Where the Ships Die

by William C. Dietz

  "Our agreement stands," Sa-Lo replied, "and your son is safe. And will be for as long as your interests are aligned with ours. We will contact you when the necessary documents have been signed." The video snapped to black.

  The silence stretched long and thin. The first voice to break it belonged to a man. "What cute little playmates you have ... no wonder you want some help."

  Orr turned as the man stepped out of the shadows. He was tall, thin, and dressed in impeccable clothes. They were tight, with a touch of decadent lace. Thirty? Forty? Fifty? He could have been any of those. But the most striking thing about him was that his eyes never closed. Not even to blink. He looked like a statue, or a corpse come to life.

  His name was Sanko, and like his father and grandfather before him, Sanko called himself a free trader, but made most of his money hijacking other captains' cargoes, running contraband goods, and anything else that would turn a fast credit. He had fallen under Orr's influence when he had jacked a load of highly addictive sleepy seeds, which, instead of belonging to a low-level drug cartel as he had believed, were actually the property of the Hildago Crime Syndicate, an organization sworn to slit his throat. Orr forced a smile. "My furry friends are cute, aren't they? It would be a pity if something happened to them."

  Ari drifted into the light. She wore a frown and a much-handled sidearm. Data flowed through her implant. "The call originated from a hotel in Freeport."

  "Which would tend to confirm your hypothesis," Sanko said thoughtfully. "The aliens booked passage on the same ship the girl did ... or hope to do so."

  "Exactly," Orr said grimly. "So do what needs to be done."

  Sanko was a thief and a murderer, but he hated hypocrisy. He took pleasure in the exchange that followed. " 'Do what needs to be done'? What does that mean?"

  Orr flushed. "What's the matter with you? Kill them... that's what it means. All of them. Is that what you wanted me to say?"

  "Yes," Sanko said sweetly, "it is. And the Will of God. What of her?"

  Orr shrugged. "She's yours ... but not in-system. There would be an investigation, and we have enough badge pushers on Mechnos already. Take her at the other end of the trip. The law is thin out there ... and news travels slowly."

  "As you wish," the jacker said calculatingly, "but that means a long stern chase ... and it takes money to run a ship like mine."

  "Fifty thousand," Orr replied, "and not a credit more. Half now, and half when you return."

  "A sum that will barely pay for my fuel," the jacker complained. "Seventy-five would be more like it."

  Sanko felt something ram the base of his skull. His eyes flicked right, then left. The woman named Ari was nowhere to be seen. She was fast, damned fast, and the gun barrel hurt. Had it been anywhere else, on the street, or aboard his ship, his own bodyguards would have flayed her alive, but they'd been barred from the estate. Orr smiled. "Like I said, Sanko, fifty. Not a credit more."

  The jacker nodded, felt the pressure disappear, and rubbed the sore spot. "All right—no need to get excited. Just business ..."

  "Good," Orr said. "Ari, see our friend to his car."

  It took the bodyguard less than fifteen minutes to escort the jacker to his limo, see him off, and return. Her jacket was damp, and water dripped on the hardwood floor. Orr had just completed one com call and was about to make another when she entered the study. "Our friend is gone?"

  " 'Friend' might be an overstatement, but he's gone," Ari replied.

  "Excellent," Orr said cheerfully. "Sanko tends to overplay his hand at times, but he has his uses. Now, given the fact that little Miss Voss won't be coming back, we need to speak with her brother."

  Ari frowned. "Why? I thought he was too young to put his thumb on documents."

  "True," Orr replied easily, "but not for much longer. I checked, and guess what? Dorn Voss will be eighteen, thirty-six days from now. And if his sister had access to the coordinates, it seems safe to assume he does too."

  "And if he doesn't?"

  Orr shrugged. "Then we pay him a small sum, find the Gap the hard way, and open for business." "So you want me to get him?"

  "Bring the boy or his thumb," Orr said lightly, "whichever is more convenient."

  Natalie went aboard the Will of God six hours prior to liftoff rather than the mandated two, and was familiar with the ship's systems by 0630. The rank still sounded strange to her ear. "Third Officer Voss to the bridge."

