"Run!" screamed Miandra.
And he ran.
The family had lodgings in an up-port hotel, which shouldn't have surprised him any. Raisy's jumpsuit was a serviceable, sensible garment, but it weren't spacer togs, no more than his good jacket and respectful trading clothes could pass him as a credit-heavy grounder.
He did see some of those they passed in the lobby notice him, then look back to Raisy and form certain opinions not particularly generous of either of them.
"Should've stopped and bought me some dirt duds," he muttered, and Raisy sent him a Look before pulling a key out of her pocket and sliding it into a call box. Up on the lift board, a light glowed blue and a second or two later a door opened, showing carpet, mirrors, and soft lights.
"After you, brother," Raisy said, and he stepped in, boots sinking into the carpet.
Raisy settled herself beside him. The door slid closed, soundless, and the lift engaged with a subtle purr. Grig glanced to the side, catching their reflections in the mirror: Two long bottles of brew, craggy in the face and lean in the frame, both a little wilted with the heat. The man had his dark hair in a spacer's buzz; the woman kept hers long enough to cover her ears. Despite that, and given a change of clothes for either, they looked remarkably similar. Family resemblance, thought Grig, and laughed a little, under his breath.
"Something funny?" Raisy asked, but he shook his head and pointed at the numbers flicking by on the click-plate.
"Rent the rooftop?" He asked, not quite joking.
"Uncle likes the view," she answered, matching his tone precisely. "The equipment needs to be dry, though. So we compromise."
The numbers stopped flicking, settling on 30. The almost subliminal purr of the machinery stopped and the door slid open.
Raisy stepped out first, and turned to look back to where he stood, hesitating at the door, having fourth and fifth thoughts, and staring down a hall as deep in carpeting and showy with mirror as the lift.
"Come on, brother," she said, holding out a hand, like she was offering a tow. "Let's get you a brew, and a chance to clean up."
Grig shook his head and came into the hall under his own power, though he did give Raisy's hand a quick squeeze.
"Why not fast-forward?" he asked, with a lightness he didn't particularly feel. "I've always found Uncle went down better on an empty stomach."
Her smile flickered, and she shrugged, turning to lead the way. "Your call."
JETHRI SETTLED HIS shoulders against the cool wall and closed his eyes. His chest hurt, inside and out, and multicolored stars were spinning around inside the dark behind his eyelids. Miandra had been appropriated by Meicha the second they cleared the winery door. He'd dropped Flinx about that same time and gone to find himself a nice, secluded piece of wall to lean up against.
It came to him, in painful bursts of thought uncomfortably timed to his gasps for air, that the weather device in his pocket was far more powerful—and far more dangerous—than he, or his father, had ever guessed. Definitely not a toy for a child. Possibly not a toy for a trader grown and canny. Certainly, the occasions that he mistily remembered, when Arin had used the device to "predict" rain, might just as easily been cases of rain being somehow produced by an action of the device. His father and Grig used to argue about it, he remembered, his breathing less labored now, and his brain taking advantage of the extra oxygen. His father and Grig used to argue about it, right. Arin had insisted that the little device was a predictor, Grig had thought otherwise—or said he thought otherwise. Jethri remembered thinking that Grig was just saying it, to tease, but what if—
"There he is!" A voice cried, 'way too loud, sending his overbusy brain into a stutter. He opened his eyes.
Meicha was standing close, Miandra a little behind her shoulder. Both were staring at his chest.
"Unfortunate," Meicha commented.
"Flinx was frightened," Miandra said, her voice slow and limp sounding. The other girl's mouth twisted into a shape that was neither smile nor grin.
"Flinx was not alone." She extended a thin hand, and brushed her palm down the front of Jethri's shirt.
"Hey!" He flinched, the contact waking long slices of pain.
"Hush," she said, stepping closer. "There's blood all over your shirt." She brushed his chest again—a long, unhurried stroke—and again, just the same, except now it didn't hurt.
"Much improved, I think." She stepped back. "Ren Lar wishes to speak with you."
Now there was an unwelcome piece of news, though not exactly unexpected. Ren Lar would have a duty to find out in what shape the foster son of his mother's foster child had survived his first encounter with wild weather. A duty he was probably more than a little nervous about, considering he had just lately almost lost that same fosterson to a wild animal attack. Wild reptile. Whatever.
