The Crystal Variation (103 page)

There was nothing left to show the place had been his particular private quarters for more than half his lifetime. Looking at it, the space could be anything, really: a supply closet, a specialty cargo can . . .

Jethri shook his head, trying to recapture the burning joy he’d felt, signing his line on the ‘prentice contract, finding himself instead, and appallingly, on the near side of bawling his eyes out.

It’s not like you’re wanted here
, he told himself, savagely.
You were on the good-riddance roster, no matter what.

Still, it hurt, staring around at what had once been his space, feeling his personals no considerable weight across his back.

He swallowed, forcing the tears back down into his chest. Damned if he would cry. Damned if he would.

Which was well. And also well to remember that value wasn’t necessarily heavy. In fact, it might be that the most valuable thing he carried away from the ship weighed no more than an ounce—Uncle Paitor had come through with the Combine key, springing for the ten-year without a blink—a measure of how good the
vya
had done. Khat had donated a true-silver long-chain, and now it hung round his neck, with key in place.

He’d been afraid, nearly, that Khat would kiss him right then, when she put the key on the chain and dropped it round his neck, then stood close and reached out to tuck the key sudden-like down his day-shirt.

“Promise me you’ll wear this and remember us!” she said, and hugged him, as unexpected as the potential kiss, and missed as greatly as soon as she released him.

And so he had promised, and could feel the key becoming familiar and comfortable as he got himself together.

Then there was his ship-share, which had come to a tidy sum, with a tithe atop that, that he hadn’t expected, and which Seeli’d claimed was his piece of the divvy-up from his father’s shares.

“Payable in cash,” Seeli had said, further, not exactly looking at him. “On departure from the ship. Since you’re going off to trade for another ship, this counts. Those of us who stay, the ship carries our shares in General Fund.”

He’d also taken receipt of one long, assaying, straight-eyed glance from the captain with the words said, in front of Dyk before they signed those papers—

“You chose your ship, you got your inheritance, you think you know what you want. So I witness you, Jethri son of Arin, a free hand.” She’d shook his hand, then, like he was somebody, and turned away like he was forgot.

So, now, here he stood, on the edge of an adventure, kit and cash in hand. A goodly sum of cash, for a Terran juniormost; an adequate kit, for the same. ‘mong Liadens, who knew where he stood?—though soon enough he’d find out.

He felt his private pocket, making sure he had coin and notes and his fractin, then patted his public pocket, making sure of the short-change stowed there.

The ship clock chimed, echoing off the metal walls. Jethri took one more look around the bare cubby. Right. Time to get on with it.

AS SOON AS THE door
slid closed behind him, he remembered the last thing Paitor had said, leaning over to tap his finger against the nameplate set in the door.

“You pull that on the way out, y’hear? Rule is, when crew moves on, they take their nameplate so there ain’t any confusion ‘case of a crash.” He nodded, maybe a little wise with the Smooth, and clapped Jethri on the shoulder. “That’s yours as much as anything on this ship ever was.”

Right.

Jethri slid the duffle off his shoulder, opened the door, and pulled the wrench-set off his belt. The nameplate showed through a blast resistant window set into the body of the door, with the access hatch on the inside. One-handed, he quickly undid the eight inset-togs probably last touched by his father, second hand held ready to catch the hatch when it fell.

Except, even with the togs loose the cover didn’t fall right out, so he sighed and reached for his side-blade, and unsnapped it from the holster.

Who’d have thought this would be so tough?

He could see that asking for help getting his nameplate out of the door wouldn’t play too well with his cousins—and wasn’t it just like Mister Murphy to be sure and make an easy task hard, when he was needing to be on time . . . If Paitor and Grig hadn’t kept him up clear through mid-Opposite—

The captain had made it plain that she’d look dimly on any celebration of Jethri’s new status—which was bad form when any crew left a ship but ‘specially bad when a child of the ship went for a new berth. Strictly speaking, they should’ve called ‘round to the other ships on port, and had a party, if not a full-blown shivary. In time, the news would spread through the free-ships—and news it was, too. But, no; it was like the captain was embarrassed that her son was ‘prenticed to a Liaden master trader; which, as far as Jethri could find, was a first-time-ever event.