  Natalie pushed a pedal, waited for the weapons pod to swivel left, grabbed an overhead rail, and swung out into the corridor. It took five minutes to reach the bridge, but she found it on the first try, and felt proud of herself. The first officer, a screamer named Russo, looked up from her computer screen. She displayed an S, a jeweled implant, and a practically nonexistent chin. "Passengers are coming aboard. Meet them on the dock and bring them below."

  The request could have been passed over the intercom, which would have saved Natalie the walk, but Russo had power and wanted to use it. Natalie had been around that kind of officer before and kept her face intentionally blank. "Yes, ma'am."

  The passengers had arrived on the dock by the time Natalie got there. There were two of them, and they wore hooded cloaks that served to hide their faces as well as protect them from the rain. The officer thought they were humans at first, women perhaps, or adolescents, but soon learned differently. Each carried a small bag, and Natalie offered to help. "Greetings. I'm Third Officer Voss. May I take your luggage?"

  The taller one replied. "Thank you, Third Officer Voss, but no, my companion and I prefer to carry our own belongings. Please proceed."

  Though careful to avoid anything that would seem like a stare, Natalie was able to determine that the passengers were aliens and, if memory served her correctly, members of the Traa race. A highly competitive species known for their sharp but mostly honest dealings. And, while The Place of Wandering Waters seemed like a somewhat unusual destination for the aliens, the same commercial opportunities that attracted Jord might interest them as well.

  The gangplank bounced as the three of them made their way down onto the same platform she had used earlier. It whirred as they were lowered into the lock. Russo was there to greet the Traa as the hatch cycled open and, judging from the heartiness of her welcome, regarded the Traa as VIPs. That they were was made even more clear when it turned out that the aliens had been assigned to the first officer's cabin, forcing her to bunk with Natalie.

  Things went quickly after that, with a clearance to taxi, help from a busy little tug, and a final systems check. Natalie, whose launch station was aft in case of a bridge fire or similar emergency, pulled the harness across her body, checked to make sure her backup instrumentation registered the same readings that Jord's did, and nodded to the chief engineer. Both hung on as the Will of God shuddered, broke free of the water, and rose into the air.

  Then, following one additional systems check, the ship roared out to sea and clawed through the atmosphere. It was slow going at first, but the drives roared, and the planet dwindled behind them. A short time later the Will of God, or the Willie, as the secular crew members called her, escaped the planet's gravity well, cleared planetary control, and directed herself toward a pinpoint of light.

  One hour later, on an absolutely identical course, Tor Sanko, along with an unusually large crew, departed Mechnos on schedule. Their ship, a heavily armed Tully Trihull, had the ability to catch the Will of God, but made no attempt to do so. That, like the spoils to follow, would have to wait. The stars, eternally neutral in the affairs of man, wheeled through the void.

  11

  Friendship can flower in the most arid of fields.

  Horbuth Neebarzer Oral Bod

  Cycle Sayer to the Drodd

  Standard year 2109

  The Planet New Hope

  The star ship's repellors functioned like man-made cyclones as they tore through the slums and sucked debris into the air. Dorn watched aghast as an entire line of people, still linke
d by the drag chain, were pulled off the ground. Arms waved and legs kicked, but to no avail. Dorn urged the others forward as Myra left the ground. "Quick! Grab them! It's their only chance!"

  Much to Dorn's surprise, and perhaps theirs as well, the prisoners obeyed. Rushing forward, still hobbled by a section of chain, they grabbed the last of the would-be victims and held on. The dust was so thick that Dorn couldn't see. He wrapped his arms around someone's waist and hoped for the best as the vortex swung past. Then, just when it seemed the nightmare would never end, the sixth repellor came to life. The pilot seized the opportunity, took control of the ship, and veered toward the sea.

  The trip back toward the water was as destructive as the initial one had been, but took less time and killed fewer people. Dorn's attention was elsewhere. The body he held turned out to be Myra's, and she threw her arms around his neck. The kiss seemed natural and confirmed they were alive. Her lips were unbelievably soft, and Dorn had never experienced anything quite so good.

