Trader's World

by Charles Sheffield

  "Of course I am. But it's the same problem. The other three of that quartet are all from long-established Trader families. They have relatives in the simulation facilities. Asparian doesn't. He'll be at a big disadvantage."

  "True, if we restrict our thoughts to simulations. But that will become his advantage in the real world, and a possible disadvantage for the others. No one has helpful relatives in other regions. Asparian will not look for sympathy or understanding where there is none; the others may. But I take your point, and it is consistent with conclusions that can be drawn readily from available data, without reference to emotional considerations. We are ready for the next step. A real training test."

  "It's too early for that."

  "Not for this particular mission. In fact, we will be permitted to send only inexperienced trainees."

  "Trainees only? I've never heard of such a mission. Where is it?"

  "A unique opportunity has arisen to send a junior group to the Darklands. The Kallario quartet is the obvious choice."

  Connery swung to face the camera eye. "Be reasonable— Traders are hardly allowed into the Darklands, even for big negotiations. A trainee group wouldn't get past the port of entry—and if they did, we wouldn't know how to brief them properly! We don't have data. And the Darklands bought a Chill system for radio jamming, so we couldn't provide a Mentor. Why not a Hive environment, if we're going to be ridiculous? A Hive would be no worse than the Darklands for a trainee—and Asparian would have some advantage there."

  "You are joking. A Hiver mission would not be consistent with our goals. But my proposal is serious. Also, the primary mission is one of quite negligible risk."

  "In the Darklands? I don't believe it."

  "Nonetheless, it is true. Listen to me, and see if you change your mind. The role of our group would merely be to serve as invited guests to a formal ceremony. The Ten Tribes are ready to crown a new emperor. The man who will ascend to the throne, Rasool Ilunga, has decided that his crowning will be an event unprecedented in Darklands history. He plans an elaborate coronation, putting on display the wealth of the Darklands. And to observe those ceremonies, with their jewel-encrusted robes and jeweled and priceless emblems of office, and also to be witness to his imperial greatness, Ilunga has invited representatives from every region; even a Chipponese party has been asked to descend from the Moon to Coronation City and attend the event. But the Ten Tribes have traditionally been highly suspicious of Traders, and Ilunga's condition on our presence is that children or trainees be invited, not qualified Traders. The Kallario group qualifies. The mission has no danger that I am able to identify." There was a substantial pause. "Of course, one could entertain a speculation that might lead to a possible second agenda: the Chipponese are looking for a permanent equatorial launch and landing franchise. The central part of Rasool Ilunga's Darklands empire is ideally located. It is tempting to correlate those facts and explore the implications. But it would be at the Fourth Level of difficulty."

  "For Shannon's sake, you are trying to get them killed. You can't let them even look at Fourth Level—we'd never see them again!"

  "With this trainee group, there is evidence to suggest otherwise. However, that is not a point to be profitably pursued at this moment. To ease your fears, I promise this: the quartet will not be charged with any second agenda. May we leave the situation thus? We both believe that the remaining scheduled visits to the Azores' simulation facilities are likely to be of limited use to the Kallario group. We will therefore cancel them. Also, the opportunity of the Darklands visit is something that requires further consideration. Let me attend to that, and prepare the necessary briefing documents."

  "Don't you think—"

  Connery paused. The circuit light had begun to blink, indicating that the terminal would remain open but that minimal computing capabilities would be linked into it. For all practical purposes, Daddy-O was saying good-bye.

  A few more moments, and Lyle Connery was left staring out at the bleak Atlantic winter. The whole structure he sat in was shaking and swaying with the force of the wind. He stood up, wondering as he often did after a session with Daddy-O whether they had achieved any worthwhile communication at all.

  CHAPTER 5

  "Hello. On behalf of Rasool Ilunga, let me welcome you to the Heart of the World, home of the Ten Tribes."

  The words were spoken the moment the four passengers stepped out of the Trader aircar. They peered around them. The Mach Six trip from midwinter at the Azores to tropical noon had left them with transit shock. They blinked, shielded their eyes against the glare of the equatorial sun, and squinted at the speaker. The temperature was in the middle nineties. Reflected sunlight flared from a thousand places on the baked ground.

