Chapter 151 · The Traders Lounge

The port was ugly.

Eli liked it immediately.

After almost three days spent watching the same navigation markers through the cockpit glass, ugliness possessed virtues he had not previously appreciated. Ugly had floors. Ugly had gravity. Ugly had air that had not already passed through the Faded Glory’s filters several thousand times.

Most importantly, ugly had a market.

The port had been built in stages around an old freight transfer station and apparently without anyone involved ever consulting the people responsible for the previous stage. Corridors widened and narrowed for no obvious reason. Cargo lifts opened onto pedestrian concourses. Entire sections of wall changed material halfway along, from old gray durasteel to newer composite panels in colors somebody had presumably once considered cheerful.

The commercial directory was equally unhelpful.

Eli stopped beneath it and looked up. “Food market, lower concourse. General provisioning, east ring. Agricultural imports, freight level three.”

Stent stood beside him with their small repulsor cart behind him. “Which?”

“All of them.”

“That is inefficient.”

“We have been eating military rations and salted fish for three days.”

“We have not exclusively been eating those.”

“Stent.”

“Yes?”

“We’re going shopping.”

Stent regarded him for a moment, then inclined his head. “Very well.”

They had already secured the Faded Glory in one of the port’s outer commercial berths.

The price had made Eli suspicious until he saw it. The berth was on an older spur beyond the main freight ring, far enough from the central concourse that nobody would choose it unless they were trying to save money. It had docking clamps, power connection, atmosphere access and very little else.

No permanent attendant. No adjacent service kiosk. One old security camera over the corridor entrance that appeared to have been installed during a previous architectural era and had a visible patch of corrosion across its housing.

Payment was handled through an automated terminal mounted in the next berth over, a battered little kiosk serving several of the outer bays at once.

Perfectly adequate. They were not planning to stay long.

Eli had paid through the next local morning anyway. After the queue, he wanted no deadlines imposed by parking.

The food market was closing.

The port was not.

Spaceports almost never truly slept. Even when shops lowered shutters and restaurants cleaned their counters, freight still moved. Ships arrived under artificial midnight. Maintenance crews changed shifts. Cargo droids trundled through service corridors. Pilots who had just crossed half a sector went looking for breakfast while everyone else was thinking about dinner. In fact it was lunch time for them, as such was the onboard clock on the Faded Glory.

But vegetables apparently kept business hours. They reached the lower concourse just as several vendors began reducing their displays.

Eli accelerated.

Stent did not. “You are walking faster.”

“They’re closing.”

“There are seven produce vendors still operating.”

“There were nine when we came down the escalator.”

“That does not constitute an emergency.”

“It does if the good green leaf veggies are in the two that closed.”

Stent looked at him.

Eli pointed ahead. “There.”

A stall had actual lush greens. Or something sufficiently close to what Eli decided the distinction was not strategically important.

Twenty minutes later, their carrier contained greens, two varieties of root vegetable, several firm red fruits, a bundle of herbs, fresh legumes and enough other produce that Stent removed one item and inspected the storage recommendation before allowing Eli to put it back.

“We have refrigeration capacity,” Eli said.

“For approximately this quantity.”

“That is why I stopped.”

“You stopped because the cart was full.”

“That is an inventory constraint.”

Stent returned the vegetable.

They bought fresh meat from a refrigerated counter two aisles down. Not much. Enough for several meals.

Then fruit.

Eli selected tart orchard fruit. Stent added six small yellow fruits from the next stall.

Eli glanced at them. “Sweet?”

“Very.”

“Thought so.”

Stent ignored him and moved on.

The bread came from a bakery that was nearly closed and therefore selling the last of the day’s loaves at half price. That pleased both of them for different reasons.

Eli bought two. Stent bought a third after pressing one lightly with his fingers and examining the crust.

“You really do want bread,” Eli said.

“It is fresh.”

“Sure.”

Stent placed it carefully on top of the other purchases where nothing would crush it. Eli said nothing else. For almost thirty seconds. “You know, we could still try making some ourselves.”