  They were still in each other's arms when the guards crawled out of whatever holes they had disappeared into, blew their whistles, and herded the survivors toward a one-story building. Once there, and safely out of the way, the prisoners were placed under light guard and ordered to wait while the owner's medical staff did what they could for the wounded. The dead were carried to a makeshift crematorium, and work parties were recruited to clear the debris.

  It was an uncomfortable afternoon, but the fact that Dorn and Myra were shackled right next to each other helped. There was plenty of time to talk, to touch the brands on each other's foreheads, and relive the last few days. There was time to wonder what would happen next, too... and the answer arrived all too soon.

  The man in the dirty gray turban, the same one who had paid for the prisoners in Oro, appeared just before sunset. He scanned the prisoners, murmured something to one of the guards, and watched as his orders were implemented. The prisoners were ordered to stand and face outward. The teenagers did as they were told and waited to learn what fate held in store for them.

  The man in the turban started at the far end of the line and moved their way. He spoke with some prisoners, but not to others. Selections were made, shackles were released, and what seemed like an oddball collection of men, women, and children were herded to one side. Some of the youngsters were removed from their parents and began to cry. A mother objected but a slap rendered her silent. Dorn started forward but the chain held him back. There was no rhyme or reason to the way the man made his decisions, none Dorn could discern anyway, and the process left him mystified.

  Then, just as turban-man made his final selection and turned to leave, he spotted Myra. He looked, looked again, and ordered a guard to unlock her leg iron. The guard, an older man with badly yellowed teeth, did as he was told. Myra looked frightened, and Dorn grabbed the man's arm. "Please! What's going on? Where will you take her?"

  "To the house," the guard said simply. "Now let go of my arm."

  Dorn remembered the beautiful white mansion that sat on the tip of the peninsula. It didn't take a genius to figure out whom the house belonged to or that it would take a large staff to run the place. "How will they treat her? What will she do?" Dorn insisted, still maintaining contact.

  "She'll receive better treatment than you will," the guard replied as he removed the shackle from Myra's ankle. "Four kitchen servants were killed when the ship drifted over the vegetable gardens. Your friend will replace one of them. Now back off."

  Dorn did as instructed. He wanted to say something special to Myra, something she would remember, but there was no time. She was there one moment and gone the next as the prisoners were led away. She looked back, though, and her wave made him feel a bit better. At the same time, the expression on her face made him want to cry. Somehow, in a manner he couldn't explain, Myra had become an important part of his life. So much so that he would find her again no matter how difficult that might be or what the cost. Then she was gone, absorbed by the slums and the quickly gathering darkness.

  What happened next was both disconcerting and unexpected. A guard, filthy from clearing rubble, worked her way down the line, released their leg shackles, and ordered a boy to collect the chain. Then, grabbing the end, she dragged it away.

  Minutes passed and no one moved. They simply sat, squatted or stood there, backs to the building, awaiting their orders. Dorn realized that he, like those around him, was afraid to do anything. However, knowing it and acting on it were two different things. The prisoners watched as a constant stream of ragged-looking men, women, and children passed by. Many of them wore bandages, or leaned on each other for support. None wore chains.

  Finally, after five minutes had elapsed, Dorn examined his surroundings, assured himself that no one was watching, and walked away. He waited for the inevitable whistles, for the shouts of outrage, but nothing happened. Thus emboldened, he walked faster and faster, until the building was left behind and the crowd closed around him. Dorn knew then that he was free, if anyone in a forced labor camp can be described as "free." Mr. Halworthy had always insisted that everything was relative.

  It was dark now—but the serpentine footpaths were lit with smoky torches augmented with widely spaced halogen lights. Dorn spent his first half hour of comparative freedom wandering the muddy streets, absorbing the atmosphere, marveling at what his eyes saw, his nose smelled, and his ears heard.

  The squalor he'd seen in the city was nothing compared to this. Yes, the open sewers were the same, but the people of Oro lived in houses, no matter how humble they might be. There were no such amenities here. Everything was made from scrap. Scraps of wood, plastic, and fiberboard, but never of metal, for metal had value, and belonged to the owners.

