by Sharon Lee
“These fractins, now—they’re Old Tech. Really old tech. Way we figured it, they was old tech when the big war started. And the thing is—we can’t duplicate them.”
Jethri stared, and it did occur to him that maybe Grig had started his drinking before the Blusharie. The big war—the Old War—well, there’d been one, that much was sure; most of the Befores you’d come up with, they was pieces from the war—or from what folks called the war, but could’ve been some other event. Jethri’d read arguments for and against had there been or had there not been a war, as part of history studies. And the idea of a tech that old that couldn’t be duplicated today. . .
“What kind of tech?” he asked Grig. “And why can’t we copy it?”
“Good questions, both, and I’d be a happier man if I had an answer for either. What I can tell you is—if that fractin of yours is one of the real ones—one of the old ones—it’s got a tiny bit of timonium in there. You can find that from the outside because of the neutrinos—and all the real ones ever scanned had its own bit of timonium. Something else you find is that there’s structure inside—they ain’t just poured plastic or something. Try to do a close scan, though, maybe get a looksee at the shape of that structure, and what happens? Zap! Fried fractin. The timonium picks up the energy and gives off a couple million neutrinos and some beta and gamma rays—and there’s nothing left but slagged clay. Try to peel it? You can’t; same deal.”
Jethri took of sip of his dwindling drink, trying to get his mind around the idea that there was tech hundreds of Standards old that couldn’t be cracked and duplicated.
“As I say,” Grig said, soft-like, “Paitor ain’t a believer. What him, and Iza and a whole lot of other folks who’re perfectly sane, like maybe I’m not on the subject, nor Arin neither—what they think is that the Old War wasn’t nearly as big as others of us believe. They don’t believe that war was fought with fractins, and about fractins. Arin thought that; and he had studies—records of archeological digs, old docs—to back him. He could map out where fractins was found, where the big caches were, show how they related to other Before caches—and when the finds started to favor the counterfeits over the real thing.” He sighed.
“So, see, this just ain’t our family secret. Some of the earlier studies—they went missing. Stolen. Arin said some people got worried about what would happen if Loopers and ship owners got interested in Befores as more than a sometime high-profit oddity. If they started looking for Old Tech, and figured out how to make ‘em work.
“Arin didn’t necessarily think we should make these fractins work—but he thought we should know what they did—and how. In case of need. Then, he got an analysis—”
Grig sipped, and sat for a long couple heartbeats, staring down into his cup.
“You know what half-life is, right?” He asked, looking up.
Jethri rolled his eyes, and Paitor laughed. Grig sighed.
“Right. Given the half-life of that timonium, Arin figured them for about eighteen hundred Standards old. Won’t be long—say ten Standards, for some of the earlier ones; maybe a hundred for the latest ones—before the timonium’s too weak to power—whatever it powers. Might be they’ll just go inert, and anybody’s who’s interested can just take one, or five, or five hundred apart and take a peek inside.
“Arin, now. Arin figured fractins was maybe memory—warship, library, and computer, all rolled into one, including guidance and plans. That’s what Arin thought. And it’s what he wanted you to know. Iza and the Golds and all them other sane folks, they think they don’t need to know. They say, only a fool borrows trouble, when there’s so much around that’s free. Me? I think you ought to know what your father thought, and I think you ought to keep your eyes and your mind open. I don’t know that you particularly need to talk to any Liadens about it—but you’ll make that call, if and when you have to.”
He looked deep into his cup, lifted it and drained what was left.
“That it?” Paitor asked, quietly
Grig nodded. “It’ll do.”
“Right you are, then.” He held out a hand; Grig passed him the bottle, and he refilled the cups, one by one.
He stood, and Grig did, and after a moment, Jethri did. All three raised their cups high.
“To your success, your honor, and your duty, Free Hand!” His kin said, loud enough to set the walls to thrumming. And Jethri squared his shoulders, and blinked back the sudden tears—and they talked of easier things until the cups were empty again.
