Chapter 2: Orbital Commerce

There is a small creek out in a woods. It is the kind of creek that is soft and unassuming, the kind of creek whose water might glow briefly if the sunlight hit it just right. Or it might not. It is the kind of creek that harbors no dreams of being a powerful river; the responsibility would be far too much for it. Such a thing would imply large fish and small boats; it would mean the river would have to play host to civilization and bear the stench of chemical dumps. No, this creek does not want any part of that.

If one followed the creek for a time, he or she would quickly lose sight of town. Not long after that, though, that person would come into view of what was a small secret to only a few: a serene pond lined with beautiful, bright pink ferns. They are a species unique to Dresda, as any attempt to move them invariably resulted in their death. But when left alone they thrive, abundant, soft to the touch, and wonderful to behold.

Near the edge of the pond lies a young girl, splayed out under the shade of the nearby trees. Her hair is cut short, almost to make it so one may mistake her for a small boy instead, were it not for the floral patterns folded around her in a dress. Despite attempts to create some sort of position of repose, she has no interest in rest. She rolls onto her back, then her stomach; she sits up to look over the water, then flops back down, arms flung wide; she picks at rocks and sticks that appeal to her, then at the straps of a ragged and dull gray backpack sitting despondent near her head.

The man beside her, much older though barely past childhood himself, is far more still. Occasionally an arm rises to scratch at the patch of hair on his chin, and the limb then returns to the grass behind him and his entire body rocks back as if sitting up on one hand was a perilous balancing act that would only be dismounted by a controlled fall. His voice is used intermittently, sometimes to fill the silence and sometimes to respond to his niece.

It is still more often silent than not, but neither of them seem to mind. The silence is inviting, a complement to the serenity of the natural garden. It is soon to be broken, though.

The agent of this disruption comes in one of the smallest forms imaginable. Far above, minute from distance, a dark boxy object comes into view over the trees and ascends. It dwindles until it becomes almost microscopically invisible, a single broken pixel on a soft blue screen above. And then it is gone, with no trace of its passing.

The effect on the ground, however, is explosive. The girl leaps to her feet. She jabs a finger skyward. "Uncle Terry! Uncle Terry!"

"Hmm? What is it?" the man responds slowly. It seems that this Uncle Terry doesn't quite know what has his niece all riled up. And yet something has caught his eye for sure; he stares at a definitive point in the air.

"Up there!" The girl hops and keeps pointing. "Up there! It's a ship! Don't you have one like that?"

"Oh. So it was, Princess." It's an affectation that only Uncle Terry uses, and it's one that the girl enjoys hearing. Sometimes Terry had joked to her that her real parents were divine royalty, and that one day she should take her place among her true kind.

When she was within earshot, Terry's sister would usually roll her eyes and say something like, "Don't go giving my child strange ideas."

To which he would reply, "You're not giving her enough."

"Well what do I do when I hear my kid ran away to... I don't know, look for a dragon to steal, because of the nonsense you spout?"

Adults are weird. Everyone knows that you can't steal dragons. They steal you.

The girl starts in with questions. How big is it? What's it like inside? How does a phase drive work? Where do you go in it? Have you fought any pirates? Saved any senators' daughters? Terry listens to them all, but doesn't respond immediately-or perhaps can't, under the benign verbal assault. He waits for the girl's mouth to slow, which it does eventually.

"The other stories I tell you are way better," he says, embarrassed. "The ones from my life aren't that exciting. I'm just a Trader."

But they are exciting.

No beautiful maidens, but Terry speaks of the fluffy crystal spires towering above the lakes of Kasuga. They appear soft and light, and together with the pale pastel colors they appear to be made of a shiny sort of cotton candy. The light plays against them, creating sparkles and patterns in the water that would have anyone staring for far longer than any woman would have allowed, were she the subject of such attention. But despite appearances, the crystals turn out to be extremely hard and difficult to extract, and a whole industry has arisen, the sole object of which is to find the most efficient ways of separating the crystals from the waters. Terry had bought such crystals and sold them all over to be used in all manner of electronics.

