Balance of Trade (8 page)

"
There are secrets in all families
. That's a phrase. You meet someone else who believes, who knows, they'll get that phrase to you. You don't know nothing but there's a secret, and that's all you have to know, now. But put that in your backbrain—
there are secrets in all families
. It might serve you; it might not. Course you're charting, who knows?"

Jethri was frowning in earnest now, his cup empty and his thought process just a little slow with the Smooth.

"But—what does it mean? What happens if somebody—"

Grig held up his hand. "You'll know what'll happen if it ever does. What it means. . .  It means that there's some stuff, here and there around the galaxy left over from the time of the Old War—the big war, like Khat tells about in stories. It means that your lucky fractin, there, that's not a game piece, no matter how many rules for playing with 'em we all seen—it's a Fractional Mosaic Memory Module—and nobody exactly knows what they're for." He looked at Paitor. "Though Arin thought he had an idea."

Paitor grunted. "Arin had ideas. Nothin' truer said."

Grig ran his hand over his head and produced a grin. "Paitor ain't a believer," he said to Jethri, and sat back, looking thoughtful.

"Listen," he said, "'cause I'll tell you this once, and it might sound like ol' Grig, he's gone a little space-wise. But just listen, and remember—be aware, that's all. Paitor don't want to hear this again—didn't want to hear it the first time, I'm bettin'—but him and me—we agreed you need a place to work from; information that Iza don't want you to have." He paused.

"These fractins, now—they're Old Tech. Really old tech. Way we figured it, they was old tech when the big war started. And the thing is—we can't duplicate them."

Jethri stared, and it did occur to him that maybe Grig had started his drinking before the Blusharie. The big war—the Old War—well, there'd been one, that much was sure; most of the Befores you'd come up with, they was pieces from the war—or from what folks called the war, but could've been some other event. Jethri'd read arguments for and against had there been or had there not been a war, as part of history studies. And the idea of a tech that old that couldn't be duplicated today. . . 

"What kind of tech?" he asked Grig. "And why can't we copy it?"

"Good questions, both, and I'd be a happier man if I had an answer for either. What I can tell you is—if that fractin of yours is one of the real ones—one of the old ones—it's got a tiny bit of timonium in there. You can find that from the outside because of the neutrinos—and all the real ones ever scanned had its own bit of timonium. Something else you find is that there's structure inside—they ain't just poured plastic or something. Try to do a close scan, though, maybe get a looksee at the shape of that structure, and what happens?
Zap!
Fried fractin. The timonium picks up the energy and gives off a couple million neutrinos and some beta and gamma rays—and there's nothing left but slagged clay. Try to peel it? You can't; same deal."

Jethri took of sip of his dwindling drink, trying to get his mind around the idea that there was tech hundreds of Standards old that couldn't be cracked and duplicated.

"As I say," Grig said, soft-like, "Paitor ain't a believer. What him, and Iza and a whole lot of other folks who're perfectly sane, like maybe I'm not on the subject, nor Arin neither—what they think is that the Old War wasn't nearly as big as others of us believe. They don't believe that war was fought with fractins, and about fractins. Arin thought that; and he had studies—records of archeological digs, old docs—to back him. He could map out where fractins was found, where the big caches were, show how they related to other Before caches—and when the finds started to favor the counterfeits over the real thing." He sighed.

"So, see, this just ain't our family secret. Some of the earlier studies—they went missing. Stolen. Arin said some people got worried about what would happen if Loopers and ship owners got interested in Befores as more than a sometime high-profit oddity. If they started looking for Old Tech, and figured out how to make 'em work.

"Arin didn't necessarily think we should make these fractins work—but he thought we should know what they did—and how. In case of need. Then, he got an analysis—"

Grig sipped, and sat for a long couple heartbeats, staring down into his cup.

"You know what half-life is, right?" He asked, looking up.

Jethri rolled his eyes, and Paitor laughed. Grig sighed.

"Right. Given the half-life of that timonium, Arin figured them for about eighteen hundred Standards old. Won't be long—say ten Standards, for some of the earlier ones; maybe a hundred for the latest ones—before the timonium's too weak to power—whatever it powers. Might be they'll just go inert, and anybody's who's interested can just take one, or five, or five hundred apart and take a peek inside.

