Jethri jumped back, ears burning. He'd just been propositioned for bed duty, or all Dyk's tales and teasing was for naught. That everything he knew on the subject was from tales and health tapes was due again to being juniormost. None of his cousins had wanted to bed the baby. . .
"Come," Parvet sig'Flava murmured—and he thought her voice was a little slurred, like maybe this wasn't her first, or even her third, glass of wine on the evening. "My ship departs within the two-day, and shall, regrettably, miss Tilene's Festival. So," she leaned toward him, her pretty face upturned to him like one of the flowers that Gaenor so missed from her home.
"So," she said again, "since we will be denied the opportunity to meet in the park, perhaps we may embrace Festival a few days early. Perhaps we might rent us an hour-room and have joy of each other before dawn calls us each to our duty."
"Ma'am, I—that is—"
"That is," Norn ven'Deelin's voice cut in over his stammer, and very firmly, too, "that this my son is needed at his station this evening, though he thanks you most sincerely for your offer."
"Indeed," Jethri grabbed at his lagging wits and inclined his head, very respectful. "I am flattered, ma'am, but duty calls."
She looked at him, gray eyes unreadable, then bowed, senior to junior, which was right enough, Jethri thought bitterly, though making him even more aware of the potential gifts she'd had on offer.
"I understand. Fair profit." She bowed then to Norn ven'Deelin, trader to master.
"Master Trader," she murmured and faded away into the crowd.
Ears on fire, and uneasily aware of the blood pounding in his veins. Jethri turned to face Norn ven'Deelin.
"Truly, young Jethri," she said softly, "you have a knack. No one less than the sig'Flava wishes to attach you. Indeed, you are a paragon." She moved her hand, inviting him to walk with her.
"Attend me, now. Later, we will speak of Festival and. . . those other. . . lessons which you may require."
"Yes, Master Trader," he murmured, feeling four kinds of fool, and not quite able to make up his mind whether he was more grateful to her for the rescue or aggravated with himself for needing one.
She patted his arm. "Softly, child," she said, and then used her chin to point out a certain black-haired gentleman in the crowd. "Look, there is del'Fordan's heir. We must make you known to him."
SCHEDULED TO MEET Cargo Master per'Etla on the stroke of the shift-change, Pen Rel and Jethri arrived a dozen ticks or more before time—unusual, Pen Rel being a man who valued punctuality.
The unusual was explained soon enough, as, Jethri at his shoulder, Pen Rel inspected the dockside security cameras and checked the duty clerk's roster of scheduled deliveries. After that was done, there was still some time left over to wait.
Together, they leaned on the waist-high boundary wall, Jethri trying not to yawn.
Tilene's docks, like many world-side docks, were covered topside against the outside elements with sealable domes and great sliding panels. Unlike worlds where the ambient temperature or atmosphere was downright noxious, Tilene's docks were an integral part of the city, with portions of local roads and transit lines running through at odd heights.
As Pen Rel explained it, pointing here and there to make his points, the expanse of stained 'crete they stood on—currently crowded with modular bins destined for transshipment in
Elthoria's
pods—was just a wide spot in an industrial ribbon that extended across the continent in both directions, being part of a celebrated world-spanning planned city. The tremble beneath them was not from starship generators but from the flow of traffic tunneled beneath the floor they stood on; the overhead transit sets joined them to flow as an artery across mountain, farm, and plains.
The wonder of it all was somewhat lost on Jethri, who didn't much care how Grounders got from place to place, though he did try to pay attention. Knowing Pen Rel, there'd be a test—and when he least expected it, too.
A low groan came from overhead. Jethri glanced upward, and saw the dome in motion, beyond it an empty and horrifying blue-green sky. Stomach churning, he started to look away, but a sudden glitter in the high air caught his gaze.
"'ware!" he yelled, jerking right out of the lean. Grabbing Pen Rel's arm, he spun toward
Elthoria's
ramp.
"Hold!" His own arm was gripped, none too gently. "It is merely water!"
Perforce, he froze, heart pounding, and in a few moments there came a massive splash as the falling sheets met the 'crete a pod's length away, and settled into a fading mist. Pen Rel released his arm.
