Where the Ships Die

by William C. Dietz

  Orr swore silently as Luther and Munalo manhandled him out through the front door. Triggers had been installed throughout the mansion. One was tucked away in the kitchen, two were hidden in the living room, and another had been installed in the bathroom off the hallway. Once he left the house and entered the family limo, there would still be one opportunity left. But what if they put him in a van? Or some other vehicle? Fear rolled itself into a ball and rode in the pit of his stomach.

  The night air was sweet and made all the more so by the Oloroso vines that climbed the east side of the house. The limo was there, doors open, waiting for them to enter. Orr concealed a sigh of relief and hurried to enter first. It was too late. The nanny, with Jason on her lap, sat facing the front. Before Orr could adjust, his wife decreed that he sit in the center backward-facing seat. Luther took one side and Munalo the other. Things could have been worse, however. The backup security system boasted three triggers, two of which were within reach—

  Melanie was the last to enter the car. She sat opposite him. She looked angry, very angry, and in spite of the fact that Orr didn't like the situation he was in, the male part of him noticed how beautiful she was. Which was something he hadn't thought about in a long time. Orr remembered their courtship. He had evaluated his weaknesses, designed a plan to compensate for them, and launched his campaign. And it had worked! Melanie had married him in spite of attentions from more attractive men, and the fact that he'd been relatively poor in those days. How had he done it? With words, that's how. Words carefully and faithfully applied. It was worth a try. He mustered a smile. "So, honey, how was your day?"

  He saw amusement flicker in her eyes and hurried to follow up. "There is no parasite. I wouldn't do that. The organism is a symbiote. It takes nourishment from Jason's blood and provides immunity in return."

  He heard the nanny snort in disbelief and ignored her. "Think about it, Melanie; when was the last time that Jason became ill? You can't remember, can you? That's because it was months ago."

  Orr saw his wife's eyes widen slightly as she realized that it was true. There was another, less positive dimension to the situation, however, and the knowledge restored her anger. "But what happens when it becomes too large for its host? And is forced to tunnel its way out?"

  She was about to say more, about to tell Orr what slime he was, when the nanny frowned. Her meaning was clear. Jason was present and unaware of his condition. Melanie bit off the words and crossed her arms. Her anger spoke louder than words.

  The driver cornered too fast, the passengers leaned away, and Orr extended an arm as if to brace himself. The button was hidden beneath a decorative medallion. Orr felt it give under his hand. Luther frowned and pushed the arm away. Orr apologized and leaned back in his chair.

  Fifty miles away, in the loft of what had been a small factory, a buzzer sounded and a light started to flash. It was a large space with white walls, wood floors, and a minimal amount of furniture. Mozart's Allegro in B fiat was playing in the background. The man who lived there paused in the middle of his nocturnal workout, raised an eyebrow, and ordered the domocomp to kill the music.

  There was no question as to where the summons came from. The man had retired many years before and retained only one client: a wealthy individual who could afford a fail-safe security system and knew better than to use it without reason. Though not in need of additional funds, the man used the obligation the client represented to keep himself sharp. To do otherwise was to die mentally, emotionally, and yes, physically, for the man judged everything according to its usefulness, and was unwilling to live without purpose.

  The man, who had used many names over the years, was currently known as Riley. He hurried to the partitioned area that served as his office, activated some rather expensive electronics, and watched a grid appear on the wall screen. The orange lines represented streets. Names glowed blue. His client, represented by a flashing red light, was headed toward the business district.

  Riley slipped into a black shirt, pants, and boots, armed himself, and grabbed a black duster on his way out the door. The rest of what he needed, equipment for almost every possible contingency, waited in his car. The night air smelled clean, and he was needed. Life didn't get any better than that.

  The Will of God lay at anchor toward the south end of a large lake. A floating dock complete with cranes and autoloaders was positioned alongside. The process of unloading the freighter's cargo was about half finished when a launch arrived and Natalie was summoned.

  She, like the rest of the crew, had been working double shifts for days now. Time was money—and Jord had a schedule to keep. It took two minutes and forty-three seconds for Natalie to reach the main deck. Sparks flew as O'Tool and his technicians replaced a badly burned hull plate. Natalie knew the cyborg didn't like her, and probably never would, but she had earned his respect, and that was sufficient. He saw her, nodded, and returned to work.

  Jord paced back and forth along the flat area in front of the ship's prow. He made it a habit to dress well while in port, both in an effort to impress the locals and to set a standard for the crew. His crisp white uniform, complete with shoulder boards, crackled as he moved. The official summons, and the temporary loss of his third officer, was just the latest in a long string of annoyances, especially in light of the fact that he and his crew had already spent countless hours bobbing up and down with waterborne bureaucrats. All because the pirates, for reasons known only to them, had targeted his ship. It was more than his heart or wallet could bear. He scowled as Natalie arrived. "So, more time wasted."

