by Sharon Lee
Instead, he said, “I got a reply on that franchise job. They want me to stop by their office, dirtside, take the test. If that’s a go, it’ll mean a temp berth for the next ten months, Standard.”
Khat nodded, her eyes still on Kinaveral. “Paitor figures to pick up some training or consulting at Terratrade,” she said. “Me, I’ll file with Central as a freewing.”
“Sensible. The rest sticking to dirt?”
She laughed. “Now, how likely is that? Might take a few port cycles ‘til they get tired of breathing dust, but you know they’ll be looking for space work, too.”
“Huh,” Cris said, fiddling with a setting on his board. “Iza?”
Khat shrugged. “Way I heard it, she was staying dirtside, with the Market.” She held up a hand. “Paitor did try to talk her out of it. Pointed out that Seeli’s able. Iza wasn’t having any. She’s the captain, the job’s hers, and by all the ghosts of space, she’ll do it.”
“Huh,” Cris said again—and seemed on the edge of saying something more when the comm screen came live with Central’s request that Gobelyn’s Market amend her filed approach.
DAY 63
Standard Year 1118
Elthoria
ELTHORIA KEPT a twenty-eight-hour “day,” divided into four shifts, two on, two off, which made for a slightly longer work day than the Market’s twenty-four hour, two-shift cycle. Jethri, who had been used to reading and studying well into his off-shift, scarcely noticed the additional hours.
His work now—that was different. No more Stinks. If Elthoria had Stinks, which Jethri took leave to doubt, it was nothing mentioned to him by his new acquaintances, though they were careful to show him as much of the ship as an apprentice trader might need to know. His new status meant no more assisting in the galley, a duty he might’ve missed, if there’d been any time for it, which there wasn’t, his time being entirely and systematically crammed full with lessons, study and more lessons.
Some things were routine, and it eased him somehow to find that Elthoria kept emergency protocols—in which he was relentlessly trained by no lesser person than Arms Master sig’Kethra. Over the course of three shifts, he was drilled in the location and operation of the lifeboats, shown the various boltholes, emergency hatches and hand-grabs. He was also measured for a suit, it being discovered to the chagrin of the supply master that none of those on draw would fit.
Other things, they weren’t so routine—more of that, which is what he’d figured to find. For instance, he had a trade locker all to himself, which was scrupulously the same size as his stateroom, it being the policy on Elthoria that traders should have as much room to work in as they had to sleep in. He wished he’d thought to convert some of his cash to something useful out of the Market—but he hadn’t had much time to cry about that missed opportunity, either.
First thing on shift, right after breakfast, he sat with the tutor-tapes in the ship’s library, brushing up on his written and spoken Liaden. Then, he met with Protocol Officer Ray Jon tel’Ondor, which was more language lessons, putting dry learning into practical use. Master tel’Ondor was also of an ambition to teach Jethri his bows, though he made no secret of the fact that Jethri was the least apt pupil he had encountered in long years of tutoring arrogant young traders in protocol.
After Master tel’Ondor, there was exercise—a mandated ship’s hour every day at the weights and the treadmills, then a shower, a meal, and more reading, this on the subjects of trade guild rules and custom regs. After that, there was the Terran-tutoring with Gaenor tel’Dorbit. The first mate being of a restless habit, that meant more exercise, as they walked the long hallways of Elthoria. Despite the extra walking, Jethri quickly came to look forward to this part of his duty-day. Gaenor was younger than Master ven’Deelin and Pen Rel, and she smiled nicely from time to time in her lessons, which Jethri particularly liked.
Gaenor’s idea of being tutored was to just start talking—about the events of the previous shift, her family’s home in a dirt-based city called Chonselta, the latest book she was reading, or the ship’s itinerary. Jethri’s responsibility was to stop her when she misspoke, and say the words over in the right order and pronunciation. So it was that he became informed of ship’s policy, gossip and ports o’call, as well as the names of certain flowers which Gaenor particularly missed from home.
