Balance of Trade Page 2

  Jethri dunked a couple whole grain crackers in his mug, chomped and swallowed them, then drank off what was left. Thus fortified, he ambled down to the utility lockers, signed the camera out, slotted the empties and a tray of new filters into the sled and headed out to the bounceway.

  * * *

  OPS RAN MARKET'S grav in a helix, which was standard for a ship of its size and age. Smaller vessels ran whole-ship light-, or even no-grav, and weight work was a part of every crew member's daily duty roster. Market was big enough to generate the necessary power for a field. Admin core was damn' near one gee, as was Ops itself. Sleeping quarters was lighter; you slept strapped in and anchored your possessions to the wall. The outer edges of the ship, where the cans hooked in, that was lighter still—as near to no grav as mattered. On the outermost edge of E Deck, there was the bounceway, a rectangular space marked out for rec, where crew might swoop, fly, bounce off the walls, play free-fall tag, and—just coincidentally—sharpen their reaction times and grav-free moves.

  It being a rec area, there were air vents. It being the largest open atmosphere section on the ship, it also had the highest amount of ship air to sample for pollen, spores, loose dust, and other contaminants. Jethri's job was to open each vent, use the camera to record the visual patterns, change the camera to super and flash for spectrographic details, remove the used filter, install a fresh, and reseal the vent. That record would go right to command for analysis as soon as he plugged the camera into the charge socket

  Not quite as mindless as replacing sweet-sheets, but not particularly demanding of the thought processes, either.

  Mooring the sled, he slid the camera into the right pocket of his utility vest, a new filter and an envelope into the left, squinted thoughtfully at the position of the toppest vent—and kicked off.

  Strictly speaking, he could have gone straight-line, door to vent. In the unlikely circumstance that there'd been hurry involved, he would, he told himself, curling for the rebound off the far wall, have chosen the high leap. As it was, hands extended and body straight, he hit the corner opposite the vent, somersaulted, arcing downward, hit the third wall with his feet, rising again, slowing, slowing—until he was floating, gentle and easy, next to the target vent.

  Bracing himself, he slid the door open, used the camera, then unsnapped the soiled filter, slipped it into the envelope and snapped in the replacement. Making sure his pockets were sealed, he treated himself to cross-room dive, shot back up to the opposite corner, dove again, twisted in mid-dive, bounced off the end wall, pinwheeled off the ceiling, hit the floor on his hand, flipped and came upright next to the sled.

  Grinning like a certified fool, he unsealed his pocket, slotted the used filter, took on a clean one, turned and jumped for the next vent.

  * * *

  IT MIGHT'VE BEEN an hour later and him at the trickiest bit of his day. The filter for the aromatics locker was special—a double-locking, odor-blocking bit of business, badly set over the door, flush to the angle with the ceiling. Aromatics was light, but by no means as light as the bounceway, so it was necessary for anyone needing to measure and change the filter to use their third hand to chin themselves on the high snatch-rod, knees jammed at right angles to the ceiling, while simultaneously using their first and second hands to do the actual work.

  Normal two-handers were known to lament the lack of that crucial third appendage with language appropriate to the case. Indeed, one of Jethri's fondest memories was of long, easy-speaking Cris, bent double against the ceiling, hanging over the vent in question, swearing, constantly and conversationally, for the entire twenty minutes the job required, never once repeating a cuss word. It had been a virtuoso performance to which Jethri secretly aspired.

  Unfortunately, experience had taught him that he could either hang and cuss, or hang and work. So it was that he wrestled in silence, teeth drilling into lower lip, forcing himself to go slow and easy, and make no false moves, because it would be a serious thing if an aromatics spill contaminated the ship's common air.

  He had just seated and locked the clean inner filter, when the hall echoed with a titanic clang, which meant that the cage had cycled onto his level.

  Jethri closed his eyes and clenched into the corner, forcing himself to wait until the wall had stopped reverberating.

