Trade Secret

by Sharon Lee

  Khat pulled herself into the flow of routine by main willpower, and all too quickly suppressed some bad words of her own before kicking the news over to Iza, who might as well know it now as later, because it had to be told.

  “Therinfel is on close-docking orbit around Franticle Orbital Center, Captain. That’s one of the Liaden ships was at Banth when I had the run in on Banthport. The one that tried to ding me for money ’cause of Jethri.”

  Iza grunted: “Jethri. Boy’s always been more trouble than he was worth.”

  Khat waited—ship’s immediate security was her concern. The search patterns she’d talked to Paitor about looked to be taking on an unexpected urgency but . . .

  Having no immediate challenge to her declaration, Iza ordered, “Check all the damn home ports, then, of everything we got out there and whatever comes in—get Cris or Grig on it—and let me know if there’s more of them show up, or if this one takes leave. No direct contact with any Liaden ship without you talk to me. In fact—”

  Iza went to all-call then, with, “Hear this, official for the duration of Franticle visit, all crew acknowledge in staff order by the tick, on my mark. No one is to contact or respond to contact with any Liaden vessel or personnel unless sitting in First or Second Board or covering for First or Second. If there’s an emergency, then use sense. Acknowledge, and questions as you see me before we hit port.”

  That meant Khat first, with the others answering every sixty seconds—not time enough for questions, but time enough to admit of a question . . .

  “Captain, acknowledged,” she said, hands busy matching ship’s warn aways with home ports where it wasn’t plain. “Just the one ship so far, and looking.”

  Iza grunted again, said “Thanks for the heads-up, Second,” and took her calls while they waited for the local traffic control to get their signals and offer a course.

  Khat nodded, knowing Iza’s shifting gaze would catch it, and added—“I’m noting that we have the tumble—I’ll check with Cris to see if there’s a look-up for that in the new Struven Units.”

  It was Iza’s turn to nod. “We best both be keeping track of stuff—log it, won’t you? And keep your own log, that’s a plan, in case Cris isn’t anymore.”

  * * *

  “Grig Tomas, I’m running with a known troublemaker on orbit, and there’s four other Liaden ships in-system . . .”

  Grig was who Khat saw first as she leaned in with a smile, the door being open, the sounds clear.

  Grig and Seeli were at kid-feeding, in what had been Jethri’s tiny cabin. Without Jeth it was more rather than less crowded, since the baby tank was bulky and both the crew members were close enough to Jethri’s size to make no matter.

  He glanced up, face letting the smile go a little wary with the topic.

  “You talked to Paitor on this yet? He’s got the records. . . .”

  “He’s still digging some records for me, but he’s got those deliveries to schedule out, too; what he told me was to ask your opinion about it.”

  In the midst of adjusting her grip on Travit, the kid having a mind of his own about the arrangements, Seeli looked up, smiling at the smile but taking in Grig’s tone and sighing.

  “Hi, Khat,” she said, half-bowing to keep the boy at his work while she spoke. “I expect we’re not having quite as many opinions as we used to, for a while.”

  Grig’s chuckle was immediate. “Guess I got my orders, Khat.”

  Khat shook her head, and shrugged. “Can’t do much about it right now, but maybe before the run gets started we can have us a better crew meeting and get some of this ‘crew and passenger’ stuff cleared down. . . .”

  “She’s right you know,” Seeli allowed, dabbing at a drip on Travit’s wrinkled face. “Travit’s in Jethri’s space in more ways than one. Won’t be a big issue for a few roundabouts, but in the long haul we could see some friction. ’Course, always the chance Iza’ll get a look at just the right place and retire from the seat . . .”

  Khat’s reaction was almost a snort, and Travit’s face turned to hers with the sudden recognition that someone else was present.

  Khat smiled and Travit did, and then Grig spoke, low and serious, turning all the other faces in the room toward his.