The first mate having access to just about every portion of the ship, Jethri also found himself informed of various lockers and pod connections, and was introduced to each of the ship’s company as they were encountered during the ramble. Some of the crew seemed not so pleased to see him, some seemed . . . puzzled. Most seemed not to care much, one way or the other. All were grave and polite, like they oughta be, Jethri thought, with the first mate looking on. Still, he thought that these catch-as-can introductions at the mate’s side . . . helped. Helped him put names and faces and responsibilities together. Helped them to see he really was part of the crew, pulling his weight, just like they were.
One person who seemed outright happy to welcome him was Vil Tor, ship’s librarian. As it happened that Vil Tor also had an ambition to add Terran to his speakables, Gaenor and Jethri had taken to including the library as a regular stop. This time out, though, they’d found the door locked, lights out. Gaenor sighed, slim shoulders dropping for a moment, then turned and started back down the hall, swinging out with a will.
“This our ship, Elthoria,” Gaenor said, as they hit the end of the hall and swept left, toward Hydroponics, “will be inputting to Spacestation Kailipso . . .”
“Putting in,” Jethri panted. “Elthoria will be putting in to Kailipso Station.”
“Hah.” Gaenor flicked a glance his way; she wasn’t even breathing hard. “Elthoria,” she repeated, slowing her pace by a fraction, “will be putting in to Spacestation Kailipso—bah!—Kailipso Station—putting in to Kailipso Station within three ship days. There is a—a . . .” She stopped entirely and turned to face Jethri, holding two hands up, palm out, signifying she had not the necessary Terran words to hand.
“It is to have a meeting of the masters, on subjects interested in the masters . . .”
The immediate phrase that came to mind was “jaw-fest,” which Jethri thought might not be the sort of Terran Master ven’Deelin wanted Gaenor to be learning. He frowned after the polite and after a moment was able to offer, “a symposium.”
“Sim-po-zium,” Gaenor said, her mouth pinching up like the word tasted bad. “So, there is a sim-po-zium upon Kailipso. The ven’Deelin attends—the ven’Deelin will attend. The crew will be at leave.” She moved her shoulders, not quite a Terran shrug, but not quite admiring of Kailipso Station, all the same.
“Don’t like Kailipso much?” he ventured, and Gaenor’s mouth pinched again before she turned and recommenced marching down the hall.
“It is cold,” she said to the empty corridor, and then began to tell him of the latest developments in the novel she was reading. He had to catch up, hoping that she put his delay down to his being somewhat less fit, and not his taking a moment to admire her walk.
DAY 65
Standard Year 1118
Kinaveral
BEFORE THEY CLEARED a freewing to fly, Kinaveral Central wanted to be assured that candidate could find her way through a form or six. That done, there were the sims to fly, then a chat with the stable boss, at the end of which a time was named on the morrow when the candidate was to return and actually lift one of Central’s precious ships—and an observer—for the final and most telling part of the test.
In between now and then, Khat knew, they’d be checking her number and her ship, and verifying her personals. She’d hoped to have the test lift today, but, there, the stable boss needed to know if the applicant free-wing tended toward sober in the morning.
No problem for the applicant on that approach, Khat thought, walking down the dusty, noisy main street. Not to say that a brew would be unwelcome at the moment. Make that a brew and a handwich, she amended
, as her stomach filed notice that the ‘mite and crackers she’d fed it for breakfast were long past gone.
Up ahead, she spied the flashing green triangle which was the sign of an eat-and-drinkery, and stretched her legs, grimacing at the protest of overworked muscles. That’ll teach you to stint your weight exercise, she scolded herself, and turned into the cool, comfortably dim doorway.
A lightscape over the counter showed a old style fin-ship down on a flat plain, mountains marking the horizon. Beneath, a tag box spelled out the name of the joint: Ship ‘n Shore.
There was a scattering of folk at the tables—spacers, mostly—and plenty of room at the counter. It being only herself, Khat swung up onto a stool ‘neath the tag box and waved at the barkeep.
“Dark brew and a handwich for a woman in need!”
The keeper grinned, drew the beer and sat it on the counter by her hand. “There’s the easy part,” he said. “What’s your fondness for food? We got local cheese and vegs on fresh bake bread; potmeat on the same; ‘mite paste and pickles; side o’ fish—”
Khat leveled a finger. “Local cheese without the vegs?”