  As Dorn followed the winding streets, and sought to avoid the deepest cesspools, he noticed subtleties that would have escaped him before. First, he noted the fact that the high ground was the most desirable since it was farthest from the sewers and subject to ocean breezes. That being the case, even the slightest rise was surmounted by the local equivalent of a mansion, the most elegant of which had been fashioned from standard twelve-by-six-foot plastic cargo modules.

  Then, falling away to either side of the minimansions, and steadily decreasing in quality, came the makeshift huts, lean-tos, dugouts, and tents. Finally, along the very edge of the road, a line of pitiful figures crouched under scraps of plastic, and in one case, a much abused Voss Lines flag, just like the ones that had flown from his parents' ships as they taxied into Fortuna's main harbor. It flapped dismally as if aware of its fate.

  Dorn swallowed the lump that formed in his throat, wondered which of the family ships had expired on the mud flats, and continued on his way. As he wandered through the slums, he was struck by both the poverty and the energy with which the residents pushed it back. Everywhere he went voices offered clothing, haircuts, spices, alcohol, cookware, and sexual favors so exotic he'd never heard of them before, and wasn't sure he wanted to.

  The food stands were tempting, however. He watched a little girl remove a strip of mystery meat from a tiny brazier, dip it into a pot of reddish-brown sauce, and offer it to a man covered with tattoos. He accepted the strip, handed the child a three-inch piece of insulation-stripped copper wire, and wandered away. Dorn felt his stomach growl, swallowed a mouthful of saliva, and drifted on.

  Finally, as if unconsciously drawn to the center of the devastation, Dorn came to an area of almost unimaginable destruction. Smoke and dust, still visible in the light provided by the company-supplied floods, billowed up toward the sky. A rescue effort was underway as fifteen or twenty volunteers struggled to remove a pile of rubble. Their objective wasn't clear until Dorn heard a man shout, "I can hear them! We're getting closer!" and saw the others work with renewed energy. Suddenly, a siren sounded, and the would-be rescuers dropped their makeshift tools and hurried away. Dorn assumed they were headed for the buildings he'd seen earlier.

  As the crowd departed, an alien
emerged from the wreckage and waved his arms above his head. Dorn recognized the XT as a member of the Traa race and didn't need a degree in xenopsychology to tell that he, she, or it was upset. "Wait! Come back! We're so close! What if it was you? Come back, damn it!"

  But the words were to no avail as the siren continued to wail and the humans hurried away. Dorn had drifted closer by then, and the alien saw him. He pointed a finger in the human's direction and sounded angry. "You! Yes, you! Why linger? Go with the others. Earn your meaningless pay."

  Dorn was confused. He shrugged. "I don't know where they're going or why. I'll help if you show me what to do."

  The alien was closer now, and Dorn was struck by the humanlike fervor in his eyes, and the energy that crackled all around him. His bar code was old and faded. "A newbie, huh? Well, so much the better. Come on, newbie, you and I will dig, and later we shall eat. It's the same deal the company would give you, except that our work will save lives, and theirs will cheapen it. Come then, grab that axe, and get to work."

  The axe head had been fashioned from a chunk of hull metal and mated with a hardwood handle. It was a tool so ancient, so common, that one could be had for two or three credits on most planets, and less if you bought them in bulk. But not on New Hope, where a meal cost a short length of copper wire, and guards were dispatched to recover a twenty-foot length of chain.

  What if Dorn took the axe and ran? His legs were longer than the Traa's ... and he felt sure he'd win the resulting race. But the alien had trusted him, and people were trapped in the wreckage, so Dorn pushed the idea away.

  The Traa, who had a short snout, horizontal nostrils, and a sort of doglike aspect, led Dora to a tangle of wooden beams, adjusted one of the homemade torches to maximize the somewhat dubious light, and called to the people trapped below. The reply was faint but encouraging. Dorn paused to analyze the situation, chose which beams to attack first, and went to work. The wood was dry, and chips flew with each blow. A beam cracked and fell in two. The human chopped while the alien hauled the pieces away.