Where the Ships Die

by William C. Dietz

  In any case, Mr. Sharma was important, as was the errand, since only the most trusted members of the staff were allowed to serve the family. Myra sought such a position not because of the status involved, or the privileges attendant thereto, but because of the information that could be gleaned. Information she could use to free Dora and herself from what amounted to slavery. There had to be a way out, and Myra was determined to find it.

  The china, which had been made on one of the southern islands, was white with hand-painted blue fish that chased each other all around the rims. It probably cost more than her father made in a year. It rattled slightly as she carried the service into the formal dining hall, and from there to the day room, which was large and sunny, with lots of white furniture and enormous windows that looked out on the water. Water that was dotted here and there by the remains of gigantic starships. She wondered if Dorn was out there, cutting steel by hand, or dodging the pieces that fell from above.

  Some said that Mrs. Sharma had a sharp tongue, but Myra had seen none of that in her contacts with the woman, and liked her in spite of the fact that she shouldn't. She was forty or so and had just started to thicken around the middle, a fact made less obvious by the colorful saris she wore and the quickness with which she moved. She had black hair, braided into waist-long ropes, and pretty eyes. They twinkled as Myra approached. "The table will be fine, dear... thank you."

  Mr. Sharma, an intense-looking man with a slightly hooked nose, hardly noticed. He accepted a cup of coffee from his wife without taking his eyes off his hand comp. The liquid must have been sufficiently hot, because he made no comment to the contrary.

  Myra had backed away as she'd been taught to do and was about to turn when Seleen, the Sharmas's daughter, entered the room from the main hallway. She was fresh from a shower and was drying her hair with a towel. In spite of the fact that Seleen was Myra's age, she looked older, and reminded the servant girl of the vid stars she'd watched in the village theater. Their eyes met, and Seleen tossed the towel in her direction. "Here ... take care of that, would you? And tell Fimbre I want some tea."

  In spite of the fact that their village was poor, the residents had treated each other with respect, and Myra felt blood color her cheeks. Words fought to be spoken, but she held them back. Myra had a plan, or the beginnings of one, and sacrifices must be made. She caught the towel, dropped a curtsy, and left the room.

  Seleen, who had seen the conflict on the other girl's face, smiled and flopped into a chair. Life was boring on the peninsula, and fun was where you found it.

  Jana was right. The shift boss did like to pick on the same people over and over, and, judging from the last eight hours, Dorn was indeed elected. No matter how hard he worked, or how much metal he moved, it wasn't good enough. How many times had he heard servos whine as the exoskeleton approached? How many times had the whip fallen across his shoulders? How many times had Castor laughed, then stalked away? Ten? Fifteen? Twenty? It had been a long, miserable day, and, if it hadn't been for the leather armor that Jana had sewn for him, and secured beneath what remained of his shirt, Dorn might have been permanently injured.

  As it was, he just wanted to die as the siren blew and the haulers waded ashore. He was tired, sore, and frightened. Would this be one of the days when the guards searched them? Plucking little bits of wire and metal from their rags and laughing while they tucked them away? And why didn't they search every day?

  Jana said it was because the company benefited from the black market economy, and she was right. By allowing workers to steal small quantities of metal, the Sharma family enabled them to provide their own food and shelter. Still, the penalties for getting caught were quite severe, up to and including crucifixion. Dorn felt his pulse quicken, felt the beam brush across his forehead, and stepped through the arch.

  Would a voice call? Tell him to stop? Order him to disrobe? He counted the seconds off and breathed a sigh of relief at ten. The others turned, grinned happily, and went their separate ways, Jana to her shanty, the twins to their hut, and Dorn to whatever shelter he could find.

  A number of weeks, he wasn't sure how many, had passed since Sa-Lo had kicked him out. And, in spite of the fact that Dorn had spent a good deal of time and energy searching for quarters, he hadn't found any. Nights, many of them cold and miserable, had been spent out in the open. Tonight, though, thanks to some slivers of metal that Jana and he had surreptitiously worked free from a hull plate, he could count on a vendor-supplied meal and some floor space in one of the cleaner flophouses.

