Troy Rising 1 - Live Free or Die (4 page)

“I almost stopped reading in the first few panels,” Wathaet said, “because I did not
understand the cultural conditions of stealing the infant's candy. When I was able to
grasp it fully, though, I very nearly had an accident. Rule Nine: If the other guy doesn't
feel screwed we're not doing our jobs. I printed that out and put it up in the mess. We
all got it. But I personally feel it's more of a guideline.”

“Same here,” Tyler said. “If I'd really been a backstabber I would have been a VP.”

“Why did you stop writing?” Wathaet asked. “I was only able to find the comic on an
archive server and there were no notices to explain your cessation.”

“Whooo...” Tyler said. “Big answer. Basically, it was an economic decision. As soon as the
gate opened everyone in the industry quickly saw that anything SF was falling off. So I
got dropped like a hot potato in most of my markets. The website traffic fell off sharply
as well and merch. Then with our Horvath protectors requiring a very high payment for
protection, server space started getting expensive. Eventually it simply wasn't
economical.”

“You have very few new drawings on your personal system,” Wathaet said. “Sorry about
looking. But your information systems are so primitive that it's a bit like trying not to
look through a plate glass window. Once I'd scanned all your available archives on other
systems I set my system to find more and only realized I was in your personal system when
I saw many of them were partials. But I think you haven't had much time. Your personal and
business finances are terribly screwed up. My apologies. Again, it's rather hard
not
to look.”

“No problem,” Tyler said, gritting his teeth. “On another subject, was trading good?”

“No,” the Glatun admitted. “With the Horvath control of your heavy metals, which were
paltry anyway, your world has virtually nothing to trade. Despite that, every time one of
our ships comes here we have to first meet with members of your senior governments who ask
if there's anything we, the traders mind you, can do about the Horvath. No, there's not.
Then we meet with senior corporate representatives who have gathered such things as we
might be interested in and we trade. The pattern is always the same. And, really, what am
I going to get for folk art?”

“The Venus D' Milo is hardly folk art!” Tyler said. He'd seen the news. “Not to mention
the paintings.” He paused and sighed. “Sorry. I really do understand the situation.
Probably better in some ways than those 'senior representatives.'”

“Hmmm. From your comic I would say that is the case but how exactly?”

“Look up Polynesian contact with the West,” Tyler said. “I assume that is...”

“Yes, the similarities are there. We do not carry diseases but...”

“You're trading iron nails for pearls,” Tyler said. “Well, you were. Now our Horvath
benefactors receive the pearls as an honorarium for their defense of our system. And we
only have coconut husks and carvings to sell.”

“Do you really think the Horvath are your benefactors?” Wathaet asked.

“Of course I do,” Tyler said, smiling. “Our Horvath benefactors who find our systems as
porous as you do and are listening to this conversation on my cellphone are our
friends
!”

“Ah,” the Glatun said, making a noise something like a sneeze. “Don't worry. The Horvath
are most certainly not listening to any conversation
I
am involved in.”

“Really?” Tyler asked.

“Really. Horvath systems are better than
yours
. But the information systems on what they call a battlecruiser, which is not much bigger
than a Glatun admiral's landing barge, are no match for even
my
ship. And I'll admit I don't have galaxy class systems. The Horvath are most certainly
not listening.”

“In that case,” Tyler said, smiling again. “Of course we're poor. They're stealing all our
metals. What I don't get is why the Glatun don't throw them out so Glatun traders get the
metals.”

“Other than assuring the safety of trade our military tries very hard to avoid
non-strategic entanglements,” Wathaet said. “That has not always been the case and we've
had times in our history of military adventurism and colonialism. But we've given that up
mostly.”

“I can understand that, too,” Tyler said, nodding. “I know this is a shot in the dark, but
have people sort of shown you, well,
everything
we have to trade?”

“What do you mean?” the Glatun said then held up a hand. “Your turn to talk.”

“Damn,” Tyler said, getting up and trying to remember what he was going to say.

He managed to stumble through some remarks then sat back down quickly.

“You said something about everything you have to trade,” Wathaet said. “Your produced
items are rather crude and expensive for you to produce compared to fabbers. Not
economical for us. There's not much mark-up in the market for things that are simply made
by hand. A fabber can produce variation easily. We produce what you consider precious gems
practically as industrial waste...”