“MUD,” JETHRI MUTTERED, as his blade scraped across the hatch. Lower lip caught between his teeth, he had another go with the wrench-set, and was at last rewarded with an odd fluttering hiss, that sent him skipping back a startled half-step.
Pressure differential, he thought, laughing at himself.
The sound of squeezing air faded and the cover plate popped away when he probed it with the blade point.
Stuffed into the cavity was some paper, likely to stop the plate from rattling the way Khat’s did whenever they were accelerating, and he pulled it out, ready to crumple and toss it—and checked, frowning down at the paper itself.
Yellow and gritty—it was print-out from the comm-printer the captain didn’t use any more. She’d always called it Arin’s printer, like she didn’t want anything to do with it, anyway, ‘cause she didn’t like to deal with nothing ciphered. Curiously, he separated the edges and opened the paper. There was his birth date, a series of random letters and numbers that likely weren’t random at all if you knew what you was looking at and—
. . . WILDETOAD WILDETOAD WILDETOAD like an emergency beacon might send out.
WildeToad? Jethri knew his ship histories, but he would’ve known this one, anyway, being as Khat told a perfect hair-raiser about Toad’s last ride. WildeToad had gone missing years ago, and none of the mainline Wildes had been seen since. Story was, they’d gone to ground, which didn’t make no sense, them having been spacers since before there was space, as the sayin’ went.
Jethri squinted at the paper.
Mismatch, there’s a mismatch, going down
WILDETOAD WILDETOAD WILDETOAD
We’re breaking clay. Check frequency
WILDETOAD WILDETOAD WILDETOAD
Thirty hours. Warn away Euphoria
WILDETOAD WILDETOAD WILDETOAD
Racks bare, breaking clay
WILDETOAD WILDETOAD WILDETOAD
Lake bed ahead. We’re arming. Stay out.
L.O.S. TRANSMISSION ENDS
Lake bed, he thought. And, gone to ground. Spacer humor, maybe; it had that feel. And it got him in the stomach, that he held in his hand the last record of a dying ship. Why had his father used such a thing to shim the plate in his door? Bad luck . . . He swallowed, read the page again, frowning after nonsense phrases.
Breaking clay? Racks bare? This was no common ship-send, he thought, the grainy yellow paper crackling against his fingers. Arin’s printer. The message had come into Arin’s printer. Coded, then—but—
A chime sounded, the four notes of “visitor aboard.” Jethri jumped, cussed, and jammed the paper and the nameplate into his duffle, resealed the hatch as quick as he could, and took off down the hall at a run.
IT WAS A SMALL group at the main lock: Khat, Iza, and Uncle Paitor to witness his farewell. Master ven’Deelin’s assistant, Pen Rel, stood more at his ease than seemed likely for a man alone on a stranger ship, his smooth, pretty face empty of anything like joy, irritation, or boredom. His eyes showed alert, though, and it was him who caught Jethri first, and bowed, very slightly.
“Apprentice. The master trader assigns me your escort.”
Jethri paused and bowed, also slightly—that being the best he could manage with the bag slung across his back.
“Sir. The master trader does me too much honor,” he said.
The blue eyes flickered—very likely Pen Rel agreed—but give the man his due, neither smirk nor smile crossed his face, either of which he had every right t
o display, according to Jethri’s counting.
Instead, he turned his attention to Iza Gobelyn and bowed again—deep, this time, displaying all proper respect to the captain-owner.
“The master trader sends felicitations, Captain. She bids me say that she has herself placed a child of her body into the care of others, for training, knowing the necessity at the core of her trader’s heart. A mother’s heart, however, is both more foolish and more wise. She, therefore, offers, mother to mother, route-list and codes. Messages sent by this method will reach Jethri Gobelyn immediately. Its frequent use is encouraged.”
Another bow—this one no more than a heavy tip of the head—a flourish, and there was a data card between the first and second fingers of his extended hand.
Iza Gobelyn’s mouth pursed up, as if she’d tasted something sour. She didn’t quite place her hands behind her back—not quite that. But she did shake her head, side-to-side, once, decisive-like.
