Trade Secret

by Sharon Lee

  That had been a strange thing for his father to suggest because getting them together had taken a lot of work and some of Jethri’s suggestions as well—it seemed sometimes adults couldn’t see the stuff that was right in front of them when it came to working with the bits and pieces of the Old Tech. He’d helped get the real frames together—in fact, he’d helped show that some of the frames, like some of the fractins, weren’t real—they were just counterfeit look-alikes with nothing of power to them. Later, of course, he’d discovered that the working frames really were a secret, but he’d been older then, and anyway, no one asked.

  They’d entered the airlock and Freza’d waited until it was closed and circulating to point to the slide lock on the sidewall. They weren’t going to the formal little trade office, which might have been expected, but right into family quarters, even if ter’Astin was an unknown.

  The Scout bowed the acceptance of the honor and if Freza saw it he couldn’t tell since she led on so quickly, and drew the eye so well. They passed several hatches and doors, and then went left, and he recognized at once the room he and the other children had been loosed in—

  And too, he recognized Brabham, sitting quiet in a well-padded chair, still with the goggles, the three-fingered hand lifting a mug in Freza’s direction and then theirs, saying, “Welcome and be seated all. Beer and ’mite and coffee I got, but that tea isn’t where it oughta been!”

  Freza made a face. “We still got that problem? I’ll fix it this time, I swear, even if I need to put in for new crew!”

  Brabham shook his head sadly. “Isn’t good, you’re right, Frezzie. Tea, these days, it’s only neighborly to have tea beside the coffee. And it can’t take that long to sign the log on it, and can’t cost that much from stipend—but tell me our company.”

  Jethri’d seen the Scout’s face go very bland. Right he was, that ship problems ought not be discussed in front of others, and more surprising to Jethri was Brabham’s smile of it. Perhaps it was just an old argument. . . .

  “This is Jethri Gobelyn ven’Deelin. Arin’s own son, and now son of Ixin, too. Trader like you see, and sits second on that Keravath parked on the oddball port. Behind him is Scout ter’Astin.” Freza paused, and shrugged. “Keravath’s a Liaden Scout ship, and the Scout is Jethri’s pilot.”

  “Pilots,” she said with a motion that was a cross between a bow and a hand wave, “this is Brabham. He’s our Past Pilot, Trade Consultant, Economist, and Library, too.”

  Past Pilot was something Jethri hadn’t known, but it went along with not having reaction time down. There was a lot that was automatics with modern ships, but decision making and follow-through on a flight deck took more than a quick mind.

  “Pardon I don’t get up—my back’s not so good, and it takes me awhile to move anywhere right now. Spent the hour’s move looking for tea. Jethri I met you, when you was half as high. Scout, we never did meet before.” He reached out his hand to shake theirs.

  After Jethri took it he bowed—it seemed appropriate for someone with such titles and experience, even if his own recall was of a jolly kid-sitter with a keen eye for keeping spills and frets contained. “I remember, sir, it was at Farleydock.”

  “Yes it was, and you’ve got a good memory. I’d have known you from your father anyhow—but you know that, I’m guessing.”

  Jethri’s nod gave way to the Scout, who also bowed deeply. “Indeed, I think we’ve not previously had the opportunity of meeting. I am honored.”

  “Sure, we’re all happy to be here,” the skinny elder said with a hand motion acknowledging the introductions, “and you haven’t said what you will drink, now that we all know we don’t have tea for the pilot. Sit. You too, Frezzie, you’re making my shoulder twitch lurking at the eye corner.”

  The table wasn’t so big these days as he remembered it, and they ended up with Freza close enough with Jethri to knee-touch, which she did, and the Scout on the corner, closer to but not in the way of the elder’s access to the drink fountain. The requests made the Past Pilot laugh—and he handed the beverages out in solid ceramic cups.

  “Here I’d got beer so you could all relax and you all want to be sucking down the ’mite. You’ll not mind if I don’t switch engines in mid-lift, I hope?”

  Three motions, all giving him permission to stay the course, and he nodded absently.