  By working every day, and refusing to go there for anything more than a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a bar of soap, Dorn had managed to rack up a few credits at the company store. But he was saving those to buy some hand tools with which he could start a part-time business or, god forbid, secure medical attention if he were injured. Plus he had Myra to think about, and her needs. He was still determined to make contact with her.

  Dorn followed one of the now familiar trails up from the beach and was headed for his favorite food vendor when he heard a commotion to his right. Sparks flew up as a crowd gathered around a fire. Curious, and eager for free entertainment, Dorn worked his way in. The sun had started to set, and the fire's warmth felt good against his skin.

  A coarse-looking man, with eyes that seemed a little too bright, dragged a box in front of the fire and stepped on top of it. Then, reaching out like a minister to his congregation, the man addressed his audience. "Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! The merchandise is waiting and the time is now. Are you tired of fetching water? Hauling firewood from the beach? Battling the mud that cakes your floor?"

  "You bet your ass I am!" one woman shouted. "Come on over, I'll put you to work!"

  The crowd laughed and the man laughed with them. "Thanks for the offer, kind lady, and if it weren't for my love-mate here, I'd take you up on that. Besides, seeing as how there ain't enough of me to go around, the rest of the crowd would be disappointed. No, I have a better answer, and one that don't eat as much as I do neither. Come on, darlin', bring them little cherubs out here, and give these folks a look-see."

  Dorn felt something catch in his throat as a woman stepped out of a cargo module, tugged on a rope, and pulled five children after her. They were a sad-looking bunch, with pinched little faces, eyes that seemed too big, and rags for clothes. None was more than ten years old, and Dorn was shocked. How could anyone sell another human being? Then he remembered where he was, checked the faces around him, and saw curiosity, interest, and yes, a little bit of greed. His fellows, being little more than slaves themselves, saw nothing wrong with the proceedings.

  "So," the man said importantly, "who wants to make the first bid? Ten? Do I hear ten ounces of metal for this fine young specimen? Look at him, a good body, good bones, and as willing as they come. You'll never fetch water again."

  "Three!" someone said. "I bid three!" and the auction had started. Dorn eyed the boy, a pathetic-looking creature with an open sore on his left leg, and fingered the metal in his pocket. He could buy the boy, and free him from his slavery, but what then? He had no food, no shelter to offer, and might be doing the child a disservice.

  It was a moot question, however, since the bidding soon outstripped his ability to pay, and the boy went to a hard-looking woman who wore her hair in a bun. The rest of the children followed, some taking longer than others, until the last was sold. The crowd eddied, and was about to disperse, when the man waved his arms in the air. "Hold, friends and neighbors, we have one last offering. A bargain, if you will, a small but tasty morsel, who, though under the weather at the moment, will be of considerable value when she recovers. Bring that bundle of joy out here, honeybun, and show the people what a bargain looks like."

  Dorn turned and watched as the woman entered the cargo module and reappeared with something draped across her arms. It was a little girl, perhaps seven or eight, so ill that she appeared to be unconscious. Her head hung over the woman's arm and bobbed loosely as sh
e walked.

  The crowd groaned. A man said, "Why, she ain't worth diddly squat," and a woman shook her head in disgust. "Geez, you call that merchandise? Give me a break."

  The auctioneer, concerned lest the crowd desert him, held up his hands. "Wait! She's a bargain, I tell you! Heaven waiting to happen. How 'bout it, gentlemen? You like 'em young? Well, here's your chance."

  Dorn, sick at what he'd heard, took a step forward. A second man did likewise. His tongue flicked over chapped lips. His eyes had a hungry look. "I'll take her... give ya an inch o' wire."

  Dorn felt the metal in his pocket and guessed that he had three or four ounces. "Three ounces of metal... and that's my final offer."

  The slave owner looked at the other bidder, saw the shake of his head, and beamed broadly. "Sold to the boy for three ounces of metal! And don't forget, folks, we buy as well as sell 'em, so if you need a little extra cash, don't hesitate to stop by. See you next week."