“Got all that,” Tyler said. “I mean, you
read
the comic. Covered that.”

“True. And Forella really screwed those natives.”

“Well, they deserved it. What about commodity materials?” Tyler asked.

“You mean foodstuffs?” Wathaet said. “I did read the comic. You know as well as I that
your foodstuffs are chemically incompatible. We may have some similarity in appearance to
terrestrial organisms but our chemistry is radically different. You covered that as well.”

“Which is all very good theory but it hasn't been
tested
,” Tyler said.

“Yes, it has,” Wathaet said. “By the first contact ship. We're incompatible.”

“Did they test
everything
?” Tyler said. “If not...”

“My turn to talk,” Wathaet said, getting up. “Where is that... Ah. There's the speech...”

Tyler sort of tuned out his speech and thought.

“What are you doing before you leave?” Tyler asked as Wathaet sat back down.

“We leave on Wednesday,” Wathaet said. “That's when we're picking up our last few trades.
Not much on Monday. Why?”

“Let's check,” Tyler said. “I'll load up my pick-up with just... stuff. You've got
something that can tell if it's poisonous, I'm sure.”

“Yes,” Wathaet said.

“I'll bring a bunch of... stuff,” Tyler said. “It'll take a bit for you to check them but
there might be something that you can find that's worth trading. If so, you make a profit
and I've got the lock on a major extra-terrestrial market. Unlikely but why think small?”

“Intriguing,” Wathaet said. “I'll do it. On one condition.”

“Which is?” Tyler asked, warily.

“Can you... do a sketch?”

***

“Mr. Vernon?”

Tyler looked up from the sketch he was doing and smiled.

“Hey, how you doing?”

“Great,” the man said, smiling. Six foot, short red hair, really Irish complexion, green
eyes. Miskatonic U T-shirt and jeans. “My name's Dan Poore. I'm a really big fan.”

“Glad to hear that,” Tyler said, handing the previous customer his sketch.

“Thanks Mr. Tyler,” the kid said, forking over ten bucks. “This is great!”

“And thank you,” Tyler said, ignoring the mistake. “Would you like a sketch... uh...”

“Dan,” the red-head said. “Uh... sure.” He dug in his pocket and came up with two fives.
“Could you do one of the Glatun?”

“Wathaet? Sure,” Tyler said. Might as well get some practice.

“You guys were sure talking up a storm on the stage,” Dan said.

“Turns out he did some research on the people he might be meeting and took to
TradeHard
,” Tyler said, starting to sketch rapidly.

“I guess... a story about a group of space free-traders would make sense to an alien
free-trader,” Dan said. “Were you just talking about the comic?”

“That and why I stopped doing it,” Tyler said. “And he wants me to come over to the ship
and do a sketch of him and the crew and the ship
TradeHard
style.”

“Getting paid in atacirc?” Dan asked, curiously.

“I wish,” Tyler said, handing over the sketch. “Thanks for your continued support. Are you
part of TradeCrew?”

“Uh, no,” Dan said. “But I'd like to get a What's Your Score? T-Shirt.”

“Twenty-five bucks,” Tyler said, handing over a large. “And thank you again.”

“Must be a bit of a come-down doing small cons,” Dan said, forking over the money. “I hope
I didn't...”

“Just love the people,” Tyler said, neutrally. “Anything else?”

“No,” Dan said. “Thanks.”

***

Special Agent Daniel Nolan Poore got in the van and was swept head to foot before he
opened his mouth.

“He's meeting with the Glatun. Didn't get into when. Says he's just doing a sketch of the
crew and the captain.”

“Why do they want a sketch?” the Senior Special Agent asked.

“Said that Wathaet's a fan,” Dan said, shrugging. “Makes sense.”

“Write it up,” the SSA said. “Long-hand. I want somebody with a camera, and I shouldn't
have to point this out but a
chemical
camera, getting shots. I don't want the Horvath or the Glatun to realize they're under
surveillance.”