Still, Jethri thought, pushing away from the wall, he wished he could put the meeting off until he had sorted out his personal thoughts and feelings regarding the weather. . . device.
"Ren Lar," Meicha murmured, "is very anxious to see you, Jethri."
He sighed and gave the two of them the best smile he could pull up, though it felt unsteady on his mouth.
"I supposed you had better take me to him, then."
REN LAR WAS PERCHED on a stool behind the lab table, but the calibration equipment was dark. A screen over the table displayed an intricate and changing pattern of lines, swirls and colors that Jethri thought, uneasily, might be weather patterns, the depiction of which held Ren Lar's whole attention. Flinx the cat sat erect at his elbow, ears up and forward, tail wrapped neatly 'round his toes. He squinted his eyes in a cat smile as the three of them approached. Ren Lar didn't stir.
"Cousin?" Miandra said in her limp voice. "Here is Jethri, come to speak with you."
For a moment, nothing happened, then the man blinked, and turned, frowning into each of their faces in turn.
"Thank you," he said to the twins. "You may leave us."
They bowed, hastily, it seemed to Jethri, and melted away from his side. Flinx jumped down from the lab table and went after them. Jethri squared his shoulders and met Ren Lar's eyes, which weren't looking dreamy at all.
"Miandra tells me," the man said, with no polite inquiry into Jethri's health, or even an invitation to sit down on the stool opposite. "That you have in your possession a . . . device. . . which she believes has the ability to influence weather. I have never seen nor heard of such a device, and I have made weather a lifelong study. Therefore, son of ven'Deelin, I ask that you show me this wonder."
Mud
. He'd been hoping for time to think, to—but he couldn't, in justice, blame Miandra for bringing the business straight to her senior. Nor blame the senior for wanting a looksee.
Reluctant, he slipped the little machine out of his pocket and put it on the table. Ren Lar extended a hand—and then snatched it back like he'd been burned, a phrase Jethri didn't catch coming off of his tongue like a curse.
Ren Lar drew a hard breath and treated Jethri to a full-grown glare. "So. Put it away." He turned his head, calling out into the depths of the workroom. "Graem?
"Master?" Her voice came from somewhere deep within the shadow of the barrels.
"Call the Scouts."
"GRIGORY," THE MAN who stood up from behind the desk was long, craggy and lean. His hair was hullplate gray, short, but not buzzed; his eyes dark and deep. He smiled, which was worth sixth thoughts. Uncle in an affable mood was never good news.
Well, there wasn't nothing for it, now. He was here. Just get it over with, like Raisy said.
Thinking that, he nodded, respectful-like, and made himself smile.
"Uncle Yuri," he said, soft-voiced. "You're lookin' well, sir."
The older man nodded, pleased with him. "I'm doing well," he allowed, "for an old fellow." He moved a hand, showing Grig a deep, soft chair at the corner of the desk.
"Sit, be comfortable! Raisana, your brother wants a brew."
Grig sat, though he wouldn't have owned to comfortable, and raised a hand. "No brew for me, thanks. Can't stop long."
Uncle didn't frown, but he did let his smile dim a bit. "What's this? You haven't seen your family—your own sister!—for twenty Standards and you can't stop for a couple hours, have a brew, catch us up on your news?"
Raisy had settled on the arm of a chair somewhat back from the desk; Grig dared a quick look at her out of the corner of his eye, much good it did him. She had on her card-playing face, and if there was only one thing certain in the universe as it was configured, it was that Grig would never be his sister's equal at cards. Sighing to himself, he put his attention back on Uncle Yuri.
"Raisy said you wanted to talk to me, Uncle. Made it sound urgent, or I wouldn't have come today. Ship's down for refit and there's only me and Seeli to do the needful, with part-time help from young Khat."
Uncle's smile had dimmed even more. He sat, carefully, and folded his hands on the desk. "I didn't realize you were doing the refit yourself," he said, only a little sarcastic. "I'd've thought even Iza Gobelyn would be smart enough to bring her ship to a yard."