  Dorn handed the metal over to the woman, who transferred the girl to his arms and turned away. The girl moaned, said something incoherent, and lapsed into unconsciousness. The crowd began to disperse. A man said something obscene. People laughed. Dorn blushed and hurried away.

  It wasn't until five minutes later, when Dorn found himself wandering down a path with nowhere to go, that he realized what he'd done. He had no place to take the girl, no medical skills, and, after paying for her, no means to purchase food. What would he do?

  It seemed as if his feet had known the answer all along, because Dorn was halfway to La-So's cargo module before he made a conscious decision to go there. The trail was pretty much as it had been weeks before, less muddy if anything, but more treacherous with the girl in his arms. Night had fallen, and the Traa's door was closed, but light gleamed through the window.

  Given the fact that it was nearly impossible to free up a hand, Dorn kicked the door instead. It opened, the alien took one look at the girl, and motioned Dorn forward. "Put her over there. What happened?"

  Dorn explained while the alien checked the girl's vital signs, made strange clucking sounds, and marshaled his meager medical supplies. The female had a fever, that was obvious. But why? There were various possibilities. He worked his way through each one of them.

  "So," Dorn said, bringing his narrative to a close, "I came here."

  "It's well that you did," the Traa said evenly, "because the company doctors are reluctant to invest time, energy, and pharmaceuticals in anyone not capable of hard physical work. Fortunately, one of my ex-patients works as an orderly at the clinic and steals medications one capsule at a time. Assuming my diagnosis is correct, this child will be better in five or six days. What's her name?"

  Dorn shrugged. "Somebody said she wasn't worth diddly squat, but I never heard them call her by name."

  "Then Diddly it is," the Traa said, "until we think of something more fitting."

  Dorn nodded, stood, and backed toward the door. "Thanks, La-So. I'll pay you the moment they pay me."

  The alien looked at the girl and up to the boy. There was something new in his eyes. Respect? Admiration? Affection? Whatever it was made Dorn feel good. "No, I am the one who owes you, for the privilege of serving another. Make a bed on the floor. It is better than sleeping on the ground."

  Dorn ate the Traa's cooking and slept on his floor. It was the best night's sleep he'd had in a long, long time.

  16

  You learn something the day you die. You learn how to die.

  Katherine Anne Porter

  American writer

  Circa 1950

  The Place of Wandering Waters and the Planet Mechnos

  The pirate ship went in hard and cut a broad swathe through two miles of thick forest before slamming to a stop. The hull, parts of which were red-hot, started a class three canopy fire. In spite of the fact that hardly a day passed without some rain falling in the huge temperate zones that occupied most of the planet's northern and southern hemispheres, the topmost foliage received a great deal of sun, and was very dry. So dry that lightning started hundreds of fires every year, which, though momentarily devastating, had the meritorious effect of clearing old growth and making room for new. Young, healthy trees had an amazing ability to survive such conflagrations and even benefited from them.

  Still, Torx didn't like the smoke that boiled up to merge with the lead-gray sky and, like his kinsmen, harbored a deep and abiding fear of habitat-destroying flames. This was a phobia not shared by his water-dwelling friend, who seemed oblivious to the sparks, branches, and other bits of burning debris that plopped into the water around them, hissed like death spitters, and were soon extinguished. Which was fine for Rollo, safe within his fireproof environment, but didn't help the Treeth one bit.

  Conditions grew worse as they led a procession of battle-ready teams along one of the many channels in toward the crash site. The ship had buried its nose in a low-lying hill. In spite of the fact that the better part of a day had passed, flames still fed on combustibles within it, and licked at the vessel's badly crumpled superstructure.

  Rollo touched mud with his plate-shaped feet, lumbered out of the water, and felt Torx stir. The reason was obvious. Although most of the canopy in the area over their heads had been consumed, isolated patches continued to burn, showering them with debris. There hadn't been much of a ground fire, however, since sunlight rarely touched the forest floor, and plants were sparse. The marines, each Dromo draped with body armor, their Treeth armed with automatic weapons, emerged to either side. Gallons of water ran off their flanks and trailed behind.