  “As to your question, Khat, I think it’s very likely that there are Liaden ships on port much of the time. Doesn’t surprise me—the mines do some business with Liadens, and so do the farms. Besides, you know the equations. Franticle’s a spot where it makes sense to break long Jumps in the sector, what with the MIF factor so high on trying to go double or more around here.”

  Khat nodded, noncommittally admitting, “True.”

  Missing in Flight happened more in some regions than others, and this was one with a higher chance than others. Some pilots claimed there were ghost ships in the dark clouds of gas, waiting to unveil themselves to unsuspecting crews before adding one more to the MIF roster. Others pointed to the oddities of energy flow and density in that dark wall. Since part of what pilots depended on Jump was precise mass and energy duplication, the possibility of lumps in the undercurrents and underpinnings was not to be denied.

  Travit sneezed milk and Khat looked at Grig.

  “So you’re not concerned?”

  He shrugged. “Not enough input, Khat. Let’s see how many of those ships are close when we peel the pods out, or when we check in at the port. That’s where we’ll know if we’ve got issues, I’d guess. And you can probably get the trade shop to pull up ships, history by home port—calling Solcintra will get you seventy or eighty percent of Liaden ships. Just go in with Paitor’s key or your pilot’s card . . .”

  Khat nodded.

  “Watching it,” she agreed. “We’re watching it.”

  * * *

  Crew stood by not quite calm while the docking was being lined up, Iza and Khat snug in the control room with Cris and everyone else on wait-and-hold.

  With the ship having to match multiple connects on this dock, and the walk-in lock-to-lock arrangements a little too snug for comfort but the station only offering lock-to-lock or station-owned tube, the sometimes tedious hard-lock was the best, the three pilots had agreed, with the tube being more trouble than it was worth once the stability bars and pressure joints were considered. It would have been different if they’d take a flex tube from the Gobelyn’s Market side, but Franticle True’s lookout was that they didn’t risk tube blowout on the main structure, that being what was available today and for the next port-week.

  Crew, being spacers, took on a bit of extra tension with lock-to-lock, and that was magnified by more than a trifle since they needed real people for certification and account set-up before anyone else could even take off for a joy walk on the station, much less have the ship land on Franticle True itself.

  The fact was, sending two on the first groundside run made more sense security-wise than sending one, and if they were sending two, it made more sense not to send two pilot Gobelyns, nor two of the top four in the command chain, nor two with neither a trader nor a top Gobelyn, nor did it make sense to send the chief pilot . . .

  Iza’d not been entirely pleased with the arrangements Cris and Seeli’d brought her, complete with decision tree and walkout schedule.

  Her druthers would have been doing everything that needed done by ’lectronics and trade office serial numbers and invoices, or up here stationside, but the need for full legal witnessed signature with scans meant there wasn’t much choice about sending Paitor and if they sent Paitor then there wasn’t any sense in sending Khat, currently pilot two, and then the choice got thin quick: Cris was fast enough to play security but didn’t have the experience, Iza had the experience to be security but was already out of the match for being top pilot and top Gobelyn and, besides, Iza was a little too ready to step up for that fight, as anyone who’d seen her in nose-close confrontation could say.

  Iza’s only actual administrative quibble with the walkouts was that it seemed a shame that if they got dow
n to the last possible walk-arounds that Grig couldn’t go with the kid and Seeli instead of Khat, but true being true, that could look like Grig was getting preferential treatment with a double leave, but the only one she shared that with was Khat. Since Khat was also the one taking lead on the docking, Iza wanting to test Khat’s new-earned range of experience, there wasn’t a lot of talk.

  Khat, being on the spot, kept the crew up to date, with time-to-latch estimates every several minutes while the locals gave her guidance. Once they gave over final control to her she kept a running commentary going, knowing that Grig and Paitor were waiting to welcome customs and then be off for certification.