  “Take a sip, all of you, and I’ll see what I can say here.” Pointing at Jethri with his mugged hand, and then toward ter’Astin, he nodded and said, “You brought him and Frezzie let him in, so I guess you’re fine with this gentleman hearing a little bit about Arin’s Envidaria if it happens?”

  Jethri nodded above the mottled golden foam of ’mite, the thick flavor restoring his confidence in his mission.

  “I am,” he finally managed, good Liaden training suppressing his urge to wipe the mite from his lips with the back of his sleeve. “I am, since this gentleman brought me first real notice ever I had of the thing. Freza hinted, but . . .”

  The beer stopped halfway on its way to Brabham’s lips and he looked at all three of them as if waiting for a punchline to the joke. None coming, he shook his head briefly and took a hefty swig, raised his free hand to pardon himself and drew more to his mug before turning back.

  His smile was grim and he looked into the foam, his mouth making a small half-whistle before he raised his eyes to them again.

  “Well, that’s the problems with secrets, isn’t it? You can’t get on the all-call and have a check-in very well, just asking ‘Everyone that don’t know the secret, please call in now!’”

  Next, the elder let his weight onto his elbows, sipping thoughtfully and peering at Freza.

  “Frezzie hinted, and the Scout told you. All this in the last thirty-eight days, I guess, and something you should have known before you got your first whisker!”

  Jethri shook his head, began shrugging into an apology . . .

  “No, that’s what I said. Secrets will do that to you, and who knows what they’re worth or when they’re not worth it? Someone should have let you in years ago, and it isn’t your fault you haven’t seen it. Who’s to guess that Iza and Paitor would be such a fool’s crew on this? And Grig . . . ah, but Grig might have promised, and it would be just like him to keep a secret like that, old pharstbucket that he is!”

  “Next question then, I guess, since I’m in the circle here.” Brabham pointed Terran-style. “Have you read Arin’s Envidaria, Pilot?”

  His gaze stayed on the Scout, whose easy demeanor became a wider answer than it might have: “This Envidaria is only rumor for me, sir, and as far as I know, for any of the Scouts—we’ve heard it discussed in ship-to, but as far as I know it has not been seen.”

  “Discussed? So you have—” Brabham said.

  “Existence only. Mentions of availability, promises of passing along, sometimes the news that there is a meeting. Circumspect. I think you may rest easy that it is not read out and shared on ship-to.”

  Jethri, meanwhile, had been running the phrase “old pharstbucket that he is” over in his mind—and with a pause in conversation he broke in with his own question, to Brabham. “You know Grig—did you know that him and Seeli have git?”

  The elder laughed and grabbed another big sip of his beer.

  “So old man Grig finally found himself a young one, did he? Good for him, ’cause that Seeli’s steady and will be able to deal. Yes, that ought to work.”

  He sipped again, and despite his back he leaned toward them conspiratorially.

  “So, here’s the news, and, Pilot, I hope you’ll keep it close—actually, both of you under pilot’s seal, if you will.”

  His gaze had gone first to the Scout and now fell on Jethri, who bowed. Information not to be generally shared—and the question was, would such a “seal” hold for the Scout and the son of a Liaden trader?

  “We’re close in, some of us, to this idea Arin brought us—and, Jethri, he said he got it from you, talking away after some or �
�nother game you played where you out-traded a bunch of older kids and a Combine Trader, too, stuck as you was with a bad board. That was the story, but the idea was complicated and got a lot of politics and then . . . and then . . . Arin took a hit.”

  “But the secret, that secret’s been worked on, and . . .”

  “The secret,” Jethri muttered, “has been awful dangerous, hasn’t it? If people are hunting it so hard they’re threatening ships, and hurting people, and you say someone’s working on it and I say it may be time to let it loose!”

  Brabham sighed, very heavily, and took a sip of his beer. He looked to each of them, put the beer down with a thunk.

  Jethri thought he’d speak, but Brabham shook his head like he was rejecting things to say, and kind of chuckled to himself.