No wizards, but Terry weaves a tale of the robotics expo on Hoshiko, where prodigious inventors have nearly created life from so many chips and wires. One such device was branded as the perfect traveler's companion. It could carry on a conversation or any of a large number of shipboard duties. It could act spontaneously to organize activities to mitigate the dullness of long interstellar jumps. It could even defend itself and its owner with frightening effectiveness. The model's downfall only came in the form of Terry's navigator, Hypatia, attempted to seduce the robot in a fit of mischievousness. She, Terry, and the engineer Jamie were removed from the expo after the robot was forced to initiate an emergency shutoff from the strain. But not before Terry could snatch up a deal on a large number of factory drones.

No leviathans, but Terry tells about how the three of them hitched a ride on an Akkan-class cruise ship, the largest model of space-faring craft in the known galaxy. As a small reward for obtaining and loading supplies in a pinch, the Akkan's captain gave them free passage for a week. An expansive stateroom, fancy meals, and aristocratic guests for seven solar days; it was like living in an extremely wealthy city for the duration. They partied hard. (Though no harder in this story than would be acceptable for a young girl to hear of. Terry makes sure of that.)

No fearsome pirates, but Terry describes a Cobalt frigate that was tasked with patrolling against them. He met the men and women that crewed it, their duties far more ceremonial than practical, while Jamie dropped off the parts and provided assistance for the repairs of one of the ship's laser cannons. They even let Jamie fire the first test shots at a small asteroid, as the TPS Willow wasn't in much of a hurry. Pirate groups are small, scared, and scattered; they could wait.

The girl settles slightly to listen, but her hands fiddle with the zippers of the pack she'd been resting on. Her attention is mostly toward her uncle, but a small part of her remembers that he hadn't opened the pack since they'd arrived at the pond. And Terry always has a gift when he sees her. Every time he turns away to make some sort of expressive gesture, she tries to move stealthily,only opening a few centimeters at a time. Terry notices, though, and raises his eyebrows at her, not even bothering to break his story. The girl freezes looking up at him, and he jerks his head to the side. With a slight zoop the girl closes it again and her hands shrink away.

...And no noble kings, but Terry does admit that he brushed hands with a number of representatives of the Trade Order. They are the oil that keeps the machinery of interstellar trade throughout all settled worlds flowing smoothly, though Terry says this with a sarcastic edge that the girl doesn't quite detect.

Adults are always talking about the Trade Order. She can't really figure out why, since as far as she knows, no one from the Order have so much as set a foot on Dresda. Her parents and her Uncle Terry seem to think it's important anyway. So she asks Terry why he needs someone to tell him how to buy and sell things, if he already knows how.

Terry makes as if to speak in anger, then in apology, then in excitement, then in resignation. After all these possibilities pass over his face, he finally settles on an eloquent "It's complicated."

"Why?" The question is inevitable after a response like that.

"Well because-" Luckily for him, Terry is saved from dodging the conversation further by an insistent beeping from his handycomp. He stares at the screen, then at his niece.

"Hey Princess, you want to see the inside of my ship?" he asks.

"Yuh-huh!" The girl starts nodding so fast she makes herself slightly dizzy.

Terry puts a hand on top of her head. "Don't snap your neck, now." He then grabs the pack up from her unyielding hands, (they'd still been resting on it, carefully kneading the insides in search of unusual shapes,) and opens it up. "Before we go there, though..."

"Did you bring me something?" the girl blurts out.

"What makes you think I brought anything?" Terry asks, his arm half submerged in the pack.

"Uncle Terry," she accuses.

"What?" His face is in shock, but a smile plays at the edge of his eyes. They both know where this is going to go.

"You always have something for me when we come here."

"Do not. What about last time, before I left to be a trader?"

"Jamie'd made me a scarf." This had happened over a year ago, when their enterprise was being planned for. Jamie exclaimed that she was adorable and he absolutely had to make something for her. And so, the day before he left, Terry took her to the pond and faux-begrudgingly presented the girl with a lime green knitted scarf.