“We can do it,” he promised.
“That’s a deal, then. Bring her on.”
“Be a sec. Let me know how you find the beer.” He moved down counter, still grinning, and Khat picked up the mug.
The beer was cold, which was how she liked it. Bitter, too, and thick. She’d brought the mug down to half-full by the time her handwich arrived, two generous halves sharing a plastic plate with a fistful of saltpretzel.
“Brew’s good,” Khat said. “I’ll want another just like it in not too long.”
The keeper smiled, pleased, and put a couple disposable napkins next to the plate. “Just give a yell when you’re ready,” he said.
She nodded and picked up one of the halves. The unmistakable smell of fresh bake bread hit her nose and her stomach started clamoring. For the next while, she concentrated on settling that issue. The bread was whole grain, brown and nutty; the cheese butter smooth and unexpectedly spicy. Khat finished the first half and the brew, waved the empty mug at the barkeep and started in on the second round.
Couple times, folk from the tables came up to the counter for refills. A crew of three came in from the street and staked out stools at the end of the row. Khat paid none of them particular notice, except to register that they were spacers, and nobody she knew.
At last, the final saltpretzel was gone. Khat pushed the plate away with a regretful sigh and reached for her mug. A couple more sips, settle her bill and then back to the lodgings, she thought, with a sinking in her well-full stomach. Wasn’t nothing wrong with the lodgings, mind, except that they was full-grav lodgings, and dirtside, and subject to the rules of the lodge-owner. But still, Market’s crew had a section to themselves, inside which each had their own cubby, with cot and desk and entertainment bar. No complaints.
Excepting that Captain Iza was nothing but complaints—well, she hated dirt, always had; and didn’t have much of a fondness for worldsiders. Without the routine of her ship, she stood at sevens and eights and spent ‘way too much of her time down to the yards, doubtless making life a hell for the crew boss assigned to Market’s refit.
Zam had suggested the captain might file as freewing with Central, for which insubordination he had his head handed to him. Seeli’d come by no gentler treatment when she spoke to her mother, and Dyk declined even to try. Paitor had his own quarters at Terratrade, and when the temp slot went solid on Cris their second day a-ground, he all but ran to the space field.
Which left them a mixed bag—and bad tempered, too, held uneasy by Iza’s moods.
And the year was barely begun.
Khat sighed again, and finished off her brew. She put the mug down and waved at the keeper for the bill. He, up-counter with the crew of three, held up two fingers—be there in a few. She nodded, shifted on the stool . . .
“Hey, Khati,” an unwelcome voice came from too near at hand.
“Shit,” Khat muttered beneath her breath and spun the stool around to face Mac Gold.
He hadn’t changed much since the last time she’d seen him—some taller, maybe, and a little broader in the shoulders. Khat nodded, curt.
“Mac.”
He grinned, and ran a hand over his head. His hair was pale yellow; buzzed, it was nearly invisible, which his eyelashes were. Behind those invisible lashes, his eyes were a deep and unlikely blue, the rest of his face square and bony. A well-enough looking boy, taken all together. If he hadn’t also happened to’ve been Mac Gold.
“Good to see you,” he said, now, deliberately aiming those unlikely eyes at her chest. “Buy you a brew?”
She shook her head, teeth gritting. “Just on my way. Next time, maybe.”
“Right,” he said, but he didn’t move, other than to cock his head. “Listen, while we’re face to face—square with me?”
She shrugged. “Maybe.”
“I’m just wondering—what happened to Jethri? I mean, what really happened to Jethri?”
“He’s ‘prenticed to the trader of a big ship,” she said. “Cap’n Iza must’ve told your dad so.”
“She did,” Mac agreed, “and I’m sharing no secrets when I tell you my dad was some pissed about the whole business. I mean, here’s Iza asking us to make room for your extra, and m’dad willing to accommodate, and what happens but then she says, no, the boy ain’t coming after all. He’s gone someplace else.” Mac shook his head and held up a hand, thumb and forefinger a whisper apart.
“Dad was this close to calling breach.”
Khat sighed. “Breach of what? The legal wasn’t writ.”