  “Some agree with you,” he said finally. “Some say with Arin gone, the idea ought to be gone.”

  He looked down at his hands then, as if something was written there, and then when he read it, he wasn’t happy with what he saw and looked up in a hurry. “But we have the outlines, and we’ve got a couple things moving, even without him. And we haven’t given up.

  “So you know, you’re welcome to join in, Jethri. You are. You’ve got connections, here with us, I mean—and you’ve got other connections. We’ll need other connections, reliable other connections, if you want to join . . .”

  Jethri felt the trader in him working to the top and fighting with the son in him—the son wanted to say “I will!” and the trader wanted . . . something more. Trading he knew something about, and he could keep a trade secret. He wasn’t sure he was up to full-scale conspiracies.

  Jethri spread his hands wide, showing that he was open to discussion, open to thinking about it, welcoming information.

  He started, letting most of his glance move between the Scout and the economist, feeling the presence of Freza’s knee and leg against his, with her silhouette in his eye . . .

  “I’m not at all sure what you offer, Pilot. You have the information and you say you have an organization. That may be, but I do have connections, and I have responsibilities, I have trade in process and a partner elsewhere and a Clan I acknowledge, and a bunch of family leftovers from a ship I was called an extra on and invited to leave. What offer can you make me? What exactly is there to join?”

  From beside him came Freza’s voice, low and light, with her leg pressing firmly against his.

  “We’re building something new, Jeth. You’ve even been to a key part of it, and talked with Doricky, and she’s been a key part in it. What it looks like is just ordinary trading, and a lot will be like what we’ve all been doing.

  “I can tell you some of it will be entirely new, because the routes will be new, and ports will have to be built and rebuilt, conditions coming on to what they’re going to be. It ought to last awhile, too, because of the conditions, you know, and Arin saw that. Could be a couple hundred years and more where his system will work good, and by that time, it won’t be system, it’ll be habit and culture. So we’re going to make us into a big family or two.

  “Some other stuff, some other stuff might happen. Might have to build a couple ships, you know. Our other ship—DeNobli’s, I mean—it’s been refreshed so often it don’t have anything original except the ice in the freezers. Some work being done, some crew training—but that’s beside the point.”

  “The point is that change is here, and we’re in it. You, you sir, you’re change in person. So, since I’m the local keeper, I’m asking if you’re looking to read the plan. I thunk you have to read the plan, and soon. I’ve got a copy for you—ought to have been one for you before you left the Market, but Iza hasn’t communicated word one with us, nor let word through to anyone on board as far as I know, since the day Arin died. Didn’t dare just send you one to ship address without knowing who might pick it up. Grig knew the outlines since he helped Arin do some test flying on this idea. Good man, that Grig, comes from a good family.”

  Freza’s knee was still warm on his; he nodded to the Past Pilot and turned to her, found he couldn’t help but smile a little, as hard as he’d reached for trader face.

  “You’ve read it? You’re with it?”

  “Know it by heart. Guess we’re all in on it,” she said, not avoiding his gaze. “All of us here.”

  “I keep a study copy, because it’s not like it’s law, but it’s ideas. Good ideas, backed by math and science both.”

  She looked away, biting her lip, and looked back with a half-laugh.

  “I don’t want to be mysterious, Jeth, but it isn’t fair to talk about it to you without you read it first, I think. Telling you I’m with it wasn’t even fair, in case that puts you off it before you do, or leans you without thinking about it.”

  He sighed, and only a little of it was because Freza let up the pressure of her leg as she adjusted her position, and more of it because duty seemed plain.

  “I’ll have to read it, because I can’t see how my current orbit will get me there. I’m really pretty well set on Elthoria. I have work, I have a Clan, plans, and I have friends . . .”

  At the mention of friends Freza nodded in agreement and broke in with a chuckle. “Looks clear from here, too. You’ll read it. It’s on a reader, Jeth, and we’ll have to code it for you.”

  She glanced to and then nodded at the Scout.

  “Officially, you can’t read this. Practically, you can’t read it too—it has to be handed to you and we haven’t got permission to share it that far. Jethri—you said yes, right?”