“You do not know whether we possess yeast.”

“We can buy yeast.”

“Then we would have yeast.”

“That is generally how shopping works.”

Stent gave him the look that meant the conversation had ceased to be useful.

Eli grinned and kept walking.

The quince search went considerably worse.

They had expected that. Expectation did not make it less irritating.

The first specialty-food vendor recognized the word. That was progress. He then offered them a jar of something produced on Ord Mantell that contained pear, sweet-root and synthetic quince flavoring. Eli rejected it on sight.

The second vendor had genuine quince preserve. From Naboo. Which was of a completely different kind of the Lysatran one.

The third had heard of Lysatran quince, but only because a restaurant farther inward had once served imported cheese with it. “Years ago,” the woman said, already powering down one side of her display. “Before freight got this bad.”

“Do you know who supplied them?”

“No. Restaurant closed.”

“Of course it did.”

She glanced at the terminal again. “There might be one place.”

Eli straightened. Stent did too, although less visibly.

The vendor searched. “Specialty importer. Small shop. Mostly regional foods, old luxury stock, discontinued lines. Keren’s Exchange.”

“Here?”

“Other side of the port.”

Eli looked at the local map she pushed toward him. Not merely the other side of the port. The other side of several hundred thousand tonnes of port.

“Are they open?”

She checked. “No.” Eli stared. “They close early. They open again at eight.”

He looked at Stent. Stent looked at the map. “We have paid for the berth through tomorrow morning.”

Eli’s irritation eased. “Right.”

They could try tomorrow.

No chasing closing shutters. No sprint across half the station.

No desperate attempt to persuade some exhausted shopkeeper to reopen because two strangers required a very particular jar of preserved fruit for reasons that became more absurd every time Eli explained them.

Tomorrow.

That was almost civilized.

He thanked the vendor and saved the address. She looked at their cart. “You found everything else?”

“Everything except the reason we started looking.”

“That’s usually how shopping works,” she smiled.

Stent glanced toward Eli. Eli pointed at the vendor. “See?”

By the time they started back toward the berth, the food concourse was mostly shuttered.

The port around it remained fully awake.

Cargo crews passed them in the opposite direction. A loader droid crossed an intersection dragging three sealed containers behind it. Someone was arguing loudly over docking insurance near a freight office.

Eli carried a heavy grocery bag. Stent pushed the cart, having apparently decided that he was going to pilot that too.

They passed the noodle stall for the first time near the junction between the commercial concourse and the outer freight ring.

Eli noticed the smell before the sign. Broth. Spice. Something grilled.

The stall occupied a recessed corner beside an old loading-office entrance, nothing more than a long counter, several bolted stools and a kitchen barely large enough for two people to work without becoming intimately acquainted.

A cook was lifting noodles from steaming water.

Eli slowed.

Stent continued another three steps before realizing he was no longer beside him. He turned.

Eli was looking at the stall.

“No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You are carrying fresh food.”

“I am aware.”

“We should refrigerate it.”

“I know.”

Stent waited.

Eli looked once more toward the steam rising behind the counter. “Later.”

Stent turned and continued walking.

Eli caught up. The smell followed them halfway down the next corridor.

They reached the Faded Glory and Eli entered the access code. The ramp lowered. Tee was waiting at the top. He emitted a short sequence.

“Yes, we brought food.”

Tee chirped again.

“No, none of it is for you.”

A more pointed sound.

“Spare power cells are not groceries.”

Tee turned his dome toward Stent.

“You already possess three charged reserve cells,” Stent said.

Tee considered that information and apparently decided to remain offended.

They carried everything inside.

The galley refrigeration unit was almost embarrassingly empty after three days of refusing to waste what fresh food they had left.

Eli began filling it. Greens into the lower drawer. Meat into the coldest section. Fruit where it would not bruise.

Stent reorganized two shelves without asking.

Eli watched him. “You moved my cheese.”

“It was occupying the correct location for the meat.”

“It was happy there.”

“It is now happy elsewhere.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do not believe the cheese possesses preferences.”