"To be fair, I hadn't meant to give you anything."

The girl sets her face angrily. All part of the years-old game. To an outsider it would look something like a short play with humourously bad actors.

"Alright, alright, let's see if I happen to have anything." Terry leans over and rummages around. Out come a number of paper and cellophane wrappers of unknown origin; a second handycomp; a small, clear box filled with many-sided dice; a lumpy object wrapped up in cloth.

"I just sort of... picked this thing up while I was on Gethsemane. They had some sort of craft fair going on, not really things I can use for business but..." He lapses into a description of the handmade wares that were speckled among the heavier market activity of the port there. Clothes, ornaments, and novelties were put on display, and the Gethsemanians made a point that every trader would leave with something personal from the stands. It was something they could be proud of, they insisted; small pieces of their world scattered to the cosmos, to end up who knows where, was apparently a good thing to them.

As he speaks, Terry carefully unwraps the cloth, holding a flap up to hide what was inside from view as he checks it for damage.

Then with a sweep, it is revealed. The girl gasps in surprise. Held before her is a fifteen centimeter tall figure of a woman and a deer, cut out of some pale purple glass. Intricate details depict a strong, defined face as the half-crouching woman, clad in robes and hair flowing wildly, draws back a bow of a different, yellow-gold color. Her focus is riveted on some target only she can see while the deer glances over its shoulder behind them. The woman waits for the perfect moment to fire. A moment which will never come.

The girl wants to touch it, but she draws back her hand. She's afraid to break it. Holding the base firm, Terry offers it to her. This seems to assuage the girl's fear somewhat, and she leans forward again to run a finger delicately over the figurine's shape.

"Was it expensive?"

"No, no. At least, not too much. It was worth it anyway, don't you think?" Terry waggles his eyebrows. "She has a name, you know."

"What's her name?" the girl asks dreamily, still enraptured by the fierce and unwavering gaze.

"That," Terry replies, "is for you to find out. Now let's go."

The figurine is wrapped and stowed, and the pack is slung onto his shoulder. Terry makes sure to pick a few of the pink fronds before leaving.

The walk out of the woods is long, but the drive from there is a short one. Terry doesn't have to put up with his niece's excited bouncing for long before the small but clean hangars come into view. Only the town and surrounding plantations use them; being largely agricultural, Dresda doesn't have much need for the sprawling ports of other worlds. The girl could only imagine what the ship would be like. All shine and polish and lights. There would be doors that open on their own and a... an AI to do the opening! And you could talk to her, and she'd help run the ship, or pour you a glass of juice. And there'd be a big laser on top, in case Terry ran into one of the galaxy's... more irreputable parties.

It was simply inconceivable that the craft of such a man could be anything but exactly so amazing.

It ends up being an angled, boxy sort of thing with a fat belly and a sparse paint job adding gold identification marks to the otherwise dull gray surface. Of course this is hardly enough to deter the stubborn mind of a prepubescent. Everything of importance clearly must be inside. Clearly.

"Hypatia!" Terry barks. He must be talking to the pair of legs barely visible under an upslope in the front of the hull.

"Yeah?" drifts out the response, far softer. The female voice doesn't sound altogether too interested in answering.

"When's the Order getting here?"Terry starts walking around the ship as he talks so he can better talk to Hypatia.

"He's inside."

Terry stops, physically stunned. "Why didn't you tell me?" When he moves again, it's in double time.

Now they can see the conversation's other participant, a young woman wearing a hooded jacket, leaning against the side of the ship. Her attention is held by something on her handycomp. The look of concentration and sudden reactions make it seem like it's some sort of game. She shrugs when Terry comes into view. "Jamie's got it covered."

Words spill out of Terry's mouth, slightly jumbled by the speed. "Stay with Hypatia," he says to his niece. "Be out in a few minutes. Show you the Vagabond then, okay?"

