Where the Ships Die

by William C. Dietz

  "Hey, mister! You want a bath? Lord knows you could use one ... Just five inches of wire, a number-three fastener, or an L-bracket."

  "Nice box young sir... how 'bout a trade?"

  So it went until Dorn topped a slight rise and spotted the wood lot. It was surrounded by a four-foot-high adobe wall and guarded by half-starved dogs. The nearest one growled, lunged to the end of a badly frayed lead, and snapped its teeth.

  Dorn kept an eye on the dogs, located the main entrance, and entered the compound. The wood had been sorted, piled, and priced by type. There was driftwood, nearly white from exposure to the sun; planks, or what had been planks, stripped off long-dead pallets; and branches, each shaped by the wind. Thanks to Mr. Halworthy's tutelage, Dorn recognized the latter as pieces of ironwood, an especially dense shrub that flourished on open hillsides. It burned like coal.

  Dorn heard the ka-thunk of an axe hitting wood, wandered toward the sound, and was confronted by a woman in a red bandana, blue blouse, and homemade pantaloons. A pile of kindling lay heaped at her feet. Her eyes were blue. An explosion of wrinkles radiated away from them. "Yes? What can I do for you?"

  "Is Sandro here?"

  The woman bellowed, "Sandro! Someone to see you!" and returned to her work.

  Kindling flew, and Dorn stepped out of the way. The voice came from behind and made him jump. ' 'Yeah? What do you want? I don't give no handouts, if that's what you're after."

  Dorn turned. Sandro was a small, wizened man. He looked as if every bit of moisture had been leached out of him, leaving nothing but leather. He regarded Dorn with the suspicion of someone who has seen everything... and none of it good. Dorn swallowed. "La-So sent me."

  Sandro's features softened. "Oh, he did, did he? How is old snout-face, anyway?"

  A little taken aback, unsure of how to respond, Dorn stuttered. "He's fine, that is, I think he's fine, though it's kind of hard to tell."

  Sandro nodded as if he knew what Dorn meant. "Yeah, well, he can be a surly critter, especially when he gets to thinking 'bout his kin, which is nearly all the time. You know the story?"

  Dorn shook his head.

  "Well, there ain't much to tell," the man said gruffly. "Here ... put the box down." He approached a pile of iron-wood, chose carefully, sectioned the pieces, and passed them to Dorn. "The Traa marry in threes, you know, kinda kinky if you ask me, but that's how they do it. Anyway, La-So and a couple of females came dirtside on a business trip. Here, take some roots ... they burn longest. Now where was I? Oh yeah, La-So. You know them plagues? The ones that sweep through the slums every year or so?"

  Dorn remembered Mr. Halworthy, and how he had died. "Yes, I do."

  Sandro nodded. "Well, strange as it seems, the bug that killed La-So's wives didn't bother us humans. Oh, it gave some a headache all right, and a nasty case of the trots, but that's all. Anyway, the poor old slob went on the Traa equivalent of a thirty-day drunk, and woke up in the holding pens. You know the rest."

  Dorn did know the rest, and lifted the box off the ground. It was heavier than it looked. "So how long has he been here?"

  Sandro squinted into the sun. "Two years? Three? Time don't mean much around here. Not to me, anyway ... though some think of nothing else."

  Dorn nodded and looked at the wood. "I don't have metal of my own ... and La-So didn't give me any."

  Sandro waved the issue away. "That's 'cause snout-face knows I wouldn't take it. I owe him more than I can ever repay. You tell him that Sandro sends his best."

  Dorn thanked the man, wondered what La-So had done to earn such undying gratitude, and made his way to the path. The box was heavy. Carrying it was easier when he hoisted it onto a shoulder. The downhill part of the journey wasn't bad, but the subsequent uphill stretch was more difficult, and he arrived out of breath. La-So's dwelling was just as he'd left it.

  The teenager heard a humming sound and peered inside. A plate heaped with food sat on the makeshift table, and beyond that, face into a corner, sat La-So.

  The Traa was humming a chant of some sort.