  * * *

  The station was noisy enough, the so-called main deck encompassing five levels and a variety of ships and traffic from local commuters off to the moons and outer stations to direct-flight pod ships too big or too specialized to land anywhere with an appreciable atmosphere. Paitor, in his trader role, had led the three-man customs crew on a brief tour of the ship, the bored agents making it plain that they didn’t much care what was on the ship as long as what was on the ship didn’t come off.

  To land groundside Franticle True, yes, they’d need a customs check. As long as the Market’s basic plan resembled what they’d filed—after all they had the recent rebuild records to hand!—customs was pleased to have them there, paying attachment fees by the second while waiting for the pods to be switched out by local operators, which ought to be starting any minute now.

  The hard-docked airlock meant that every trip in or out could be watched and recorded by the lock’s built-in video cameras, sniffers, and sensors. . . .

  Two of the customs team took the lead and allowed introductions to flow over them, the third customs guy taking up a spot behind them as they moved out.

  “Pleasant,” was what Grig said to Paitor once their escort set off at a pace, Grig pointing vaguely to the green-and-purple vines climbing gridwork not far over their heads.

  “Makes it feel just like home, don’t you think?” suggested Paitor.

  Here their guide, Lead Agent Henrik, fell for the conversational bait: “Ah, I see you appreciate our ongoing program to welcome travelers to a homelike environment! These plants are a project voluntarily funded by our merchants and appreciative visitors—eventually, all of this deck will have a canopy of green, with flowers as appropriate for the season. I am so glad you noticed!”

  The loopers exchanged glances warily, having heard the phrase given in Terran rather than Trade. “Voluntarily funded . . .”

  Grig’s hands moved slightly, which Paitor took to be another comment, seeing as how the hands said Careful double watch set and then Grig added in his best amazed-by-the-city voice “And look, why they even have Liadens here!”

  The Liadens were there allright, six of them, with three in piloting jackets over ship’s livery and three more, without the jackets, all conspicuously looking at something else; conveniently here was a wall and false ceiling, among the green-twined yellow flowers . . .

  “I guess they’re impressed, too,” Grig said, varying his walk so that Paitor could be ahead of them as they needed to go single file behind their escorts momentarily as they entered a crowded food court.

  “There is a lot going on,” Paitor admitted, allowing the more collegial of the customs chaps in front of them to wax poetic about the station, the history of the Franticle stellar group, the superiority of the current administrators over those just thrown out of office a few months ago, the . . .

  Paitor’s hand wave of a lot going on encompassed an alcove Grig had already spotted, his nod acknowledging that he, too, had seen two more Liadens in livery there, watching them walk by.

  “Indeed there is!” the custom man replied.

  Coming at them, another set of persons, these a solemn mixed lot of Terrans and Liadens, three of each, none liveried but one in full trader regalia from bright-work boots to begemmed rings on fingers and multiple wristlets of precious metals.

  The tour-minded customs agent saw the oncoming trader and committed an abominable bow on the run which had Paitor and Grig suppressing laughter . . .

  “We have of late been expanding trade opportunity for our sector and the outreach has been quite successful as you see. Why, from far Solcintra itself come some of the galaxy’s most important traders, eager to make sure that Franticle takes its proper place in the pantheon of major trade routes.”

  “Why, in that case, your honor,” offered Grig suddenly, “I’d suppose you’ll have available a recent almanac or gazetteer for our edification, perhaps even a dozen-year history of arrivals and departures. Surely your Liaden traders would expect such?”

  Paitor caught up the tone then, his questions inspiring their host. The short remainder of their walk was an encomium to the founders of Franticle, who’d themselves brought other worlds out of the darkness of the early days, and even been part of the establishment of Standard Years and time back when Liadens had encountered remnants of the intra-Terran wars.

  Full of attention, the pair from Gobelyn’s Market absorbed the history with good grace, hearing the last of it in an inner office with ugly plastic furniture, walls full of the portraits of new leaders, and before each portrait, vases of flowers in an astonishing range of colors.