He throws himself at a set of controls at the belly of the ship, and waits impatiently for a section to lift. Before it's fully opened, he ducks under the door and is gone. The girl nods slowly.

There's a grunt above her head. Hypatia is apparently somewhat perturbed by whatever it is she's doing on the comp. She still hasn't even looked up, and with the hood of her jacket drawn up, her face hasn't been so much as glimpsed by the girl. When Hypatia had been talking, it was like listening to some sort of large-mawed, eyeless monster.

The girl turns and situates herself to lean in as close an approximation of the "monster's" stance as she can manage. Gravity and a lack of friction between her dress and the ship's hull conspire to make this rather difficult. Eventually she winds up sitting on the floor.

"So... what's the Trade Order here for?" she asks.

"Business," Hypatia responds.

"What kind of business?"

"Inspection."

"Why do they need to inspect Uncle Terry?"

"Regulations."

"For what?"

Suddenly Hypatia groans and makes as if to hit the handycomp on her leg, but not quite making impact. A second later, calmed, she pulls back her hood and directs a pair of dulled gray eyes at the girl. These eyes are intense, purposeful. They bore into the girl's head as if merely assessing whether she is to be an ally or an obstacle to whatever whims are passed up from behind them.

"Did Terrs ever tell you who they even are?"

The girl shakes her head. Her normally talkative nature has been suppressed by those eyes.

Hypatia melts against the ship. Apparently it is possible to lean even further down than she was already. "You know we used to have wars?"

Another head shake.

"Well okay. Wars are... big, terrible things. And a whole bunch of people, following one general, go out and they fight a whole bunch of other people, following another general. Planets full of people. Many planets full. Whole fu-full star systems of them." As if it could adequately indicate the proper scope, Hypatia sweeps an arm up half-heartedly.

"So they'd fight, and they'd kill, and they'd do some pretty messed up things to each other."

She's taken her eyes away and now the girl finds her voice, if only a little. "I-I thought they already did that. Like, the navies and the pirates."

"Scale. It's a thing of scale. In a proper war, there's more people, and bigger guns, and worse atrocities. And it's always just because one side has something the other needs... and maybe vice versa, too."

"Uncle Terry tells me people always get what they need. That's what the traders are for. They get people what they need," the girl retorts, further unfreezing her tongue.

"Right."

The girl stomps her foot. "So what is the Trade Order for?" she asks, frustrated.

"They make rules so that traders work together, and so that planets work together. If we follow them, so they say, everyone gets what they need. That's what stopped the wars. Efficiency, or some such thing. The steady grind of orbital commerce." Hypatia reaches for her handycomp again, and soon she's staring back into it as it sings a tinny action-filled litany.

"So... wait." The girl's eyes go wide. "Are you saying they're stopping Uncle Terry from making a war?"

"No..."

"He'd never do that!"

"Didn't say so."

"So what're they talking about?"

"Don't know."

"Can I see?"

"Probably not."

"Please?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Captain's orders."

"But he's my uncle, not my captain."

"Fine."

"Really?"

"Not on me if Terrs is pissed."

"I'm just looking," the girl refutes. "He can't get angry for that."

The cargo bay door had been left open after Terry's frantic entry. The girl backs toward it, expecting at any moment to see the cold gray glare shoot her way. But it doesn't happen. When she reaches the door, she turns and dashes in. The bay is mostly empty, with only a few sparse clusters of boxes indicating its use. Most bear labels like "Tondam Corporation" or "Lexmada"; it seems they're all stamped with some brand name.

All very uninteresting to the girl, though. She scrambles up a ladder to a catwalk above, on which is the only door she can find. The door slides open.

That is to say, when she tries to open the door, the girl finds that she must grab hold of the handle and slide it to the side. The door definitely takes no action of its own, sliding or otherwise, unless one counts the retributory nudge it gives her heel on its way back.

She can hear voices now. The expressive pitch and yaw of her uncle. The pacifying rumble of Jamie. The terse monotone of a speaker she doesn't yet know. She can't quite understand the words from here, but when she moves closer... she still can't understand them. But in a different way.