Jethri felt himself draw breath, hard. Not that he had expected his mother would have wanted to keep in touch with him when he was gone, like she’d never bothered to do when he was a member of her crew. It was just—the rudeness, when Master ven’Deelin . . . He blinked, and sent a short glance straight to Khat, who caught it, read it, and stepped forward, smooth and soft-footed.
Gently, she slipped the card from between Pen Rel’s fingers, and bowed, deeper than he had done, thereby showing respect for the master trader’s emissary.
“Please convey to the master trader our appreciation of her kindness and her forethought,” she said, which deepened the frown on Iza’s face, and put some color back into Paitor’s.
For his part, Jethri felt his chest ease a little—catastrophe averted, he thought, which should have been the truth of it, except that Master ven’Deelin’s aide stood there for a heartbeat too long, his head cocked a mite to one side, waiting . . .
. . . and then waiting no longer, but bowing in general farewell, while his eyes pegged Jethri and one hand moved in an unmistakable sweep: Let’s go, kid.
Swallowing, Jethri went, following the Liaden down the ramp.
“‘bye Jethri,” he heard Khat whisper as he went past her. “We’ll miss you.”
Her hand touched his shoulder fleetingly, and under his shirt the key clung a bit, then Gobelyn’s Market clanged as the portals closed behind him.
AT THE END OF the Market’s dock, Pen Rel turned left, walking light, despite the gravity. Jethri plodded along half a step behind, and pretty soon worked up a sweat, to which the Port dust clung with a will.
Traffic increased as they went on, and he stretched his legs to keep his short guide in sight. Finally, the man paused, and waited while Jethri came up beside him.
“Jethri Gobelyn.” If he noticed Jethri’s advanced state of dishevelment, he betrayed it by not the flicker of an eyelash. Instead, he blandly inclined his bright head.
“Shortly, we will be rising to Elthoria. Is there aught on port that you require? Now is the time to acquire any such items, for we are scheduled to break orbit within the quarter-spin.”
Breathless, Jethri shook his head, caught himself, and cleared his throat.
“I am grateful, but there is no need.” He lifted the smaller bag somewhat. “Everything that I require is in these bags.”
Golden eyebrows rose, but he merely moved a languid hand, directing Jethri’s attention down the busy thoroughfare.
“Alas, I am not so fortunate and must fulfill several errands before we board. Do you continue along this way until you find Ixin’s sign. Present yourself to the barge crew, and hold yourself at the pilot’s word. I will join you ere it is time to lift.”
So saying, he stepped off the curb into the thronging traffic, vanishing, to Jethri’s eye, into the fast-moving crowd.
Mud! he thought, his heart picking up its rhythm, then, “Mud!” aloud as a hard elbow landed on his ribs with more force than was strictly necessary to make the point, while a sharp voice let out with a liquid string of Liaden, the tone of which unmistakably conveyed that this was no place for ox-brained Terrans to be napping.
Getting a tighter grip on his carry-bag, Jethri shrugged the backpack into an easier position and set off, slow, his head swiveling from one side to the next, like a clean ‘bot on the lookout for lint, craning at the signs and sigils posted along both sides of the way.
It didn’t do much to calm the crazy rhythm of his heart to note that all the signs hereabouts were in Liaden, with never a Terran letter to be found; or that everyone he passed was short, golden-skinned, quick—Liaden.
Now that it was too late, he wondered if Master ven’Deelin’s aide was having a joke on him. Or, worse, if this was some sort of Liaden test, the which of, failing, lost him his berth and grounded him. There was the horror, right there. Grounded. He was a spacer. All ports were strange; all crews other than his own, strangers. Teeth drilling into his bottom lip, Jethri lengthened his stride, heedless now of both elbows and rude shouts, eyes scanning the profusion of signage for the one that promised him clean space; refuge from weight, dirt, and smelly air.
At last, he caught it—half-a-block distant and across the wide street. Jethri pulled up a spurt of speed, forced his dust-covered, leaden body into a run and lumbered off the curb.
Horns, hoots and hollers marked his course across that street. He heeded none of it. The Moon-and-Rabbit was his goal and everything he had eye or thought for. By the time the autodoor gave way before him, he was mud-slicked, gasping and none-too-steady on his feet.