“Still, there’d be the verbal—”
“Deals fall through every day,” Khat interrupted and caught sight of the barkeep out of the corner of her eye. She turned on the stool and smiled at him.
Behind her, Mac, raised his voice conspicuously—
“Rumor is, Khat, that Paitor sold the boy to Liadens!”
That drew starts and stares from those close enough to hear; some turned carefully away, but others lifted eyebrows and raised their heads to watch.
Deliberately, Khat turned, away from the barkeep and back to Mac Gold. Deliberately, she drew a deep breath, and glared straight into those blue eyes.
“The boy holds a Combine key. He’s as legal as you or me. He’s a ‘prentice trader—signed his own papers. Jethri ain’t no boy.”
“Well, rumor is that Liadens paid for this upgrade the Market’s gettin’.”
Khat laughed and rolled her eyes.
“Least now Mr. Rumor’s got it right. Jethri sold a load of cellosilk back at Ynsolt’i, and on top of that, Paitor bought some special risk merchandise Jethri’d pointed out—an’ didn’t that turn into high-count coin in the private hall—just like Jethri said it would! So, sure, Liadens bought this upgrade all right—cans, nodes, and engines.”
“But someone got shot, they say, and next thing—”
Khat sighed, loud and exasperated.
“Look, Jethri was ready to trade, Mac, and captain told him if he wanted something more than pushing gravel from here to there, he’d have to find his own ship. Can’t fault him for that call. So he found himself a better berth, ‘prenticed to nothing less than a master trader, and for a good-bye, he buys us new drives and a full upgrade.”
She paused, hearing a slight thump of glass behind her and raised her hand, fingers wriggling “just sec.”
“Jethri’s got him a berth, Mac. Papers’re signed proper and legal. His business—not mine, not yours. That other stuff Mr. Rumor been tellin’ you—nobody got shot but some fool who decided it was easier to die than clear an honest debt. Not your problem.” She tipped her head, like she was considering that, and asked, sweetly, “Or is it?”
Mac’s eyes tightened and his face reddened.
“It sure is my problem if the word gets out Jethri’d rather crew with a bunch of Liadens than come with
an honest ship like—”
“You better watch your mouth, Mac Gold,” Khat snapped. “Lest somebody here figures you was gonna say something about how Gold Digger’s honest and Jethri’s ship ain’t. Not the kind of thing you’d be wanting to discuss with a Liaden, now, is it?”
Mac blinked, and swallowed hard. Point won, Khat turned back to the bartender, raised her eyes briefly and expressively at the ceiling, and smiled.
“What’s the damage?”
He smiled back. “Two bit.”
“Done.” She slid four across the counter and dropped to her feet, leg muscles sending up a shout for their team leader. She ignored them. The walk back to the lodgings would work the kinks out. Or cripple her for life.
“So, Khat—” Mac said from beside her.
“So, Mac,” she overrode, and turned sharp, feeling a dangerous tingle along the brawlin’ nerves when he went back a step. She kept going, and he kept backin’, until she got the throttle on it and stopped.
Mac’s pretty blue eyes was showing some red, and his face was damp. Khat gave one more hard glare, before she nodded, kinda half-civil.
“See you ‘round port,” she said, and forced her aching legs to swing out, carrying her down the room and out in the dusty day.
DAY 66
Standard Year 1118
Kailipso Station
At Leave
“COME, COME, YOUNG Jethri, tarry not!” Pen Rel’s voice was brisk, as he waved Jethri ahead of him into the entry tube. “All the wonders of Kailipso Station await your discovery! Surely, your enthusiasm and spirit of adventure are aroused!”
Had it been Dyk behind him in the chute, Jethri would have counted both his legs yanked proper, and been alert for second stage mischief. He thought Pen Rel too dignified for Dyk’s sort of rough-’n-tumble; he was less sure of his tendencies on the leg-pulling side of things.
Jethri felt the odd twitter of the grav field where it intersected the station’s own grav-well; though flat and level to the eyes the deck felt as if it fell away into the chute. Maybe Pen Rel was watching for a bobble, but such boundaries were learned by shipcrew at the knees of their mates and family.