So, everyone was nice to him, ‘cept the captain, and there wasn’t any party, so he’d taken his time going through his belongings and packing up, finding so much of what he had was left over from being a kid; so much was stuff he didn’t need, or even want. And, o’course, there was the stuff that he
did
want that he hadn’t had since his father died. The fractin collection, of which his lucky tile was the last link; the pictures of Arin; the trade journal they’d been working on together—Seeli’d let on, without exactly coming out and saying so, that the captain had spaced it all years ago, so it wasn’t no sense feeling like he’d just been stripped of what was his.

But, still, he wished he had those things to pack.

All that being so, he was in something of a mood when the tap came on his door, just after Opposite shift rang in. And he’d been surprised right out of that mood to find Grig and Paitor on the other side, asking permission to enter.

Lanky Grig—back-up navigator, back-up pilot, back-up cook, back-up trader, and in-system engineer—folded himself up on the edge of the bunk/acceleration couch, while Jethri and Paitor took the magna-tracked swivel stools.

Once they were situated, Paitor pulled a green cloth bag from his pocket, and Grig brought three stainless drinking cups from his pouch. Jethri sat, his fractin snug in his hand, and wondered what was up.

“Jethri,” Paitor began, then stopped as if he’d forgot what he was going to say for a second. He took a look at the bag on his knee, then untied the silver cord with its pendant tag from around the top, and handed the cord off to Jethri, who slid it into his public pocket, along with the fractin.

Paitor slipped the bag down, revealing a blue bottle, sealed with gold foil.

“The time has come, ol’ son,” Grig said quietly. “You’re a free hand now—time for you to have a drink with your peers.”

Paitor smiled like he only half wanted to, and lifted the bottle in two hands, like it was treasure.

“If I may do the honors here,” he said, holding the bottle out so Jethri could read the label. “This here’s Genuine Smooth Blusharie. Been with us since the day you was born. Arin picked it up, see? Since the captain drinks a meaner line than this, bottle was just gathering dust in the locker, and we figured we’d better make use of it before someone who don’t really ‘preciate it drinks it by mistake.”

He smiled again, more like he meant it this time, and twisted the seal. There was a crackle as it gave way, and sharp
pop
a moment later, as the cork come out. Grig held the cups out, carefully, one after the other, and Paitor filled each with gem-colored liquid.

When they were each holding a cup and the bottle was recorked and stowed next to Grig on the bunk, Paitor cleared his throat.

“NOW, JETHRI,”
he said, talking slow, “I know you heard a lot of advice from me over your years and you probably got right tired of it—” Grig snorted a laugh and Jethri nodded in rueful agreement, holding his cup carefully— “but there’s just a little bit more you got to hear. First is this: Don’t never gulp Blusharie, whether it’s smooth or whether it’s not. If it
ain’t
smooth, gulping it will knock you off your pins so hard you’ll think you had a code red collision. If it
is
smooth, you’ll be wasting one of the rare joys of this life and didn’t deserve to have it.”

Paitor lifted his cup and Grig, his. Jethri lifted his, looking from one lifelong familiar face to another, seeing nothing but a concentration on the moment.

“To Jethri Gobelyn, free hand!”

“Long may he trade!” Grig added, and he and Paitor clinked their cups together, Jethri joining them a second late. He looked into the amber depths of the liquid, and sipped himself a tiny sip.

It all but took his breath, that sip, leaving a smooth tartness on his tongue and a tingling at the back of his throat. Fiery and mellow at once—

He noticed that he was being watched, and had a second sip, smiling.

“It’s not like ale or beer at all!”

Grig laughed, low and comfortable. “No, not at all.”

“So there, Jethri, that’s some advice for you, and a secret, of a kind,” said Paitor, sipping at his own cup. “There’s traders all over the Combine who got no idea where to get this or why they’d want to. But you find yourself someone who fancies himself a knowing drinker, and you can get yourself a customer for life.”

Jethri nodded, remembering the silver cord on his pocket, with the name of the vintage and the cellar stamped on the seal.

“‘Course, there’s more to life than Smooth Blusharie, too,” Paitor said after another gentle sip. “So, what we got to tell you, is—there’s things you gotta know.”