  The man standing in front of them was an albino, skeletally thin and frail looking. He was wearing a suit of white silk, white shoes, and a broad coolie hat that extended across his head and shoulders. Blue-tinted glasses covered his eyes. His features were fine-boned, with a thin, chiseled nose. He was extending a cotton-gloved hand as he continued in excellent Trader: "You have come a long way to be here, but I am sure that you will not find it a wasted journey. There are exciting times ahead for you."

  Jake stepped forward and took the man's hand in both of his, Darklands fashion. "It is a pleasure to be here. I am Jake Kallario, leader of our group. Allow me to compliment you on your command of the Trader language, and permit me to ask your name."

  "I am Inongo Kiri, principal negotiator for the Ten Tribes. And your companions?"

  "Of course. This is Melinda Turak . . ."

  Mikal Asparian had been last off the plane. Now he stood a pace to the rear of the other three and stared around him. Subconsciously he had noted and approved of Kallario's opening remarks. Straight from the Trader book of rules. Rule Number 44: Give praise; it is free. And Rule Number 64: Get everything else wrong if you have to, but get their names right.

  His eyes had adjusted to the bright sunlight. Now he took advantage of the other trainees' introductions to perform a more thorough visual exploration.

  The plane had landed six hundred miles inland at a fork in a great river. To the south of the landing point, where the branches merged, a sluggish expanse of gray-brown water was visible, over two miles across. The land toward the river was marshy and covered with tall reeds, but the airfield itself stood on a cleared plain. Mike looked down, expecting concrete, and saw a vast tiling of baked clay bricks. There must have been tens of millions of them. A dozen ground vehicles waited at the edge of the field, each surrounded by a score or more of brightly dressed black people. Beyond them—unless the bright light was playing tricks with his eyes—stood two of the legendary animals of this continent.

  Huge, bulky, improbable. Elephants.

  Two hundred years ago, according to Daddy-O's data bases, this had been deep, rich jungle and broad plains, teeming with wild animals. Now it seemed as tired and eroded as the Lostlands, the forest gone, the fertile game plains diminished, the animals vanished. What had happened here? The Lostlands War had not reached this region.

  ". . . Mikal Asparian."

  At the sound of his own name, he jolted back to his immediate surroundings.

  The thin albino was holding out his gloved hand and smiling a pink-gummed smile. "Delighted to meet you. Since this is the first visit for all of you, Mikal, and since we have a full day free before the coronation ceremonies begin, I have arranged for you to be given a tour of the region and a boat trip along the Great River. First, however, let us proceed to your living quarters and make you comfortable there. And then we will have a brief audience with Rasool Ilunga himself. Two days from now, he will of course be known only as Emperor, the Light of the World, the Lord of the Ten Tribes." He beamed at the four trainees. "But today, it is still all right to call him Rasool Ilunga."

  The man speaks Trader superbly, Mikal thought. Probably better than I do! He shook Inongo Kiri's hand and felt the bones beneath the cotton glove. He h
ad never met a man so thin. They began to walk slowly toward the parked ground vehicles. As usual, Jake and Melinda took the lead. Mike still trailed along behind, gaping at everything and somehow excluded from the group.

  The relationship among the four team members had been tense for months. Only the common and powerful desire to become Traders had held them together. Things had taken a turn for the worse just before they left the Azores. Lyle Connery had briefed them, but had made it clear that they had a decision to make, and that it was one he could not make for them.

  "You can work as a team if you want to." The Trader plane was already waiting for them. "If you do, you'll be pooling everything that you learn and reporting back as a group. That's the way to generate the most information. Or you can each use this as training for an individual mission. If you do that, you will each gather whatever information you can get, and keep it to yourself. When you arrive back here, you will file four individual reports. That has advantages, too, because when you qualify as Traders many of your missions will be conducted solo, without even a Mentor. So. How do you want to handle this mission? It's up to you."

  He surveyed the intent young faces. "Well?"

