Trade Secret (eARC)

by Sharon Lee

  Ter'Astin's face was impassive: a good Liaden public face. But there was something about it, or perhaps his stance, that convinced Jethri that the Scout was weary. And truly, his book! News of his book held more urgency for him than the next seminar.

  "Certainly," he said. "Let us repair to Keravath. Have you eaten?"

  "I have ordered in a nuncheon; it should be on dock when we arrive," ter'Astin said, walking rapidly down the hall.

  Jethri stretched his legs to catch up.

  "Had you an enjoyable evening?" he asked, when it seemed that the Scout would simply stalk along, silently.

  A black glance sparkled under dark lashes.

  "My evening was pleasant, and fulfilling, thank you. I hear various tales of your own prowess, as a trader of great skill, an arbiter of reasonable resource, and a connoisseur of wine and bedmates." The glance this time was accompanied by a slight smile. "Truly, you amaze. I blush to think what I will say to Norn."

  "You need say nothing. Master Trader pin'Aker assures me that he will share all. And, as he has it as his intention to go to her soon . . ."

  "My blushes are saved. On a similar topic, I feel I should tell you that Wynhael left station while we most of us slept. My good comrade Roe of the control team relates a horrific tale of an emergency departure filed, and a captain in a dangerous hurry. He tells me--in the strictest confidence!--that there was a moment when he feared the station would be holed." He moved a hand, perhaps describing Wynhael's departure.

  "However, as you see, we are unharmed, and Wynhael is no longer with us, so--a good beginning to a new day. Would you agree?"

  "I agree that a lack of Rinork and chel'Gaibin is welcome," Jethri said.

  Their conversation became interrupted then, by their individual and joint necessities to acknowledge greetings from acquaintances, and so they reached Keravath's dock.

  Jethri picked up the caterer's box as the Scout worked the lock, and they entered, lock sealed behind them, and privacy insured.

  *

  "The crux of the matter," the Scout said, as they unfolded the box in the galley, "is that I have found who holds your birthright."

  Jethri, who had been contemplating a stack of handwiches that might easily have fed the crew of the Market, looked up, excitement cramping his stomach.

  "Who is it? Do you have it?"

  "I have this"--ter'Astin reached inside his jacket and withdrew a single sheet of folded hardcopy, which he offered--"given to prove that the article is, indeed, in the possession of this person."

  Jethri snatched the paper, unfolded it. . .

  "It's a page from my book," he said. He recognized it--one of the pages where he had sketched a figure, his father had refined it, and he had refined his father's iteration . . .

  He looked up.

  "Tell me."

  "'Tell me' the child says." Ter'Astin leaned in to pick up half a handwich. "Well, the short of it is that this item--your book--is not in the hands of the Scouts, but in other hands, even less tender of the promises of field agents. These hands are somewhat unscrupulous. Certainly, they have stolen the book--or had it stolen. They are, however, willing to return it to you, its rightful owner, and they are so gracious to give us a day and a planet upon which you and they will meet in order to accomplish this. But . . ."

  Jethri looked up from the page he'd been studying.

  "But?"

  Ter'Astin smiled thinly. "But they wish payment. As it happens, they want payment in kind. Your book"--he jutted his chin at the page Jethri held--"for the Envidaria."

  "I don't have the Envidaria," Jethri snapped. The Scout met his eyes blandly, and Jethri turned away first.

  "I need to use long-comm," he said, and sighed, suddenly seeing the elegant, subtle curve of Samay's neck. "I will also need to leave messages here. We will, I think, wish to depart soon."

  "I think so, too," said the Scout, and went to wake Keravath's board.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Gobelyn's Market

  Serconia's lessons were still on their minds when they jumped into the Franticle True system, there being four stars all dancing in a complicated set of orbits within easy reach and all moving with a lazy general relative velocity and together they were Great Franticle, the parts being bright little Franticle Blue, Franticle Hon, Franticle Core and Franticle True. Down the road there'd be trouble, according to some of the calculations, with Franticle Hon and Franticle Blue having a hot date that could just cause some problems with the other two . . . in not all so many hundred thousand Standards. Near term it meant there was plenty of mass to go around and Great Franticle one of the neighborhoods where odd stuff could happen to incoming ships.

  Of the eleven planets and forty-seven notable moons in all this mess only one moon and one planet were comfortably habitable, Franticle Blue having a clutch of gas giants, Franticle Hon a bunch of rocks, Franticle Core more comets than any one system ought--and Franticle True, of course having the livable planet and moon.

  Khat didn't mean to yawn at it all sitting there with screens up and all the sensor ears open; the arrival had been enough to rouse Iza to be in first chair. But Cris had been on an alternate shift last ship night, stopping by all wide awake on the topic of Iza slowing down and the ship chemistry being odd and loose after seeing some big ships run; then they'd talked about her trips and then it was time for Khat to take the boards a quarter shift before Jump end, Iza letting Grig's watch be short. Seemed to Khat like that was happening a fair amount, Grig getting a short shift, start or finish, and Khat wasn't sure if that was humanitarian Iza sending a man to help his wife with the kid or Iza sending a message to Grig.

  Iza called out, "Got that tumble again, Khat, catch the numbers for us--tumble's not useful!"

  Iza'd killed the tumble in a few seconds of shifting floors and sidewalls, and then cross-haired the destination, minor curses--not unusual in the captain--for the fact that they'd actually overshot and would have to kill the outward-bound vector before they'd be able to start in, adding at least a half-day to the front end of things.

  Given a stable orbit Gobelyn's Market found the orients, and with them began picking up the comm feeds. With two inhabited worlds and a large-scale station, there was a fair amount of comm traffic, and as much or more because of the mining operations among the rock belt.

  Iza called out, "In and safe" to the crew, something she remembered to do every three or four Jumps despite the all-clear call being right there on the checklist, and Khat relaxed since she hated being the one to have to follow up on Iza's misses. Actually checking checklists was what subordinates were for, that seemed Iza's idea.

  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 h
it 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 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 down 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 custom's 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 Henriks, 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.