“That’s narrow-minded.”

Stent closed the refrigeration unit.

The bread went into the dry cabinet. All three loaves.

Eli checked. Stent noticed. “Are you counting them?”

“No.”

“You looked.”

“I like knowing where my food is.”

“It is in the cabinet.”

“Good.”

He turned toward the corridor. The little feeding station beside the cargo-bay hatch was unchanged. Water bowl half full. Food dish empty.

Stent crouched to check the water and glanced through the open hatch toward the enclosure. Ch’eth was inside, curled up in the dark recess with his nose tucked against his body, fast asleep.

“Still out?”

“Yes.”

Stent topped up the water from the galley bottle he was carrying and set the bowl back. He did not disturb him. There was no reason to.

Tee rolled past them toward the cargo bay and disappeared inside.

Eli stretched.

The stiffness was not really from sitting too long. They had been moving around the ship, exercising, cooking, sleeping, doing everything they normally did on a long passage.

The queue had simply made all of it feel different. For nearly three days, some part of his attention had remained fixed on the cockpit: the next traffic update, the next clearance, the possibility that they might suddenly have to move. Even sleep had happened with the knowledge that they were still sitting in exactly the same place.

Walking through the port had been different. There had been somewhere to go, things to buy, people to pass, turns to take because they chose to take them.

It felt surprisingly good. He looked toward the hatch. Then back toward Stent. “Remember that noodle place?”

Stent straightened. “Yes.”

“It smelled good.”

“Yes.”

“That sounded suspiciously positive.”

“I acknowledge an odor.”

Eli ignored that. “We could go back.”

Stent looked toward the galley. “We have food.”

“We also have a paid berth until morning.”

“That is true.”

“And we just spent nearly three days trapped aboard this ship.”

“We were not trapped aboard the ship. We could have moved around inside it.”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

Stent said nothing.

Eli leaned one shoulder against the bulkhead. “We go eat something somebody else cooked. Sit somewhere that isn’t this ship. Then come back. Small luxury.”

“We have already spent more than intended on docking.”

“The berth was cheap.”

“The market was not.”

“The noodles looked cheap.”

“You did not inspect the menu.”

“I inspected the people eating them. Nobody looked wealthy.”

That earned him a very faint change around Stent’s eyes.

Eli pressed his advantage. “And after that, we could stop by the Traders’ Lounge.”

Stent’s expression sharpened slightly. That was the better argument.

Most major ports maintained some equivalent. A licensed commercial space where independent captains, freight brokers, cargo agents and small operators could drink, eat, exchange contract information and complain about whatever authority had most recently interfered with trade.

Access required a commercial registration. The Faded Glory had one.

More importantly, the people inside would have arrived through the routes they were about to use.

“Recent traffic information,” Stent said.

“Exactly.”

“Unofficial.”

“The official information put us in a queue for three days.”

“That does increase the value of unofficial information.”

Eli smiled. “So noodles.”

Stent looked toward the ship. Then toward the hatch. “Very well.”

Eli pushed away from the wall. “I knew you liked the smell.”

“I agreed because the route information may be useful.”

“Of course.”

The noodles were excellent. Not transcendent. Not worth crossing a sector for. But hot, heavily spiced and served in bowls large enough that Eli stopped thinking about ordering anything else after the first few bites.

The stall was busier now.

Cargo handlers occupied most of the counter. Two pilots sat at the far end arguing about a customs levy. Someone in a stained engineering jacket had fallen asleep over an empty bowl and was being ignored by everyone.

Eli loved it.

Stent ate with considerably less visible enthusiasm, which Eli had learned meant almost nothing.

“How is it?”

“Good.”

“That is praise.”

“It is an assessment.”

“You finished half of it in five minutes.”

“I was hungry.”

Eli gestured with his chopsticks. “You know, normal people are allowed to simply enjoy food.”

“I am enjoying it.”

“There. Growth.”

Stent looked at him.