"...You marked 'no' to the carry of any dihydrogen monoxide, Mr. Shale."

"I did not, repeat, did not ever transport any chemicals, and if you try to tell me again that I did..."

"What did you drink for the past year and a half?"

"Beer."

"To be fair sir, the captain's more or less right about that..."

"See? When I'm right, I'm right. Don't you go trying to contradict me!"

"Sigh. Mr. Shale, you might want to reexamine the declarations of carry."

It doesn't sound like a good time to bother him. The first door the girl tries to use to get out of the hall leads to what must be the common room. It's sparse; a kitchenette, a card table, a couch upon which Terry's pack has been dumped. Aha, there is a reason to be in here. At least now if she were to get caught and reprimanded, the girl might have been able to achieve something before then.

She picks out the figurine and unwraps it, slowly as she can manage, over the couch. It's just as beautiful as it was an hour ago. Even more so even, as the beauty doesn't have to split its attention between her and her uncle. She turns it over, examining every surface the bowwoman presents. A sticker maybe, or an etching, however small.

She must know the woman's name.

Terry had challenged her after all, that much was obvious. And if she could complete the challenge already then he would be very surprised. Impressed, even.

Maybe inside the pack, there'll be something. Paper, dice, plastic, comp... keyring? Hello, you look important. Though what would it be for? Nowhere on the ship was anything shut with a key lock, far as she could see. Worth a second look anyway? Possibly.

"Commodore in the Jacobi military?"

The short hallway is the backbone of the crew cabin. Every room stems from there. The girl walks along its length, checking each door. No keyholes.

"Ha, you know they just give that title away?"

"I'm aware that one must serve a minimum of fifteen years before consideration, on that world."

"And what long, hard years those were..."

"Are you proposing that you joined a professional naval force when you were eight years old?"

The girl snorts angrily and returns to the common room. He should have made it easier, gosh darn it!

A slow and not-so-methodical search ensues. Closets scoured, drawers rustled, even the fridge isn't safe from her prying hands. As she works, a single thought settles into the girl's mind.

This isn't fair.

It isn't fair that this is so difficult. It isn't fair that she can't find anything that she wants. It isn't fair that Uncle Terry never just told her what the figurine's name was. It just isn't fair. It isn't fair. IT ISN'T FAIR.

Somewhere along the line, the search had devolved into a tantrum. And amid the thuds of plastic dishes impacting the wall, she hears a low "Princess?" which causes her to shoot to her feet. The tears barely held back a second ago now begin as the former immature frustration is replaced by the numbing realization she'd been caught in such an act. Part of her mind must think there's still a chance to conceal the evidence and attempts to turn her head to assess the damage. That part can't find the heart to glance the other way.

But Uncle Terry is blind to the newly created clutter. He approaches the girl and pulls her off the ground in a tight embrace. "Hey, Princess. I need to go out and do some extra work tonight. Jamie'll take you home."

He lets the girl go and gently sets her back on the ground. She tries to say something, still intent on defending the ruination, but she doesn't know what to say. All that comes out are sniffles anyway, so it doesn't make much of a difference. Terry turns from her and leaves.

"You should maintain your mess better," comes from outside the room, to which Terry issues a piercing, "Shut up."

Jamie comes in a few seconds later, all five and a half feet of him with thin blond hair taking up at least half that height, and a smile that could probably burn ants if it catches the sun properly. Or at least it normally could. His teeth aren't even visible right now. Jamie bends down and gives the girl a quick hug before grabbing her hand to take her out of the ship. He doesn't speak until the girl snatches the figurine to take with her, but fumbles and drops it from the one hand she'd tried to hold it with. The half of the arrow in front of the bowstring snaps off, provoking a new round of tears.

Jamie picks it back up, and carefully hands both pieces to the girl. "Shame," he says. "She's still very pretty though."

The bowwoman maintains her pose, still without a name that the girl knows, and unaware of the damage done to herself.