"It must have rained overnight," he said, shockingly calm. "The water would have collected in the guide channels." As if it explained everything. Clearly he was not concerned, and probably thought Jethri an idiot, though, as usual, he didn't say so.
From the edge of his eye, Jethri saw some winged creature pass over head, and next a silver jetship lifting for the stratosphere. He quickly averted his gaze, staring instead at the waiting bins.
"Yes, there is much to see in a city!" Pen Rel, said, apparently agreeing with something Jethri was supposed to have said.
He took a hard breath.
"You pardon," he said, glad to hear that his voice held steady. "I wonder why they opened the dome. There are no ships preparing to leave, nor any warning of an incoming. . . "
Pen Rel glanced fearlessly upward, and then back to Jethri.
"Ah, I see. Proper ship-board concerns." He swept an arm over his head, encompassing not only the dome, but the wide, empty sky beyond. "One likes to keep control of the ports, the atmosphere, and access—and how is that to be done if birds are free to fly where they might?"
Jethri almost shook his head, the neck muscles protesting as he caught the motion and produced instead a small bow of acknowledgment.
"Ah," Pen Rel said again, and inclined his head. "Mostly, it is a matter of temperature control. How much simpler, after all, to let the wandering air take the heat away than to condition the dock entire."
"My thanks," Jethri said, remembering to keep his voice soft, his gaze stringently at dock level.
A dusty vehicle trailing modular pallets was arriving hastily at their section of 'crete, various warning beeps and the noisy whine of high power hybrid electric motors an active discouragement to conversation. The victualer's sigil on the side of the vehicle was familiar enough—Jethri had seen a half-dozen or more of the same type of van running up and down the concourse as they'd waited.
The driver swung his rig in a final semi-circle, stopping amidst the puddled remains of the recent downpour. The clerk looked up from his record-keeping with a grimace.
"Well before shift-change we ask for, and what do we get? Excuses and a delivery at the hour."
"It is always thus," Pen Rel said, and then in a lighter voice, "Jethri, turn about please."
Behind him and at very nearly his own height, stood a Liaden of indeterminate age. What most distinguished him was not his height, nor even the fact that he was out-and-out grinning, but his dark, wide-brimmed hat, which he failed to doff in greeting, though he bowed a sort of all-purpose greeting in Pen Rel's general direction.
"So, my friend. You bring to me the sudden son, that we may instill in him my sixty Standards of experience in sixty hours?"
His bow to Jethri was much more complex—layered, even: retainer to son of the house, master to adult student—and a hint of something else. There was a careful extravagance in his motion Jethri put down to dealing with an awkward situation in good humor.
"Jethri ven'Deelin Clan Ixin, I—Cargo Master Gar Sad per'Etla—I welcome you to my dirt-side office. I advise you that we must hurry, for your new mother would have you ready to take any position on the ship at short notice. And, given my age, I suspect she means you to replace me soonest."
Jethri returned the bow as honestly as he could, junior to senior, with an attempt—he hoped subtle—at member of the house to retainer.
"All very pretty," Pen Rel said briskly, "but allow me to take my leave of both of you else the tradespeople will run me down." A quick bow, encompassing perhaps the entirety of the dock, its length and height, the cars beneath and the stars above, and he was off.
"We are here, young sir," the cargo master said after a moment, "to insure that you understand how the cargo department on
Elthoria
operates—and how it may vary from other tradeships you may be expected to deal with as one soon to be trading on your own. You will note that, on
Elthoria
, my department is responsible for all items coming on board, other than hand luggage."
"Now, let me ask you this: In all of your life, how many pods have you loaded?"
Later, it came to Jethri that perhaps the question had been intended rhetorically. Caught in the moment, however, he bent his brain to the count, frowning slightly at the victualers's van. . .
The cargo master laughed. If he'd been a Terran, Jethri would have considered him just a little dotty.
"No need to be embarrassed that you have no experience, young sir," the old man said.
"But I do, Master," Jethri interrupted. "I have never loaded an entire pod by myself, but in the last ten Standards I have done initial load checks on at least seventeen pods, and was final load check assistant on about the same number. I did the initial strap-downs on ten or so, and did net-string on a bunch of odd lots. I. . . "
"Enough!" Cargo Master per'Etla waved a hand. "I am cheered immensely! Now instead of needing to cover sixty years of knowledge in sixty hours we'll need only cover the final fifty-five years in sixty hours! We are saved!"