  He put the wood by the stove, retrieved the plate of food, and carried it out front. The stoop made a good place to sit. The fact that the food was hot suggested that the alien had seen the human coming and wished to avoid him.

  Dorn spooned mush into his mouth and wondered what the problem was. Did the alien's seemingly antisocial mood stem from sorrow, as Sandro suggested? Or did it flow from something else, like a different set of norms? Or an offense on Dorn's part? There was no way to know.

  Dorn ate his meal, washed his dish, and stared at La-So's back. The chanting continued; Dorn shrugged and stepped outside. A siren sounded, people hurried toward the beach, and Dorn, having nothing else to do, joined the procession.

  Men, women, and children materialized from all manner of huts, shanties, and tents, turned toward the sea, and followed paths toward the beach. Dorn, who'd been struck by the almost irrepressible good humor demonstrated by the camp's residents up till now, was now struck by the almost eerie silence that fell over them.

  He considered returning, but remembered the alien's hard, unyielding back, and knew there was nothing to return to. He thought about Myra, wondered what she was doing, and hoped she was okay.

  The paths converged one by one, leading to what amounted to an assembly area. Dorn saw the eight-foot-tall razor wire-topped fence that separated the lowermost slums from the salvage yards, the beach, and ultimately the ships themselves. Equally noticeable were the evenly spaced guard towers, the lights that would illuminate everything at night, and the signs that read: "All salvage belongs to Sharma Industries. Theft will be punished to the full extent of the law."

  Such precautions made perfect sense, given the fact that each time the workers passed through the heavily guarded gates they entered the local equivalent of a bank vault. So, if the workers weren't allowed to keep anything, and were denied access to the salvage when off duty, where did the pieces of wire, nuts, bolts, and other bits of metallic currency come from? Smuggled, perhaps? And if so, how? Knowing the answers to such questions, and taking advantage of that knowledge, would help Dorn survive. He would have to find out.

  People milled for a moment, and then, as if governed by a single mind, divided themselves into three distinct groups. Two were composed almost entirely of men, with only a sprinkling of women, while the third consisted of women, children, and the elderly. Unexpectedly isolated, and feeling vulnerable, Dorn joined a group of males.

  The siren, which had continued to wail, stopped suddenly, and the speaker system popped. The voice originated from a guard tower. "All right, people, you know the drill, wreckers first, haulers second, and sifters third."

  The titles had a functional quality, as if they represented specialties of some sort, and, given the fact that the others had come to the assembly area of their own free will, or seemed to anyway, Dora figured the work was compensated in some way. Another item to investigate and understand.

  Dorn was nearly left behind as the group he had associated himself with shuffled toward a checkpoint, merged into a single column, and passed between a pair of guards. By peering around the people in front of him, Dorn could see up ahead. He noticed that each person was required to hold his or her hands out, and while most of the workers were admitted, some were rejected. This caused the line to move forward in a series of jerks. No sooner had Dorn made that observation than it was his turn in the gate. The guards looked bored. They used a minimum of words. "Stop."

  Dorn stopped.

  "Hands."

  Dorn held out his hands. The guard looked, frowned, and shook her head. "You ain't ready for wrecking, newbie ... try hauling for a while."

  Dorn turned, trudged to the end of the line, and fell in with the haulers. One of them, a middle-aged man with scar tissue where temple jacks had been removed from his head, nodded. Dorn offered a tentative smile. "I give up. . . What does a wrecker do? And what's wrong with my hands?"

  "Wreck
ers cut the ships into pieces, haulers drag the pieces to shore, and sifters sift through the mud and sand looking for the little stuff, which might be small but it all adds up in the long run."

  "So? Where do hands come into it?"

  The man shrugged. "It takes experience to be a wrecker. That's why they receive more pay. If you want to call what we get 'pay.' But it's hard on your hands, real hard, which is why most wreckers wind up with a lot of cuts, burns, and amputations."