Eli returned to his noodles. For a while, neither spoke. The port moved around them. Ships arrived. People changed shifts. Somewhere beyond the bulkheads, freight continued travelling through the night. Nothing required their attention. Nothing was trying to kill them. Nobody wanted a favor.

For almost forty minutes, they were simply two traders eating dinner between jobs. Eli had forgotten how pleasant ordinary could be.

The Traders’ Lounge occupied the upper level of the commercial administration building.

A sign beside the entrance read LICENSED OPERATORS AND REGISTERED COMMERCIAL AGENTS.

Eli presented their business credential. The scanner accepted Captain Horatio Figg without hesitation. Ren Viros appeared beneath the associated crew authorization.

The door opened.

Inside looked less like an official facility than a cantina someone had forced to maintain accounting records.

There was a bar. Several tables. A wall of cargo boards. Two contract terminals. A navigation display permanently surrounded by people pointing at it.

Eli immediately approved. Stent went first to the route display. Of course he did. Eli went to the bar. Of course he did.

Eli returned with caff for himself and, for Stent, the sweetest drink he had been able to identify on the menu. Stent was listening to two freight captains argue.

“…telling you, the west approach is useless,” one said. “Beacon chain keeps dropping.”

The other captain rolled his eyes. “You diverted because you didn’t want the inspection.”

“I diverted because the inspector wanted six hundred credits.”

“That’s different.”

“It was six hundred credits different.”

“It was stable yesterday.”

“Yesterday was yesterday.”

Eli took the empty seat beside them. “We came through there today.”

That got both captains’ attention. “How bad?”

“Bad enough that I wouldn’t count on yesterday’s information. We lost three days. I don’t know if it is worse now.”

“Reason?”

“Traffic control keeps changing vectors. Something military farther in. Nobody will say what.”

The second captain snorted. “They say pirate activity.”

“They say everything is pirate activity.”

“That’s because there are pirates.”

“There are also idiots with uniforms.”

Eli took a drink. This was already more useful than the official advisory.

They stayed. Not long. An hour, perhaps.

Long enough to hear that a fuel depot along one secondary route had imposed rationing. Long enough to learn one jump marker listed as unreliable was actually functioning again. Long enough for Stent to identify two contradictory reports and decide the contradiction itself was useful information.

Eli contributed what they had seen at the queue. That earned several groans. One captain had been caught in the same cascade farther spinward. Another had avoided it by twelve hours. Luck.

That was becoming a larger part of navigation than anyone in the room liked admitting. Someone bought Eli another caff after he explained which holding zone had been moving fastest.

Stent declined a second drink.

Eventually Eli checked the time. “We should go.”

Stent nodded. They had enough.

Tomorrow morning they would try Keren’s Exchange. Then decide which route was least likely to become another three-day parking problem.

Simple. Productive. Ordinary.

The walk back felt shorter.

Perhaps because they knew the way.

Perhaps because the port had thinned slightly around the edges.

The freight levels remained busy, but the commercial corridors between them had quieted. Half the shutters were down now. Cleaning droids moved along the walls.

Eli shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “That was worth it.”

“The information was useful.”

“I meant dinner.”

“The dinner was also useful.”

“Food does not need to be useful.”

“It prevents hunger.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“I know.”

Eli smiled. They reached the outer commercial spur. Few people used it at this hour.

One loading cart stood unattended near the junction. A maintenance worker was replacing a light farther down. The old berth corridor extended ahead.

Eli could already see their bay number.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “we find Keren’s Exchange, discover they haven’t seen Lysatran quince in twenty years, and continue ruining my plan.”

“That outcome is plausible.”

“You’re supposed to disagree.”

“You have accumulated significant supporting evidence.”

Eli laughed. They turned the corner.

He stopped.

Stent took one more step before stopping too.

For a moment Eli thought they had taken the wrong corridor.

It was such an immediate, instinctive certainty that his mind rejected what his eyes were showing him.

The berth was empty.

Not occupied by another ship. Not sealed. Empty.

The berth gate stood open, framing nothing but the landing pad beyond and the dark stretch of port apron where the Faded Glory should have been.

Their ship wasn’t there.