His latest sip of Smooth Blusharie heavy on his tongue, Jethri looked up into Paitor’s face, noting that it had changed again, from sadly serious to trading-bland, and sat up straight on his stool.

“All families have their secrets,” Paitor said slowly. “This ship and this family’re no different’n most. Thing is, sometimes not all secrets get shared around so good, and some things that should’ve been kept so secret they’re forgot get talked about too much.” He took a short sip from his cup. “One of the things that might’ve been kept secret but wasn’t, was how you wasn’t expected.”

Jethri looked down into his cup, biting his lip, and figured this was a good time to have another sip.

“Now,” Paitor went on, still talking slow and deliberate. “What likely
was
kept secret was what Arin and Iza were doing together in the first place, seein’ as some would call—and did call—them a mismatch from ignition to flare out.”

What was this? Seeli, his source of all information about his parents, had never hinted that there’d been any trouble between Iza and Arin. All the trouble had come later, with Jethri.

“What it was, see, Jethri,” his uncle was saying, “is that the Gobelyn side goes back a long way in the Combine. Gobelyns was founding members of the Combine—and part of the trade teams before that. An’ even before the trade teams, Gobelyns was ship folk.”

Jethri frowned. “That’s no secret, Uncle. The tapes. . .”

Grig snorted, and had a sip of the Smooth. His face was hooded; closed, like he was misdirecting a buyer around a defect. Paitor looked across to him.

“Your turn now?” he asked, real quiet.

Grig shook his head. “No, sir—and I’m damned if that ain’t another secret been kept! But, no. Go on.”

After a minute, Paitor nodded, and sipped and leaned over to gently shake the bottle.

“That’s fine, then,” he murmured. “A glass to talk on and a glass to clear it.”

“We’ll do it,” Grig said, nodding, too, with his face still a study in grim. “Really.”

“Right. We will.” Paitor took a hard breath. “So, Jethri, the way it was—Arin come along about the time the Gobelyns was set to call precedence at a shipowner meeting. Timing was bad, you might say, it being right near the time when the internal power-shift went from ship-base to world-base. The Combine had got so big, it owned pieces of planets, big and small, not to mention controlling shares in a good many grounder corps, and its interest shifted from securing the trade-lanes to protecting its investments. Which meant that the ships and shipowners who’d founded the Combine and built it strong wasn’t in charge no more.

“So, anyway, they’d called an owners’ meeting there on Caratunk, and the Gobelyns had the backin’ they needed. That’s when Arin showed up with the word that the owners’ meeting had been downgraded from rule-making to advisory, by a twenty-seven to three commissioner vote. Now understand, Arin come from trade background too, but he’d started real young gettin’ formal educated. Spent years on-planet—went to college planet-side, went to University, took history courses, took pilot courses, took trading and economics—and so when that vote came up, he was one of the three commissioners on the losing end.”

Jethri blinked, cup half-way to his lips, Smooth Blusharie forgotten in blank astonishment.

“My father was a
commissioner
?”

Grig laughed, short and sharp.

“Not once he got out to Caratunk he wasn’t,” Paitor answered, sparing a quick glare for the lanky man on the bunk. “Left his vote card right there on the table, grabbed up his money, his collections, and his co-pilot, and quit on the spot. Figured the best way to help the owners an’ preserve the routes was to be out with us. And so he did that.”

“Finish your sip, boy,” Grig instructed, taking one of his own. Jethri followed suit. He’d met a commissioner once, when he was young—

“RIGHT,”
said Paitor, “you might remember the ship was busy once. Lots of folks comin’ by when we was in port, lots of talk, presents for the youngers . . . Even though Arin wasn’t a commissioner no more, him knowing how the systems worked, Combine and planet-side—the owners, they come to him for advice, for planning out how to maybe not rely so heavy on Combine contacts and Combine contracts.”

“But it stopped. After . . . the accident.” Jethri could vaguely remember a day when they were in port and Arin got called away—as he so often did—and then the ship was locked down, and his mother screamed and—

“It was a bad time. Thought we’d lose your mother too. Blamed herself for lettin’ him go, like there was some way she could have stopped him.”