  It was sobering news, and Dorn was silent as the haulers formed a line and were funneled through the arch-shaped checkpoint. The light flashed and his forehead warmed. The reason was obvious. By scanning each worker's bar code, and running the information through a computer, the company could track how many days each person worked and ensure that they left at the end of each shift. Dorn added that fact to his hoard of knowledge.

  The wreckers needed time to collect their tools, wade through the surf, and start work. So the haulers were put to work a hundred yards down the beach where the last shift had left a pile of durasteel plates.

  There was nothing complicated about the work. Half the haulers were issued six-foot lengths of rope and told to find partners. Most had anticipated the moment and were paired off. Dorn, who had a piece of rope but no partner, felt a hand touch his arm. "You looking for some help, son? I'm available."

  Dorn turned to find himself face to face with a black woman. She was at least ten or fifteen years his senior and built like a wedge. Years of hard physical work had widened her shoulders, thickened her arms, and narrowed her waist. She wore a sleeveless blouse, shorts, and sandals. Skin gathered over her nose when she frowned. "What? You think you're stronger than I am?"

  Dorn gulped and shook his head. "No, ma'am."

  The woman nodded gravely. "Good. Then I won't have to kick your skinny butt. Here, hand me the other end of that sling."

  Dorn did as he was told. The woman took her end of the rope, led him over to the scrap metal, and accosted a pair of sun-darkened twins. They were thin but wiry. "Hey, you looking for partners? 'Cause the newbie and I match up pretty good."

  The twins eyed them, nodded in unison, and headed for one of the plates. Dorn noted the ease with which the twins slid their rope under the steel slab and did his best to emulate their quick, sure movements.

  Once both slings were in place a twin said, "One, two, three," and they lifted as one. The plate rose into the air and rode a half foot above the sand as they hauled it up the beach. It was heavy, and the sand made walking difficult.

  The going became somewhat easier as they topped the incline and followed another team into the pickup zone. Once there, it was a simple matter to drop the plate, pull the slings out from under, and back away.

  A cable dropped out of the sky, and Dorn watched as a pair of preteen boys dashed in, hooked a harness to the slab, and scurried out of the way. The crane jockey, perched a hundred feet in the air, squinted through the smoke created by her stim stick, released the clutch, and jerked a lever.

  The five-hundred-pound slab of metal swayed into the air, drifted sideways, and thumped onto a conveyor belt. Dust rose into the air, rollers squealed, and the steel shuddered as the belt carried it upward. Dorn wondered what it would be like to try to sleep in the hovels that crept up within a foot of the belt.

  The twins led the way down the slope, and Dorn fell in step with his partner. She was open and direct. "My name's Jana ... what's yours?"

  "Dorn ... glad to meet you, Jana. How long have you been here?"

  "Seven long, miserable years. Which means that I know a thing or two about how to survive. Want to learn?"

  Dorn nodded eagerly. "Sure! You bet!"

  "It'll cost you."

  Everything had its price. He should've known. Dorn felt his enthusiasm drain away. "Sorry, I don't have anything to pay you with."

  "Oh, yes you do," the woman insisted. "Everybody does. I want to be paid in the same currency you'll receive... knowledge."

  Dorn wondered if she was joking. Her face was serious. "What sort of knowledge? What little knowledge I have won't be of much use here."

  "Knowledge is always valuable," the woman countered, "since merely having it provides pleasure. As for what you know, and what I want to know, let me be the judge of that. Time will pass and the payment will suggest itself."

  Dorn wasn't so sure, but if Jana thought he had something to offer, why argue? The lessons began immediately. "Now," his partner said as they reached the bottom of the slope, "it's time to change sides. The work will seem easier, and balanced exercise will build both sides of your body. Watch what you eat, think about the work, and build yourself up."

  Dorn did as he was told, wondered if the twins had done likewise, but couldn't remember which was which. The second trip was a copy of the first, as were the third, fourth, and fifth.

  Finally, after Dorn had lost track of the number of times they had trudged up the beach, and the sun had grown a good deal warmer, the siren burped, and they surrounded the water barrels brought for their convenience. Salt tablets were available from a dispenser. Jana took two, washed them down with a generous amount of water, and suggested that Dorn do likewise.