  "It's settled," the captain's voice echoed in the wake of the larger noise.

  "Might be settled." That was Uncle Paitor, his voice a rumble, growing slightly fainter as the two of them walked outward, toward the cans. "I'm not convinced we've got the best trade for the ship in this, Iza. I'm thinking we might be underselling something—"

  "We've got space issues, which aren't leaving us," the captain interrupted. "This one's Captain's Call, brother. It's settled."

  "Space issues, yeah," Paitor said, a whole lot more argumentative than he usually was when he was talkin' to the captain, and like he thought things weren't settled at all. "There's space issues. In what case, sister o'mine, you'd best remember those couple o'seal-packs of extra you been carrying in your personal bin for damn' near ten Standards. You been carrying extra a long time, and some of what's there ought to get shared out so choices can be made—"

  "No business of yours—none of it, Paitor."

  "You's the one called kin just now. But I'm a trader, and what you got's still worth something to somebody. You make this trade and that stuff ought to be gone, too!"

  "We'll chart that course when we got fuel for it. You done?"

  Paitor answered that, but Jethri only caught the low sound of his voice, no words.

  Cautiously, he unclenched, reached for the second filter and began to ease back the locks, forcing himself to attend to the work at hand, rather than wonder what sort of trade might be Captain's Call. . .

  * * *

  LATER, IN THE galley, Dyk was in a creative frenzy.

  Jethri, who knew his man, had arrived well before his scheduled time, and already there were piles of used bowls, cruets, mixers, forks, tongs, spoons and spice syringes littering every possible surface and the floor. It was nothing short of awesome. Shaking his head, he pulled on his gloves and started in on first clean up.

  "Hey, Jeth! Unship that big flat pan for me, willya?"

  Sighing, Jethri abandoned the dirties, climbed up on the counter and pulled open the toppest cabinet, where the equipment that was used least was stowed. Setting his feet careful among the welter of used tools, he reached for the requested pan.

  The door to the galley banged open, Jethri turned his head and clutched the edge of the cabinet, keeping himself very still.

  Iza Gobelyn stood in the doorway, her face so tight the lines around her mouth stood in stark relief. Dyk, lost in his dream of cookery, oblivious to clear danger, smiled over his shoulder at her, the while beating something in a bowl with a power spoon.

  "Good shift, Captain!" he called merrily. "Have we got a surprise ordered in for you tonight!"

  "No," said Iza.

  That got through.

  Dyk blinked. "Ma'am?"

  "I said, no," the captain repeated, her voice crackling with static. "We'll want a quick meal, no surprises."

  The spoon went quiet. Dyk put the bowl aside, real careful, and turned to face her. "Captain, I've got a meal planned and on course."

  "Jettison," she said, flat and cold. "Quick meal, Dyk. Now."

  There was a moment—a long moment, when Jethri though Dyk would argue the point, but in the end, he just nodded.

  "Yes'm," he said, real quiet, and turned away toward the cabinet.

  The captain left, the door swinging shut behind her.

  Jethri let out the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, slid the flat pan back into its grips, closed the door, and carefully got himself down to the floor, where he started back in collecting dirties.

  He was loading the washer when it came to him that Dyk was 'way too quiet, and he looked up.

  His cousin was staring down at the bowl, kinda swirling the
contents with the power spoon turned off. Jethri moved a couple steps closer, until Dyk looked at him.

  "What was you making?" Jethri asked.

  "A cake," Dyk said, and Jethri could believe it was tears he saw in the blue eyes. "I—" he cleared his throat and shook his head, pushing the bowl away. "It was a stupid idea, I guess. I'll get the quick meal together and then help you with clean up, right?"

  Dyk wasn't a prize as a partner in clean up, and Jethri was about to decline the favor. And a cake—why would he have been after making a cake, just coming into port? Another one of those everybody-knows-but-me things, Jethri thought, frowning at his larger cousin.