  Just as they tended to the formalities of account setting, the pair tended to slipping of appropriate bribes ostensibly to assist with the general greening project, the careful avoidance of local political connivance, the slipping of another set of bribes to assist with the “coloration project,” with Grig preferring to support some subtle blue flowers as sampled in front of the gray-headed and bearded Vice Chair of Environmental Improvement while Paitor made sure to like the very bright reds as shown before the largest portrait, that of the Mentor of Youth.

  Henrik guided them to the office door, the joint bribes securely in his control.

  “There,” said Paitor, “we’re to leave now—but wait, did we find the access codes for those gazettes or almanacs? We’re here, after all, about setting up new routes and perhaps making a hub. Those codes . . .”

  Henrik looked perplexed by this direct question, and then shook his head.

  “Traders, I cannot give codes and angles to someone who has not been accepted to the Franticle Navigation Guild. I think though—since you’re already scheduled to drop pods here, and get what you need from the local feeds—I think that I may be able to . . . Hold, please!”

  The pilots watched outside traffic on the overhead screen as they waited, Paitor offering Grig small bets on the pedestrians and their destinations and professions.

  Henrik returned, smiling.

  “I believe we are where we wish to be, Pilots.” He nodded to himself more than to them, smiling again.

  “From here, you’ll need no escort to your ship, for I am sure experienced traders such as yourself have taken note of the way—and as for deck passage, my signature assures! If have any challenges, you have complete authorizations, certifications, and recognitions! Do not fail to use them! And understand, my name carries weight onworld as well as off!

  “So here, “my name, Gentles, and information! Feel free to call upon me at your least need—I am sure I can cure any issue.”

  He shook hands first with “Trader Paitor” and then with “Chief Hand Grig” and to each offered as a parting gift a thick stack of cards. The outer cards were simple business cards of high rag content, but within each stack were stiffer cards, thinner, as might be used to swipe a terminal.

  “I’ve included also some odds and ends of traffic notes for you, to help you make your routings easier.”

  He ushered them out, adding carefully, “And also, Traders, my friend and fellow classmate Yassir Bluestone often leads the full customs team—do let him know you’ve spoken to me and I approve of your coloration choices, which you made respectfully!”

  The door slid closed behind them, as the hall traffic swirled busily by.

  “And s
o,” said Paitor, “now we know who to pay on customs.”

  Grig nodded, moving ahead, scanning for space in the flow of traffic and then using a quick even-up hand wiggle to show his reservations about the arrangements as well as to point out an opening.

  “That means we’re not going to be making all that much on this run. . . .”

  “Running with cargo is better than running without, and we’ll do reasonable. We’ll call it a shake-out. Needed something not too complicated and once we’re in place we’ll probably find us a few somethings on spec—”

  “Shift change!” Paitor’s observed as locals clad in colors matching the flowers they’d voluntarily supported filled the deck, making headway difficult and conversation impossible. It wasn’t until they were at Gobelyn’s Market’s own gate that Grig stopped in the lee of the entry ramp, using his height to advantage as he scanned the throng.

  Grig unsealed the lock and frowned as the inner cycle worked. Neither had touched their stacks of cards as yet, and neither mentioned it now, with Grig making the quick swipe of alert on hand-sign.

  “We were followed,” he said in low tones as they waited for the lock to cycle. “One woman—a pilot by dress—was waiting for us and followed well behind; she’s walked past and was pretty intent on us in a ‘not looking at you’ kind of way.”

  “I know pilots, and so do you. Maybe looking for a berth, might just be looking for a tumble!”

  The lock sniff-puffed as it opened, the Market’s cooler, drier air welcoming them as they left the din behind.

  “Don’t know that many Liaden pilots, Paitor. How about you?”

  Paitor shook his head, “Not that many, huh? I do wonder what we got ourselves by pushing Jeth out!”

  “It’ll calm, I expect, it’ll calm.”

  “Mention it all-crew before we touch down,” Paitor suggested, and then the inner lock opened.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Gobelyn’s Market, Franticle