Despite himself, Jethri laughed.
"Ah, so now," the man in the hat went on, with a smile and a wink, "will you share with me? How came you by all this experience when you are so new to a house of trade?"
They leaned together on the boundary wall, per'Etla honestly interested in his charge's background. Periodically, he inclined his head, so slightly as to appear a nod, as Jethri explained how a family ship was unlikely to have a full-time cargo master and how at certain ports and with certain cargo, the entire crew might be pressed into the loading and offloading.
As he spoke, Jethri absently watched the food truck's driver using a lift-cart to offload pallets, which he deposited on the 'crete regardless of the puddled water or the marked driving lanes. Finally, he stacked them into a pile, and Jethri could see distance water dripping from the top pallets onto those lower in the pile—which pile he aimed in the general direction of the ship's dock as his lift-cart gathered speed.
Stopping in mid-sentence, Jethri pointed toward the incoming tradesman, whose approach was yet unnoticed by the clerk.
"The modules, master, contaminated in the dock-water!"
Master per'Etla glanced to the clerk, who was concentrating on his computer.
The master gestured toward the clerk, and then looked Jethri hard in the face. "What would you do, apprentice? The dock is yours to direct."
Jethri bowed quickly and strode forward, stepping into the gate and holding his hands up, palms forward, to stop the cart.
The driver appeared oblivious, then attempted to wave Jethri aside.
"Halt!"
The driver turned his rig so sharply that it tilted, pallets shifting, and finally came to a stop. He came off the seat angry, yelling so hard and fast that Jethri couldn't get more than the basic idea of what the guy was saying, which was close enough to fighting words.
Jethri found himself turning sidewise to the man, reacting automatically to the volume and the threat. . .
The driver got closer, and now the clerk was at Jethri's side, adding his voice to the general clamor, but no matter—it was suddenly like the deliveryman had gotten a good, hard look at one of the scarier ghosts of space.
Again his words came so quickly that Jethri wasn't completely sure of what they were, but the depth of the bows, and the number of them, convinced him that the driver was seriously sorry.
"I would say that your clan-pin was noted," said per'Etla quietly from his left side, "I suggest you continue with your instructions."
Jethri took a breath, and centered himself like Pen Rel was always tell him to do.
"These items here—" He pointed to the dripping edges of the pallets, to the wet tire tracks—"did you plan to bring them into the ship's hold that way? This is not some storeroom where the wind blows as it might. A ship must control its environment and avoid contamination. As a youth I once spent two dozen hours sealed in a space suit while a hold was decontaminated from a careless spot of walked-in goo. What will you have brought us on these?"
"Sir, pardon, I had not considered. Normally, I deliver to warehouses and such is not a difficulty. I mean no—"
"These cannot come onto the ship. Our clerk will contact your office and have replacements brought. These—" Jethri waved a hand, trying for one of Master tel'Ondor's showier effects—"I care not what you do with them. "
The clerk, whose name Jethri still didn't have, bowed and began to speak, sternly, to the driver.
Jethri turned his back on them both, feeling a little gone in the knees, and looked to the attentive cargo master.
"That is what I would do, were I directing the dock, Master."
The old man inclined his head.
"Indeed. I cannot argue with you entire; it is in fact the most efficient way to approach the problem, and the lesson was well given. But let me speak a moment."
Jethri took a deep breath, and inclined his head
The master motioned him toward the open port and began walking. Jethri, perforce, followed.
"Our ship is, I suspect, somewhat larger than that of your family. True it is that the sheer random nature of the dockside might permit some contaminant—oh, what a wonderful word you have taught me!—some
goo
as it were, to belabor our air system or corrode our floors.
"There are measures we can take which would likely require none of us to be suited for a Standard Day, or even a Standard Hour. Some of these measures will be taught you—
must
be taught you—that you know the capabilities of
Elthoria
. But, for the moment, you are correct. The clerk ought to have been more alert, and I believe your lesson has taught him as well as the driver; I shall not belabor him more on this.