  Something about the set of his shoulders, or even the tears, Dyk not being one to often cry, counseled him to think better of refusing the offered aid. He nodded, trying to remake his frown into something approaching agreeable.

  "Sure," he said. "Be glad of the help."

  Day 32

  Standard Year 1118

  Gobelyn's Market

  Jethri's Quarters

  JETHRI WAS BEHIND closed door—which he didn't usually do on his off-shift—because the volume on the recorder was iffy at best, and besides, there were a couple of the cousins who weren't all that happy to hear Liaden words, even if they was spoke on archive, by a relative.

  "If you trade with Liadens, trade careful, and for the gods' love don't come sideways of honor."

  One upside of having the door closed was an unimpeded view of the gift Dyk had given him two ports back, to much guffawing at the entrance hatch. The Unofficial Up-To-Date Combine Com-Code Chart issued by Trundee's Tool and Tow. Besides the codes, most of which hadn't changed in the dozen or so years Jethri had been aware of them, there was a constantly changing view, in simulated 3D, of the self-declared "Best Saltwater Bathing Beach in the Galaxy."

  Jethri had—on several occasions, truth told—tried to count the different views offered by the chart. Dyk had helpfully showed him how to change the pace, or even stop on a particular image. Jethri discovered, by plain accident, that you could "tune out" the images of people without bathing suits—or the ones with bathing suits, for that matter, and also how to close up on the people and the sand, blocking out the long, unsettling sweep of sky.

  His eye was caught now by a series that intrigued him. A couple, hand in hand, moved across several images, walking along the sandscape by the roiling, splashing waves, each wearing a suit (if something covering only a very small part of the anatomy could really be called a suit!) Both suits had decorations on them, shapes very much like his lucky fractin. The woman's suit was basically white, with the fractins arrayed in several fetching patterns, but they were blue, with the lettering in yellow. Her partner's suit was blue, the fractins white and the lettering black, which was like no fractin he'd ever seen—not that he thought he'd seen them all.

  The distraction of the woman's shape and beauty, and the way she moved, made it hard for him to pay attention to the old tape. He sighed, so loud he might have been heard in the companionway if anyone was there to listen.

  He had work to do. They were set to put in at a Liaden port right soon, and now was time to study, not indulge high-oxy dreams of walking hand-held with a lady 'way too pretty to notice a ship-kid. . .

  Teeth chewing lower lip, he punched the button on the recorder, backing up to the last sentence he remembered hearing.

  This set of notes was old: recorded by Great-Grand-Captain Larance Gobelyn more than forty Standard years ago, dubbed to ship's library twenty Standards later from the original deteriorating tape. Jethri fiddled with the feed on the audio board, but only succeeded in lowering the old man's voice. Sighing, he upped the gain again, squinting in protest of the scratchy, uneven sound.

  "Liaden honor is—active. Insult—any insult—is punished. Immediately. An individual's name is his most important possession and—"

  "Jethri?" Uncle Paitor's voice broke across Cap'n Larance's recitation. Jethri sighed and thumbed 'pause'.

  "Yessir," he said, turning his head toward the intercom grid set in the wall.

  "Come on down to the trade room, will you? We need to talk over a couple things."

  Jethri slipped the remote out of his ear. As senior trader, Paitor was specifically in charge of the senior apprentice trader's time and education.

  "Yessir," Jethri repeated. Two quick fingertaps marked his place in the old notes file. He left at a brisk walk, his thoughts half on honor, and only slightly less than half on the image of the woman on the poster.

  * * *

  HIS UNCLE NODDED him into a chair and eased back in his. They were coming in on Ynsolt'i and next hour Paitor Gobelyn would have time for nothing but the feed from the port trade center. Now, his screen was dark, the desk-top barren. Paitor cleared his throat.