  Rollo wore a military-style com rig. It had a speaker capability, and his voice boomed through the forest. "This is Confederate Marshal Rollo Drekno-Hypont the third. Throw your weapons to the ground, place your hands on your heads, and approach the beach."

  There was no reaction until something exploded inside the spaceship. Fire shot skyward, and a patch of white cloth appeared over a fallen tree trunk. A voice yelled, "Don't shoot!" and a handful of humans staggered toward the water. They were unarmed, or appeared to be, and looked the worse for wear.

  One of the humans, a scrawny specimen with a badly burned arm, identified himself as First Officer Cowles. He seemed especially eager to describe how he and his fellow survivors had been held against their collective will, done what they could to foil the evil captain, and survived the crash. Rollo gave orders for them to be held separately, so the interrogators could compare everything they said, and led a sweep for stray survivors. He didn't find any. Then the officer in charge of the ecological contamination unit took control, and Rollo waddled toward the water. The Will of God had landed safely and he wanted to reach her as soon as possible.

  The bedroom was almost totally dark, with nothing more than the hallway light to provide illumination. Something sharp pricked the surface of Carnaby Orr's skin. He awoke with a start, tried to sit, and found a knife at his throat. He could feel the needle-sharp point and saw light wink off the blade. A knee pinned him in place while a face floated into view. The industrialist expected to see an assassin, a kidnapper, anyone but his wife. Anger and hatred had distorted her normally beautiful face. He activated a subcutaneous alarm and tried to bully his way out of the situation. "Melanie? What is this? Some sort of joke? Stop this nonsense immediately."

  The knife went in a quarter inch and sliced sideways. The blade missed the carotid but cut through a dozen capillaries. Orr felt something warm trickle onto his chest. He was bleeding! She'd cut him! He struggled, and the steel went deeper. Melanie was cold and sarcastic. "What's the matter, lover? Have an aversion to cold steel? It didn't bother you earlier when the aliens cut our son open and put a parasite in his belly. No, that was just god damned fine with you! Well, listen, asshole, your doctors are going after that organism, and if our son dies on the table, so will you."

  Orr's mind raced. His wife had found out the truth about Jason's operation. How didn't matter. The threat to her son's well-being had somehow awaken
ed her from the half-drugged state that had characterized most of her adult life. The challenge was to ignore the inconsequential and focus on that which was important: How much did she know? And where were his security people? They should have intervened by now.

  Melanie grinned. "What's the matter, lover? Wondering where your lackeys are? They're late, aren't they? Ooops. Did I forget to tell you? I made some changes after your whore left. The staff works for me. Luther, Munalo, escort my husband to the car."

  The knife was withdrawn, but hands seized his arms. They jerked the industrialist out of bed. The lights came on, and Orr made eye contact with Luther. Ari had recruited the high-grav wrestler and used him as a shield in crowd situations. Orr had been nice to the bodyguard and hoped for some loyalty in return. It was nowhere to be seen.

  They had hauled Orr half way to the door when Luther spoke. "Ya shouldn't have done that, Mr. Orr. Puttin' some-thin' in Jason like that. We gotta take it out."

  The situation was clear. His security people liked Jason, and his wife had taken advantage of that. The bitch. Still, that's what insurance policies are for, to mitigate the impact of unforeseen catastrophes. Orr had one, but how to activate it?

  Grim silence prevailed as Orr was escorted down the stairs, past the null-gravity well, and into the main hall. His son was there, thumb in mouth, head resting on the nanny's shoulder. The businessman saw open hatred on the woman's face as she walked past. Jason turned, removed the thumb, and pointed at his father. "You have blood on your jammies. Are you coming with us?"

  Orr, who had been forced to pause while his wife descended the stairs, forced a smile. "I'll be there in a moment, son ... save me a seat."

  "You're lucky we don't drag you behind the car," Melanie Orr said coldly. "Take him outside."

  "I need to visit the bathroom," Orr said plaintively. "You wouldn't want me to embarrass myself would you?"

  "I don't care what you do," Melanie said unsympathetically. "Let's go."