  With their thirst slaked, there was barely enough time for a ten-minute nap in the shadow cast by one of the guard towers before the siren wailed, guards yelled, the haulers got to their feet, and work resumed.

  The existing supply of plates had been exhausted by now, which meant that it was time to march out through the incoming tide, take up positions around the slowly dwindling ships, and ferry the new metal in.

  The water felt good at first, pushing against the front of Dorn's legs, foaming past the corner posts that marked where the sifters plied their monotonous trade, and sliding onto the beach. But that was before it grew knee-deep, a data liner loomed high above, and a huge slab of durasteel splashed into the sea not ten feet away.

  Dorn learned then how treacherous the unseen sand could be, how it gathered along the inside surface of his sandal straps, and how it rubbed against his unprotected skin. And it was in the shallows, while struggling to slip a sling under a four-hundred-pound chunk of steel, that he had his first encounter with a shift boss.

  He had knelt down, and was feeling for the steel plate's edge, when a larger than expected wave hit him in the face. He lost his balance, fell over backwards, and struggled to right himself. He wasn't aware of the exoskeleton until it appeared right next to him. The whip fell across his abdomen. It hurt like hell in spite of the fact that the water slowed the blow. The voice was amplified. "On your feet, stupid! What do you think this is? A private swimming pool? Your team should be halfway to the beach by now."

  Dorn thought about fighting back, realized how hopeless it would be, but noted the man's heavily bearded face. The wreck master seemed to understand and nodded agreeably. "That's right, newbie ... remember my face. I can't wear this rig twenty-six hours a day now, can I? That means you and I might run into each other on the beach, where it would be my pleasure to kick your worthless ass. The name is Castor. Nick Castor. Now stand or die."

  The exoskeleton took a giant stride forward. The foot pod missed Dorn by less than an inch. Water splashed over him. He turned into the waves, scrambled to his feet, and took his position. Jana tossed the rope; he grabbed it and staggered toward shore. The shift boss watched them go, spit into the surf, and turned away. Servos whined as he moved along the line.

  "Nice work," the woman said through tightly clenched teeth. "Castor likes to pick on the same people over and over again. Looks like you're elected."

  Dorn tried to think of something clever to say, failed, and decided to keep his mouth shut. The sun rose higher in the sky, the work grew harder, and the waves came in endless succession. Life was hard, and only the hard would survive. Dorn allowed a wave to break against his chest, pushed his way into the oncoming tide, and swore he'd be among them.

  14

  The wise and prudent man will draw a usefu
l lesson even from poison itself.

  Lokman

  Ethiopian fabulist

  Circa 100 B.C.

  Aboard the Will of God in Deep Space

  The dream was strange in at least two respects: Natalie knew she was asleep for one thing and her mother acted as narrator for another.

  She watched the freighter taxi, pause, and vanish within its own cloud of steam. Then, as part of a miracle she had witnessed countless times before, the ship broke free of the water. Sunlight glinted off the hull as it turned slightly, and the drives growled. What made the whole thing so horrible was knowing what would happen next. Knowing and being powerless to stop it. Her mother's voice was calm and reflective. "I made many mistakes during my lifetime. The Braxton deal comes to mind, as does the terraforming project."

  "What about me?" Natalie interjected, her voice echoing through time and space. "Was I a mistake?" Her mother couldn't or didn't want to hear, and Natalie watched the ship lift.

  "Yes," Mary Voss continued, "I made many mistakes ... not the least of which was ignoring your father more than I should have. Take this trip, for example. He was dead set against it and wanted to sweep the ship for explosives. I should have listened, I should have ..."

  The rest of her mother's words were lost as a miniature sun was born, lived for three seconds, and collapsed on itself. Thunder rolled, and windows shattered all around the bay.

  Natalie awoke with a start, her heart pounding, sheets soaked with sweat. The compartment was dark, so dark that the clock and the indicators that surrounded it generated the only available light. Speed, course, and drive temps were all as they should be. Checking them, and knowing what they said, was a habit every deck officer had.