As he drove back to Boston on Monday, Tyler had to admit that he'd much rather work for
Chuck on Day Shift. When he'd gone to the general manager and asked if he could scrounge
through the rejects that were being returned Chuck had just waved. Among other things,
Chuck was a fan and while that didn't get Tyler many points it allowed them to communicate
better.

People generally didn't buy something in grocery stores that was dinged, scratched or
otherwise marred. They'd eat stuff that had so little nutrition that they might as well
eat the box but woe-betide if the box was crushed. So anything that wasn't visually
perfect got sent back to the vendors and either got credited or sold through outlets.
There were rules against giving it to most food banks for that matter. Most of it was just
thrown away.

Most of the damage occurred over the weekend so Tyler had had plenty of stuff to pick
through and he'd gotten just about one of everything. The likelihood of any of it being
compatible to the Glatun, much less valuable, was small. But long shots occasionally hit
and it was this or cut trees.

Tyler really wanted to wangle a ride on the ship. There was no way that was going to fly
but it was a childhood dream.

He hadn't just come up with
TradeHard
on the spur of the moment, he'd wanted to
be
Wathaet from the time he was a kid. His grandfather was in his sixties before they ever
met but he remembered the old man's stories like they were yesterday. Granda had been a
crewman, eventually rising to captain, on tramp steamers that plied the South Seas trade
back when they were still converting from sail to steam. His stories of trading for copra,
fights with gangs in pre-Communist Shanghai and, as they both got older, beautiful island
maidens, were some of the highlights of Tyler's childhood. That and books, mostly SF books
once he found them. Combine Norton and Heinlein and Poul with Granda and you got
TradeHard
, what Tyler
really
wanted to do when he grew up.

He'd considered going into the merchant marine rather than college but it simply wasn't
the same as when Granda was a crewman. American crewmen, especially, ran under so many
rules, unions and regulations that it wasn't much different from being part of any other
corporation. The soul was gone from it.

Space, though, had to be different. There was just too much variety available. Sure, there
were problems. But they'd be bigger... grander.

***

“So for two fifteen minute speeches you managed to make our gate fees,” Drath said,
sourly. The ship's purser blew out a line of spittle and recovered it. “And that only by
smuggling out that guy's stash of gold coins. How the hell did he hang onto those, by the
way?”

“Look up 'survivalist,'” Wathaet said. “It's a really bizarre religion these people have.”

“Unless we can find a rich buyer with a queer jones for alien folk art we're not going to
make fuel! And that doesn't count the damned mortgage. We are so screwed.”

“I know,” Wathaet said, lifting his mane in a shrug. “Meeting that guy who used to do the
TradeHard
comic. He's bringing some stuff for me to look at. Not much chance any of it will be
worth anything but at this point...”

“It's about all we can hope,” Drath said. “Well, I hear Norada Lines is hiring. Back to
being a cargo handler.”

“Yeah, good for you,” Wathaet said. “I'm not qualified on anything bigger than a Class IV.
I'm going to be doing the Tranat run for the rest of my life. I
hate
Tranat station! It's a damned
gas
mine! There aren't even any good bars!”

***

“Hi,” Tyler said to the armed guard at the gate. The
Spinward Crossing
, which was smaller than he'd realized, was tucked into a warehouse in a half-finished
industrial park near Reading. Why they'd picked the Boston area was anyone's guess. Most
of the ships that had landed in the US had landed near Washington or LA. “Vernon Tyler.
I'm supposed to meet with Captain Wathaet.”

“Yes, sir,” the security guard said, consulting a list. “Could I see some ID?”

“Why are there guards on the ship?” Tyler asked.

“Believe it or not, some people can't sort out the difference between Glatun and our
Horvath benefactors,” the guard said, handing back his ID. “So far we haven't had any
protestors but there have been... incidents in other countries.”

“Ah,” Tyler said. “I'm not going to cause an incident.”

“No, sir,” the guard said, opening the gate. “Have a nice day.”

***

“Captain Wathaet,” Tyler said as he parked the pick-up. He'd been directed to bring it
actually
into
the warehouse so he was able to park it right by the ship. That was after another
security check which had searched the back and underside of the pickup, presumably for
bombs.

“Mr. Vernon,” Wathaet said, stepping down from the cargo ramp. “A pleasure to see you
again. What have you brought?”