  He nodded, wondering how they’d proceed if there wasn’t anything to trade.

  “Pilot,” she said, unwinding from beneath the table and nodding at the eldest. Here in the ship light the colors on her face seemed to grow right into her ear loops. Jethri let his glance linger, judging it was an effect he could come to like.

  “I shoulda listened to you beforehand, Freza, but hold on, you knew what was best and I didn’t . . .”

  “Before I do read this—is there a master copy of this thing? One that’s not on a reader? One that can just get sent out so people—traders and all—can know about it?”

  The keepers of the secret looked between themselves several seconds before Brabham spoke. “Plan is to do that, when the time is right.” Jethri looked at the pair of them, nodded. “What you’ve been saying here is that this whole thing’s something that Arin Gobelyn came up with and that it’s just as much my birthright as anything else he might have left me—commissioner rings or loose change or my name. So I’ll read what he left me. Then I’ll tell you what I think. I’ll tell Freza straight up what I think. And you tell me if you’ll keep a man from grabbing his birthright, won’t you?”

  Freza, standing, agreed. “You’ll see why we’ve been keeping it secret, Jethri. You will!”

  With a grimace Brabham half-rose, unsnapping a side pocket and handing her a multiridged mechanical key. She took it in her fist, nodded first to him and then to Jethri, the nod becoming a head shake indicating which way they’d go from here. As he followed, Jethri heard the ex-pilot changing the topic.

  “Scout, you’ll get your Second Board back in a few minutes. Meanwhile, I’d like to talk to you about that protocol you’re using to snatch comm traffic. . . .”

  * * *

  A slide key admitted them to a small storage room with a ladder in it—in space it would be a zero-G area and the boxes and hardware lock-strapped in place over head would be easily accessible. Here it was less so, local gravity holding sway with as it did, which sent the pair of them clambering up the ladder and jumping across a gap to pick their way between sets of replacement pipes and mountings and thence to a large panel full of tools they had to walk between. Freza stationed herself at one end and gestured for Jethri to the other, and then she gestured again, which sent him to his knees as she went to hers, and she reached into a recess, pulling hard—

  Snap!

  Jethri found the corresponding recess, which wasn’t ea
sy at all, and pulled the handle he found there, to be rewarded with a similar snap and the sound of a small alert buzzer.

  “Good. Lift your end . . .”

  Jethri did as directed and the panel, hinged on the long side, opened to reveal a capacious well, fairly full of interesting bundles wrapped in radar-absorbing cloth and boxes marked with digit-and-letter combinations but nothing else.

  “Come on in!”

  She scrambled over the bundles, and he did the same, ending up in a half-crawl when he reached her as she was tugging one of the bundles loose.

  “Here we go, Jeth,” she said, kneeling within a couple hand spans of him—and placed a key into a cubby safe still lower into the well, a key which went in easily and turned with a quiet snick.

  The lighting wasn’t good, but within were a few small boxes. Freza pulled one out, and unfolded it wordlessly, displaying how to unfold it into—a personal reader to be worn on the face like minigoggles. He took it, and it was made so that it hung on the ears and nose. Low enough not to obstruct vision if he was looking straight ahead, but able to be glanced down into . . .

  “Nothing in it!”

  He felt the earslides for controls—

  “Good,” she said. “Not activated to you yet.”

  She pulled a similar device from her own pocket, then, and he saw it meshed somehow with her ear cuffs when she put it on. Her reader drifted on her face and then he realized it was matching itself to her face color, that the section over her filigree tattoo was taking on the blue beneath it.

  “Fold it back up, Jeth, and hold it like so, between any two fingers you choose on the left hand and right hand. Don’t have to be thumb and forefinger, but remember which ones they are. The little blue decoration goes toward the front, that ought to be on the right, and the red one on the left.

  “Yes, good. I’m going to ask you to squeeze pretty hard at my count of three, and keep squeezing about the same strength without shifting things around for about ten seconds. Once you do that, you’ll put it on immediately. Got it?”