Grig sighed, letting it be heard. "She did, but there's issues and the yard wants close watching. They started out shorting us on the shielding and when Iza called it, the boss pushed her into a fistfight and had her banned from the yard, on risk of losing the
Market
."
Uncle's face was a study in disinterest. Tough. Grig settled his shoulders against the back of the chair and made himself smile again.
"So, we got Iza bailed out and off-planet with a nice, safe pilot's berth, and the rest of the crew'd already done the same, excepting Khat, who signed on as a willfly for the port—and Seeli, who's Admin and hasn't got no choice but to stay. And me, backing up, just like I was born to do."
That last, it maybe wasn't smart; a sideways glance at Raisy's face certainly left him with that impression, but Uncle was still holding course on affable, despite the provocation—and that was bad.
"I'm glad to hear you're such a rich resource for your ship," Uncle said. "You do your family proud."
Uh-huh. Grig ducked his head. "Thank you, sir."
There was a small pause, during which Uncle traded stares with Raisy, which didn't do much for Grig's stomach. Raisy was his sister, but she advised Uncle—and handled him—that too. Another thing she'd always been better at than Grig.
"In fact," Uncle said, having gotten whatever advice Raisy had to give him, "it was about your ship that I wanted to talk. Word is that Arin's youngest brother is missing—and that
Gobelyn's Market
no longer trades in fractins."
Grig shrugged. "There's a wobble in your info, sir. For instance, the boy ain't 'missing'—he's 'prenticed. The fractins—what there was left of 'em, after certain experiments and explorations—he's got them, too."
Uncle's smile was back, full-force, mixed with no little measure of relief.
"The work continues, then. Excellent. And you are to be commended for your part in securing the position with the Liaden trader. Our studies indicate that there are many caches within Liaden-held space."
Old studies, those were. Extrapolations and wishful thinking. Gettin' wishfuller as the timonium ran down toward inertia.
"I didn't have no part in gettin' Jethri his 'prenticeship—he did that his own self," he said, into the teeth behind Uncle's smile. "And I don't exactly think he knows that there's any work he oughta be carrying on, for the good of the family, or otherwise."
Uncle
frowned
.
"Surely, you saw to his education, after Arin's death. Why else were you on that ship?"
Grig sat up straight, feeling his mouth forming a frown to match Uncle Yuri's. "I was there as Arin's back-up, and after he died, it fell on me to make sure the boy survived to adult. Which mostly came down to making sure Iza didn't shove him out an airlock or leave him grounded somewhere. It sure didn't have nothing to do with teaching him the family trade. If I'd tried, Iza'd've spaced
me
."
Uncle stared, not saying nothing—which was more natural. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Raisy shake her head, just a mite, but the hell with that. Grig sat forward and gave Uncle his full attention.
"Arin shouldn't've played Iza Gobelyn for a fool. He knew it __ an' spent the rest of his life trying to amend it. If he'd lived, he might've reconciled her to the boy. If he'd lived, she might've been able to forget how she'd got him. Might've. So, anyhow, there's Iza, and she's got the cipher. Then
Toad
went down with the tilework overridin' ship's comps."
"
Toad
knew the risk." That was Raisy. Grig sent her a glance.
"They did. Some of us, though, we started asking if the risk was worth the prize."
"You're telling me that
Arin
thought of giving up on the project?" Grig could almost taste Uncle's disbelief.
Grig shook his head. "I'm tellin' you that the fractins are dying. They're dying, no matter what we do. It's inevitable. Irreversible. We need to give it up, Uncle."
"Give it up," Yuri repeated. "You're asking us to embrace death, Grigory."
"No, sir. I'm asking you to embrace life. We
know
what some of the Befores are capable of. We've made them the study of generations. Now—while the old ones still function and can serve as a baseline—now's the time for us to start trying to build our own, based in science that we understand."
"Grig," said Raisy, "some of that tech does stuff that is
no way
based in science we understand."
"That's right," he said, turning to face her. "That's right. And we been lucky—lucky that all we did was lose a ship every now an' then, or a couple arms and legs from somebody getting careless with a light-wand. Do you thank the ghosts of space that we never come across a planet-cracker? Do you, Raisy? I do."
"We don't know that they built planet-crackers."