"Arin, now. Arin figured fractins was maybe memory—warship, library, and computer, all rolled into one, including guidance and plans. That's what Arin thought. And it's what he wanted you to know. Iza and the Golds and all them other sane folks, they think they don't need to know. They say, only a fool borrows trouble, when there's so much around that's free. Me? I think you ought to know what your father thought, and I think you ought to keep your eyes and your mind open. I don't know that you particularly need to talk to any Liadens about it—but you'll make that call, if and when you have to."

He looked deep into his cup, lifted it and drained what was left.

"That it?" Paitor asked, quietly

Grig nodded. "It'll do."

"Right you are, then." He held out a hand; Grig passed him the bottle, and he refilled the cups, one by one.

He stood, and Grig did, and after a moment, Jethri did. All three raised their cups high.

"To your success, your honor, and your duty, Free Hand!" His kin said, loud enough to set the walls to thrumming. And Jethri squared his shoulders, and blinked back the sudden tears—and they talked of easier things until the cups were empty again.

"MUD," JETHRI MUTTERED, as his blade scraped across the hatch. Lower lip caught between his teeth, he had another go with the wrench-set, and was at last rewarded with an odd fluttering hiss, that sent him skipping back a startled half-step.

Pressure differential
, he thought, laughing at himself.

The sound of squeezing air faded and the cover plate popped away when he probed it with the blade point.

Stuffed into the cavity was some paper, likely to stop the plate from rattling the way Khat's did whenever they were accelerating, and he pulled it out, ready to crumple and toss it—and checked, frowning down at the paper itself.

Yellow and gritty—it was printout from the comm-printer the captain didn't use any more. She'd always called it Arin's printer, like she didn't want anything to do with it, anyway, 'cause she didn't like to deal with nothing ciphered. Curiously, he separated the edges and opened the paper. There was his birth date, a series of random letters and numbers that likely weren't random at all if you knew what you was looking at and—

. . .  WILDETOAD WILDETOAD WILDETOAD like an emergency beacon might send out.

WildeToad
? Jethri knew his ship histories, but he would've known this one, anyway, being as Khat told a perfect hair-raiser about
Toad's
last ride.
WildeToad
had gone missing years ago, and none of the mainline Wildes had been seen since. Story was, they'd gone to ground, which didn't make no sense, them having been spacers since before there was space, as the sayin' went.

Jethri squinted at the paper.

Mismatch, there's a mismatch, going down

WILDETOAD WILDETOAD WILDETOAD

We're breaking clay. Check frequency

WILDETOAD WILDETOAD WILDETOAD

Thirty hours. Warn away Euphoria

WILDETOAD WILDETOAD WILDETOAD

Racks bare, breaking clay

WILDETOAD WILDETOAD WILDETOAD

Lake bed ahead. We're arming. Stay out.

L.O.S. TRANSMISSION ENDS

Lake bed
, he thought. And,
gone to ground
. Spacer humor, maybe; it had that feel. And it got him in the stomach, that he held in his hand the last record of a dying ship. Why had his father used such a thing to shim the plate in his door? Bad luck. . .  He swallowed, read the page again, frowning after nonsense phrases.

Breaking clay? Racks bare? This was no common ship-send, he thought, the grainy yellow paper crackling against his fingers. Arin's printer. The message had come into Arin's printer. Coded, then—but—

A chime sounded, the four notes of "visitor aboard." Jethri jumped, cussed, and jammed the paper and the nameplate into his duffle, resealed the hatch as quick as he could, and took off down the hall at a run.

IT WAS A SMALL group at the main lock: Khat, Iza, and Uncle Paitor to witness his farewell. Master ven'Deelin's assistant, Pen Rel, stood more at his ease than seemed likely for a man alone on a stranger ship, his smooth, pretty face empty of anything like joy, irritation, or boredom. His eyes showed alert, though, and it was him who caught Jethri first, and bowed, very slightly.

"Apprentice. The master trader assigns me your escort."

Jethri paused and bowed, also slightly—that being the best he could manage with the bag slung across his back.