  Melinda spoke first. "Solo."

  "No, Melly." Cesar shook his head at her. "I think we get more benefit working together."

  Connery looked at Asparian.

  "I agree with Cesar. We should cooperate."

  "And you, Jake?"

  Kallario looked at each of the others. His gaze lingered on Mike. I'll work with you when I have to, Asparian, it seemed to say. But not if I have a choice. "I say, we work solo."

  "Two for each." Connery shrugged. "In that case, Kallario as senior member of the group breaks a tie vote. So you'll all be working solo. Remember what that means: you can each tell any of the others your thoughts or your findings, but you are not obliged to; and no one is required to reciprocate. Now, let's get you on your way."

  The atmosphere in the plane during the Darklands flight had been unmistakably unpleasant. Mike knew that Jake was still furious with him, and Cesar was annoyed with Jake. Cesar was convinced they ought to be working together. Only Melinda had tried to smooth things over, speculating about the coronation ceremony.

  "Spears and gold robes and ostrich plume hats, that's what I'm betting on."

  "What have you been reading? Ancient history?" Cesar handed her a fat volume of briefing materials prepared by Daddy-O. "Here, Melly. Take a look at this, and bring yourself up to date. Rasool Ilunga wants the Ten Tribes to become more technological. He's already started to build a weapons arsenal."

  "I don't call weapons technology. I'd rather he went in for gold and feathers."

  "Well, Ilunga disagrees, and he owns the place—or he will, in two more days. Anyway, ostriches are extinct. They haven't been around this continent for half a century."

  "More's the pity."

  But now, walking across the scorching ground to the waiting cars, Mike saw to his delight that half a dozen of the waiting people were carrying long spears—and wearing headdresses decorated with the gorgeous plumage of ostrich tail feathers. He reached out to tug Melinda's sleeve. "It's red robes, not gold," he said softly. "Otherwise you hit it exactly."

  Inongo Kiri had somehow heard him—the albino must have ears like a cat. He turned his head as he led the way. "Wait until the coronation, Mikal Asparian. You'll see your gold then—and a lot of other things you will like."

  They had reached the leading car. Inongo Kiri made no attempt to introduce them to any of the standing natives. He ushered them into the enormous and antique vehicle, two in front and two behind, then took the driver's seat himself. After two minutes of fiddling with a control on the dashboard, he turned a long copper key, started the engine, and drove off at a sedate pace to the norm, following the riverbank. The car's motor coughed and choked. The exhaust spat out clouds of blue smoke behind them. To the surprise of the trainees, a couple of dozen of the people around the other cars, still ceremonially clad in their long robes, began to run along behind.

  Mike Asparian and Melinda Turak were sitting together in the rear. She turned her head and watched the struggling runners. "A technological society!" she shouted to Mike.

  With the racket from the engine, there was no chance that she would be overheard by anyone, no matter how good their ears. Mike could scarcely hear her himself, with her mouth only a few inches away from his head. "That's what the briefing materials said," he called back.

  "Well, a bit of technology is long overdue." She banged the battered side of the car. "This is a mobile junk heap. Do you know, I believe it has a gasoline engine. Where are they getting the fuel?"

  Mike merely shook his head. The reek of those exhaust fumes was poisonous—it was alarming to think what it must be doing to those running behind. The car was traveling at only a few miles an hour, and a great cloud of blue-black smoke marked their progress all the way from the airfield.

  A cluster of new buildings was creeping into view, all taller than the one- or two-story constructions that stood on the airport's perimeter. The car chugged steadily along until it came to the biggest, a seven-story structure built of white stone. There Inongo Kiri again turned the copper key, and the car's engine expired with a final spluttering cough. They stepped out into a huge open square, its sides flanked by palm trees.

  They had driven perhaps five miles. The plumed and robed attendants were now spread out all the way back to the airfield. Kiri gave them a casual glance. The nearest was a mile or more away.

  "They will all be here eventually, but it is not worth waiting for them." He laughed. "Come along. By the time we return from your rooms they will be waiting for us. You will have them as an honor guard when you meet the future emperor."

