“Peters, you and Todd show the Chiefs to their quarters and where the food and drink are, then come directly back here,” Dreelig instructed sternly, lip quirking.
“Aye, Mr. Ambassador,” they chorused. Todd scanned the crowd for Warnocki, and Peters turned to Joshua. “If you’d come with me, Chief?”
“It is our custom to formally dedicate the first drink to celebration of a job well done,” Dreelig said when the glasses arrived. The enlisted men had been shown to their quarters area and left to sort out room arrangements for themselves.
“We do the same,” Todd said. “It’s called a ‘toast’.”
“Yes,” Dreelig said. “A toast to successful preparations.” He held his drink up, eye level, and waited while the sailors did the same, then drank; no clinking of glasses.
“That sure tastes good,” Peters observed. “But dinner’s gonna be better. I’m about starved.”
“And I as well,” said Dreelig. “But first, a little more business.” He peeled open a pocket, handed square envelopes to each of the sailors. “Your word is ‘bonus.’ You have done an excellent job.”
“We did our jobs,” said Todd. “But thank you.” Peters murmured agreement.
The envelopes each contained a square of ornh and a folded piece of the plastic-feeling “paper.” Peters waved the bartender over. “Now I can settle that tab,” he said with satisfaction. “It was worryin’ me some.”
Todd unfolded the paper and looked it over. “What’s this?” he wanted to know. The back was printed in faint blue and white checks, not the bold design of money, each square about a quarter of an inch across. On the front was a splatter of Grallt writing, including a number, written out: ONE.
“It is a, hm. Our word would translate as ‘portion,’ Dreelig explained. “The papers represent small parts of the trading enterprise of the ship.”
“We call that a ‘share,’” Todd explained. “It’s a common concept with us.”
“Not me’n Todd,” Peters put in. He had finished dealing with the bartender and was putting his change away, closing the pocket slit with evident satisfaction. “It’s just rich folks that own shares.” He inspected his closely. “Granpap has some shares, but they ain’t worth nothin’, ‘cause the companies went bust. What’s this’n worth?”
“Perhaps nothing at all,” said Dreelig. “If the trading enterprise is successful, each—share, you said?—each share will receive a small part of the profits. If the enterprise is not successful, goes bust as you say, there will be nothing to divide, so you will receive nothing.”
Todd shrugged. “Like Peters said, we don’t exactly belong to the group that owns shares, so we don’t know a whole lot about the system.”
“At home they buy and sell shares,” Peters said. “And they got a system on the net for that, tradin’ shares back an’ forth.”
“Yeah. There used to be a stock exchange,” Todd added. “A place where people went to buy and sell stock. ‘Stock’ is another name for the same thing,” he explained. “Well, not the same exactly, there’s a difference, but I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Shares of stock,” said Peters. “I heard Granpap talkin’ about shares of stock.”
Todd just nodded agreement to that, and Dreelig shook his head. “We don’t have a formal system for buying and selling shares. If a person wanted to buy a share, he could buy it from the enterprise or from an individual.”
“How much would it cost to buy one share?” Todd asked.
“Right now it would be expensive,” said Dreelig. “The enterprise has a large amount of goods for trading, and each share represents a portion of those goods. Perhaps as much as a quarter of a large square of ornh.”
“That’d be a little more’n a thousand,” said Peters. He eyed the slip thoughtfully. “I don’t reckon I’ve ever had a thousand of anything, how ‘bout you, Todd?”
“Had ten billion euros once.” That earned a snort—it was the price of a glass of beer in Marseilles—but Todd was looking into space, calculating. “Let’s see, a beer costs a quarter of an ornh. Back home, a beer costs five bucks. So an ornh‘s about two eagles, and this share is worth two thousand eagles, more or less.”
“Pretty nice bonus, I reckon,” Peters drawled.
Dreelig shrugged. “I personally believe that it is too little. Your advice about negotiating technique was very valuable.” He smiled. “If our enterprise is as successful as it might be, even one share will be very pleasant to have.”
“Well, since we didn’t expect nothin’ at all, it’s sure’s Hell better’n that,” said Peters with a smile. “Tell ‘em thanks, and thank you, Mister Ambassador.” He held his glass up at eye level; the others responded in kind, Dreelig with a wince at ‘Mister Ambassador,’ and they drank. “I reckon you don’t need to be spreadin’ the word, though,” he said as he put his glass down. “This can be just between you an’ us, right, Todd?”
“You bet,” Todd replied immediately. “I don’t want to have to answer questions about what we did to deserve it.”
“I don’t see why anyone else should know about it,” Dreelig said with another shrug. “Ah, dinner.” The bartender had arrived and was arranging plates. “I will pay,” he said when Todd began to unseal a pocket. “We probably will not see one another very often in the future, and it is likely that this will be our last meal together for some time. It is a small additional way of saying ‘thank you’.”
“Thanks,” said Peters. “It’s been fun.” Todd agreed in a low murmur.
Little more was said. They ate steadily, making brief remarks about the food, avoiding more complex subjects. Peters and Todd refused a second drink, changing over to the sweet-tart klisti to finish their meal, aware that they were no longer alone in enlisted quarters and would likely be answering questions later. It might be a little tough to get the sleep they needed. For the other humans it wasn’t noon yet, leaving plenty of time for entertainment—like quizzing a pair of sailors who’d been around for a while and knew the ropes.
A new feature had been added at the entrance to the enlisted quarters: a Third Class in undress blues, with a white Sam Browne belt supporting a pistol holster. “Halt,” he said. “Who goes there?”
“Well I be damned,” Peters drawled. “I’m Peters, and this here’s Todd, and we been livin’ here the last four and eight llor. Who might you be, and who cleared you for carryin’ a sidearm?”
The sailor flushed but held his ground. “Chief wants to see you,” he said, indicating the hatch with a brief wave.
Peters wasn’t having that just yet. “I ast you a question, sailor. Who’re you, and when did the war start?”
“Chief Joshua ordered a guard set,” said the other stiffly. “My name’s Lawson.”
“Well, Lawson, I reckon you gotta follow orders,” said Peters. “But if’n any of the folks who own this here bucket come by and ask questions, my advice to you is to act dumb. Shouldn’t be much of a strain.” Lawson stiffened at the insult but didn’t say anything, just looked around the bay as if expecting one of the Grallt to come up and start demanding explanations. Peters sighed. “Shit. I wanted to go to bed. Come on, Todd.”
Chief Joshua’s door was open, and he, Warnocki, and another CPO were conferring. When Peters rapped on the doorframe Joshua looked up, his expression passing through annoyed inquiry and a moment of shoulder-sagging relief to settle on a black scowl. “Come!” he bit out. “Not you, Todd. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Aye, Chief,” said Peters resignedly. Todd shrugged and held back, then disappeared up the corridor with a grimace.