"Sir. The master trader does me too much honor," he said.

The blue eyes flickered—very likely Pen Rel agreed—but give the man his due, neither smirk nor smile crossed his face, either of which he had every right to display, according to Jethri's counting.

Instead, he turned his attention to Iza Gobelyn and bowed again—deep, this time, displaying all proper respect to the captain-owner.

"The master trader sends felicitations, Captain. She bids me say that she has herself placed a child of her body into the care of others, for training, knowing the necessity at the core of her trader's heart. A mother's heart, however, is both more foolish and more wise. She therefore offers, mother to mother, route-list and codes. Messages sent by this method will reach Jethri Gobelyn immediately. Its frequent use is encouraged."

Another bow—this one no more than a heavy tip of the head—a flourish, and there was a data card between the first and second fingers of his extended hand.

Iza Gobelyn's mouth pursed up, as if she'd tasted something sour. She didn't quite place her hands behind her back—not quite that. But she did shake her head, side-to-side, once, decisive-like.

Jethri felt himself draw breath, hard. Not that he had expected his mother would have wanted to keep in touch with him when he was gone, like she'd never bothered to do when he was a member of her crew. It was just—the rudeness, when Master ven'Deelin. . .  He blinked, and sent a short glance straight to Khat, who caught it, read it, and stepped forward, smooth and soft-footed.

Gently, she slipped the card from between Pen Rel's fingers, and bowed, deeper than he had done, thereby showing respect for the master trader's emissary.

"Please convey to the master trader our appreciation of her kindness and her forethought," she said, which deepened the frown on Iza's face, and put some color back into Paitor's.

For his part, Jethri felt his chest ease a little—
catastrophe averted
, he thought, which should have been the truth of it, except that Master ven'Deelin's aide stood there for a heartbeat too long, his head cocked a mite to one side, waiting. . . 

. . . and then waiting no longer, but bowing in general farewell, while his eyes pegged Jethri and one hand moved in an unmistakable sweep:
Let's go, kid.

Swallowing, Jethri went, following the Liaden down the ramp.

"'bye Jethri," he heard Khat whisper as he went past her. "We'll miss you."

Her hand touched his shoulder fleetingly, and under his shirt the key clung a bit, then
Gobelyn's Market
clanged as the portals closed behind him.

AT THE END OF the
Market's
dock, Pen Rel turned left, walking light, despite the gravity. Jethri plodded along half a step behind, and pretty soon worked up a sweat, to which the Port dust clung with a will.

Traffic increased as they went on, and he stretched his legs to keep his short guide in sight. Finally, the man paused, and waited while Jethri came up beside him.

"Jethri Gobelyn." If he noticed Jethri's advanced state of dishevelment, he betrayed it by not the flicker of an eyelash. Instead, he blandly inclined his bright head.

"Shortly, we will be rising to
Elthoria
. Is there aught on port that you require? Now is the time to acquire any such items, for we are scheduled to break orbit within the quarter-spin."

Breathless, Jethri shook his head, caught himself, and cleared his throat.

"I am grateful, but there is no need." He lifted the smaller bag somewhat. "Everything that I require is in these bags."

Golden eyebrows rose, but he merely moved a languid hand, directing Jethri's attention down the busy thoroughfare.

"Alas, I am not so fortunate and must fulfill several errands before we board. Do you continue along this way until you find Ixin's sign. Present yourself to the barge crew, and hold yourself at the pilot's word. I will join you ere it is time to lift."

So saying, he stepped off the curb into the thronging traffic, vanishing, to Jethri's eye, into the fast-moving crowd.

Mud!
he thought, his heart picking up its rhythm, then, "Mud!" aloud as a hard elbow landed on his ribs with more force than was strictly necessary to make the point, while a sharp voice let out with a liquid string of Liaden, the tone of which unmistakably conveyed that this was no place for ox-brained Terrans to be napping.

Getting a tighter grip on his carry-bag, Jethri shrugged the backpack into an easier position and set off, slow, his head swiveling from one side to the next, like a clean 'bot on the lookout for lint, craning at the signs and sigils posted along both sides of the way.