  "But where will we meet him?" Kallario asked. He had been expecting a grand imperial palace. The white stone building was big, but it did not match his mental image.

  "Right here. Up on the topmost floor. Ah, I see—you find this building a little drab to be his home. Do not worry. You will see his future palace tomorrow, when we make a trip north of here. The castle will be finished in time for the coronation—or else." He chuckled. "For the moment, Rasool Ilunga is content to live a simpler life-style. Come, let us move upstairs."

  The four third-floor bedrooms assigned to the trainees were small, hot, identical, and simply furnished. Blown air, circulating from the wall vents, felt no cooler than room temperature on Mike's hand. He dropped his little traveling case on the bed. Rule 68: Everything you need for a negotiation should be small enough to fit inside your head. He was ready to leave at once, but instead he went across to the window.

  His room looked north across a level, parched plain. There was no attempt to irrigate the soil with river water. The buildings below petered out after another half-dozen structures, and a white-topped road, parallel to the river, led across a desolate landscape to the northern horizon. On that horizon, barely visible in the heat haze, twinkled a glint of silver.

  Mike went to his satchel, took out a tiny Chill-fabricated spyglass, and looked again. The silver glint resolved to a set of half a dozen steeples. They rose high above the plain, each one ending in a needle point of light. Even at maximum magnification Mike could pick out no details. While he was still peering north he heard a footstep behind him.

  Cesar Famares was standing in the doorway. "Look here." He paused, then made up his mind. "Look, Mike, if you and Jake want to fight, that's up to you. But count me and Melly out of it. I know you think the three of us are lined up against you, and maybe we were when we started. But we're not now. Melly and I have been talking, and we're agreed, we're not going to take Jake's side. Or yours, either. If he—or you—does anything to hurt our chances of becoming Traders, we'll chop you to pieces. All right?"

  Mike looked at him for a moment, face startled. Then he smiled. "All right. Better than all right. You know, Cesar, I've been trying hard. I really have. I'm not the one who's been looking for tr
ouble. I want to be a successful Trader, maybe even more than you do. If it doesn't work out for you and Melly and Jake, so what? You'll all go back to your families. But until I make it as a Trader, I'm a fake Asparian. If I don't have this, I have nothing."

  "You do now." Cesar walked forward and took Mike's hand. "You've got friends. Come on, let's go and see what the Light of the World eats for lunch."

  At the head of the stairs Melinda Turak stood waiting. She glanced inquiringly from Cesar to Mike and back. Cesar nodded, and she laughed in relief. "That's great. Let's get a move on. Jake and Inongo Kiri have already gone up there to organize our ceremonial bodyguard. How does it feel to rate a thirty-man escort?"

  The elevators in the building were all slow and creaking. Rather than wait for them again, Melinda led the way up the stairs. At the entrance to the top floor they were met by four semi-naked guards and crossed spears.

  "Oh, come on now." Kiri's amused voice came from somewhere ahead of them. "That's really quite unnecessary." He spoke a few words in the Darklands tongue, too fast for the trainees to follow. No one else said anything, but the spears were turned at once to a vertical position. Melinda led the way uneasily past the guards and on down the middle of a corridor lined with men and women in ceremonial red robes. Some of them were still panting and leaning in exhaustion on their spears.

  Inongo Kiri and Jake were waiting outside a pair of massive black doors armored with iron studs.

  "Actually, all these fripperies are unnecessary, in my humble opinion," Kiri said softly in Trader. "But Rasool Ilunga insists we must have it this way, and most of the people would agree with him. So there's no point in discussion. Come on. Just the five of us. We leave the pomp and circumstance on the outside."

  No signal seemed to be given, but at Kiri's words the doors creaked open. The trainees went through into a small, windowless room without furnishings. In front of them stood a second pair of double doors. As the first set closed behind them, the ones ahead opened. Kiri led the way into a large, well-lit room with windows of tinted glass. The furniture was simple: half a dozen chairs, a small conference table, and a long desk over in one corner. Next to the desk, sound asleep, lay a monstrous catlike animal.