone pillar behind him and warriors turned toward the new target.

  “Tray! Run!” Hawk cried, leaves rustling overhead as he danced from branch to branch, firing shots. Tray swore and fired his stunner, clearing a path of escape. There was no point in negotiating now. He made a run for the gap he’d created, firing at anyone in his path. The nomads chased after him, one grabbing him by the hair. Tray felt an arm around his neck, then his feet being lifted off the ground. He kicked and twisted, but someone had grabbed his wrist and he couldn’t get off a shot.

  Firing his stunner rapidly, Tray kept sweeping blasts until all the nomads had fallen. Some of them fought the temporary paralysis, and it was only a matter of time before they were on their feet again.