  "Got a couple things," he said, folding his hands over his belt buckle. "On-Port roster: Dyk an' me'll be escorting the payload to the central trade hall and seeing it safe with the highest bidder. Khat's data, Grig's eatables, Mel's on tech, Cris'll stay ship-side. You. . . "

  Paitor paused and Jethri gripped his hands together tight on his lap, willing his face into a trader's expression of courteous disinterest. They had textile on board—half a dozen bolts of cellosilk that Cris had taken on two stops back, with Ynsolt'i very much in his mind. Was it possible, Jethri wondered, that Uncle Paitor was going to allow. . .

  "Yourself—you'll be handling the silk lot. I expect to see a kais out of the lot. If I was you, I'd call on Honored Sir bin'Flora first."

  Jethri remembered to breathe. "Yes, sir. Thank you." He gripped his hands together so hard they hurt. His own trade. His own, very first, solo trade with no Senior standing by, ready to take over if the thing looked like going awry.

  His uncle waved a hand. "Time you were selling small stuff on your own. Now." He leaned forward abruptly, folded his arms on the desk and looked at Jethri seriously. "You know we got a lot riding on this trip."

  Indeed they did—more than a quarter of the Market's speculation capital was tied up in eighteen Terran pounds of vya, a spice most commonly sold in five gram lots. Jethri's research had revealed that vya was the active ingredient in fa'vya, a Liaden drink ship's library classified as a potent aphrodisiac. Ynsolt'i was a Liaden port and the spice should bring a substantial profit to the ship. Not, Jethri reminded himself, that profit was ever guaranteed.

  "We do well with the spice here," Paitor was saying, "and the captain's going to take us across to Kinaveral, do that refit we'd been banking for now, rather than two Standards from now."

  This was the news that might have had Dyk baking a cake. Jethri sat up straighter, rubbing the palms of his hands down the rough fabric of his work pants.

  "Refit'll keep us world-bound 'bout a Standard, near's we can figure. Captain wants that engine upgrade bad and trade-side's gonna need two more cargo pods to balance the expense." He grinned suddenly. "Three, if I can get 'em."

  Jethri smiled politely, thinking that his uncle didn't look as pleased with that as he might have and wondering what the down-side of the trade was.

  "While refit's doing, we figured—the captain and me—that it'd be optimum to re-structure crew. So, we've signed you as senior 'prentice with Gold Digger."

  It was said so smoothly that Jethri didn't quite catch the sense of it.

  "Gold Digger?" he repeated blankly, that much having gotten through, by reason of him and Mac Gold having traded blows on last sighting—more to Jethri's discomfort than Mac's. He hadn't exactly told anyone on the Market the full details of the incident, Gold Digger's crew being cousins of his mother, and his mother making a point more'n once about how she'd nearly ended up being part of that ship instead of this.

  Jethri came forward in his chair, hearing the rest of it play back inside the whorlings of his ears.

  "You signed me onto Gold Digger?" he demanded. "For how long?"

  His voice echoed into the hall, he'd asked that loud, but he didn't apologize.

&
nbsp; Paitor raised a hand. "Ease down, boy. One loop through the mines. Time they're back in port, you'll be twenty—full adult and able to find your own berth." He nodded. "You make yourself useful like you and me both know you can and you'll come off Digger a full trader with experience under your belt—"

  "Three Standards?" Jethri's voice broke, but for once he didn't cringe in shame. He was too busy thinking about a converted ore ship smaller than the Market, its purely male crew crammed all six into a common sleeping room, and the trade nothing more than foodstuffs and ore, ore and mining tools, oxy tanks and ore. . .

  "Ore," he said, staring at his uncle. "Not even rough gem. Industrial ore." He took a breath, knowing his dismay showed and not caring about that, either. "Uncle Paitor, I've been studying. If there's something else I—"

  Paitor showed him palm again. "Nothing to do with your studying. You been doing real good. I'll tell you—better than the captain supposed you would. Little more interested in the Liaden side of things than I thought reasonable, there at first, but you always took after Arin, anyhow. No harm in learning the lingo, and I will say the Liadens seem to take positive note of you." He shook his head. "Course, you don't have your full growth yet, which puts you nearer their level."