What he also was, was safe.
Half-sobbing, he brought his eyes up and had a second to revise that opinion. The three roustabouts facing him might be short, but they stood tall, hands on the utility knives thrust through wide leather belts, shirts and faces showing dust and the stains of working on the docks.
Jethri gulped and ducked his head. “Your pardon, gentles,” he gasped in what he hoped they’d recognize for Liaden. “I am here for Master ven’Deelin.”
The lead roustabout raised her eyebrows. “ven’Deelin?” she repeated, doubt palpable in her tone.
“If you please,” Jethri said, trying to breathe deeply and make his words more than half-understandable gasps. “I am Jethri Gobelyn, the—the new apprentice trader.”
She blinked, her face crumpling for an instant before she got herself in hand. The emotion she didn’t show might have been anything, but Jethri had the strong impression that she would have laughed out loud, if politeness had allowed it.
The man at her right shoulder, who showed more gray than brown in his hair, turned his head and called out something light and fluid, while the man at her left shoulder stood forward, pulling his blade from its nestle in the belt and thoughtfully working the catch. Jethri swallowed and bent, very carefully, to put his carry-bag down.
Twice as careful, he straightened, showing empty palms to the three of them. This time, the woman did smile, pale as starlight, and put out a hand to shove her mate in the arm.
“It belongs to the master trader,” she said in pidgin. “Will you be the one to rob her of sport?”
“Not I,” said the man. But he didn’t put the knife away, nor even turn his head at the clatter of boot heels or the sudden advent of a second Liaden woman, this one wearing the tough leather jacket of a pilot.
She came level with the boss roustabout and stopped, a crease between her eyebrows.
“Are we now a home for the indigent?” she snapped, and apparently to the room at large.
Jethri exerted himself, bowing as low as his shaking legs would allow.
“Pilot. If you please. I am Jethri Gobelyn, apprenticed to Master Trader Norn ven’Deelin. I arrive at the word of her aide, Pen Rel, who bade me hold myself at your word.”
“Ah. Pen Rel.” The pilot’s face altered, and Jethri again had the distinct feeling that, had she been Terran, she would have been enjoying a fine laugh at his expense. “That would be Arms Master sig’Kethra, an individual to whom
it would be wise to show the utmost respect.” She moved a graceful hand, showing him the apparently blank wall to his left.
“You may place your luggage in the bay; it will be well cared for. After that, you may make yourself seemly, so that you do not shame Master sig’Kethra before the ven’Deelin.” She looked over her shoulder at the third roustabout. “Show him.”
“Pilot.” He jerked his head at Jethri. “Attend, boy.”
Seen close, the blank wall was indented with a series of unmarked squares. The roustabout held up an index finger, and lightly touched three in sequence. The wall parted along an all-but invisible seam, showing a holding space beyond, piled high with parcels and pallets. Jethri took a step forward, found his sleeve caught and froze, watching the wall slide shut again a bare inch beyond his nose.
When there was nothing left to indicate that the wall was anything other than a wall, the roustabout loosed Jethri’s sleeve and jerked his chin at the indentations.
“You, now.”
He had a good head for patterns—always had. It was the work of a moment to touch his index finger to the proper three indentations in order. The wall slid aside and this time he was not prevented from going forward into the holding bay and stacking his bags with the rest.
The door stayed open until he stepped back to the side of the roustabout, who jerked his head to the left and guided him to the ‘fresher, where he was left to clean himself up as best he might, so Master ven’Deelin wouldn’t take any second thoughts about the contract she’d made.
SOME WHILE LATER, Jethri sat alone in the hallway next to the pilot’s office, face washed, clothes brushed, and nursing a disposable cupful of a hot, strong, and vilely sweet beverage his guide had insisted was “tea.”
At least it was cool in the hallway, and it was a bennie just to be done with walking about in grav, and carrying all his mortal possessions, too. Sighing, he sipped gingerly at the nasty stuff in the cup and tried to order himself.