  Natalie, who was present against her will, nodded in agreement. "Yes, sir. I'm afraid so."

  "More nonsense about the attack, I suppose."

  "Maybe ... although I was summoned prior to our departure. Something to do with Voss Lines and my parents."

  "I should have known you were too good to be true," Jord said sourly. "So tell me, are you and our ex-passengers connected?"

  Natalie considered the truth, followed by a lie, and settled on a compromise. "They certainly thought so, which explains the visit to my cabin, but I still don't understand what they wanted."

  Jord seemed to accept the explanation, because he nodded and gestured to the sturdy launch that bobbed alongside. "Well, the locals want their turn. Let me know if I can help."

  Natalie promised that she would, made quick work of the ladder, and dropped into the boat. It was spotless. A Treeth, resplendent in the uniform of the Water Guards, welcomed the officer aboard and cast off. An inboard engine made short work of the trip.

  Clouds had gathered by the time Natalie stepped out of the boat, and raindrops hit her skin. A second Treeth, this one clad in civilian attire, dropped out of a tree. He motioned for her to follow. It was dry under the canopy and somewhat gloomy. Birds, or the local equivalent thereof, fluttered between the trees. Leaves brushed her shoulders.

  The port authority's administrative park was unlike anything Natalie had seen before. Computer stations, all of which were linked via wireless technology, and personed by members of the Treeth race, stood in leafy glades, next to babbling brooks, and, in one case, up among some tree branches. A significant number of Dromo were present as well, shoulder-deep in their various pools, working their voice-activated computers.

  Natalie followed her guide across a wooden footbridge and into a generously proportioned enclosure. The surroundings consisted of dense vegetation. It reminded her of an Earth-normal hedge, and it wasn't until she sat next to it and spotted the long brown thorns that she realized how deceptive appearances could be. The pond was small by local standards and designed for the convenience of Dromos. A series of waves followed by a cheerful "Hello!" announced her hosts. Natalie recognized the Dromo and Treeth as the same individuals who had issued the summons. She stood. "Greetings. Marshals Rollo and Torx, I presume?"

  "None other," Rollo assured her. "Please, take a seat, make yourself comfortable. Do you require anything? Nourishment, perhaps? Man
y humans enjoy Treeth cuisine."

  Natalie shook her head. "Thank you, but no. I ate aboard ship."

  "Well, let us know if you need anything," Rollo said solicitously. "There's nothing worse than an empty stomach, especially one as large as mine."

  Torx, safely beyond Rollo's field of vision, mimed a Dromo consuming the entire forest. Natalie laughed. Rollo was pleased with the response. "Thank you for coming, especially so soon after the ceasing-to-be of your progenitors, but the matter at hand is of the utmost importance. So much so that the outcome could affect the entire Confederacy."

  Though unable to think of a way in which she, or anything she knew, could have a noticeable impact on the Confederacy, Natalie nodded gravely and waited. There was a lull as the Treeth tapped his fingers against the Dromo's neck pad. The message seemed to meet with the larger being's approval, because he nodded and cleared his throat.

  "In light of the fact that you've been a cooperative witness, Torx suggests a departure from standard procedure. Rather than ask questions, and piece your answers together, let's exchange information. Agreed?"

  Natalie indicated acceptance, swatted at a rather persistent insect, and listened to the briefing. What she heard both amazed and alarmed her. A natural catastrophe had killed one-third of the Traa race and left the rest psychologically crippled. So much so that they were determined to seize control of the Confederacy. A whole lot of things suddenly made sense. The trade in tools, pharmaceuticals, software, parts, food, weapons, and a thousand other items was important, all right, but not when compared to data traffic, most of which passed through wormholes. Wormholes the Traa sought to control.

  Natalie told the co-marshals about Carnaby Orr, his efforts to acquire the Mescalero Gap, and the way in which the Traa had accosted her aboard ship. Finally, after Natalie had finished her recitation, Rollo spoke. "Your ship will be ready to lift soon?"

  "Yes."

  The Dromo delivered an excellent imitation of a human smile. "Good, because we're going with you."

  Arrangements had been made and the clinic was open when the limo arrived. Melanie had thought of everything, it seemed—a realization that surprised Orr, but shouldn't have, given the efficiency with which she managed his estate, three vacation retreats, and any number of critical social relationships. All while partially stoned.

  Luther and Munalo hustled Orr into the clinic. Jason, who recognized the smell, started to cry. Orr had just turned toward his son, and was about to offer words of comfort, when a needle stung his arm. He tried to react but felt his knees buckle. Luther grabbed Orr under the armpits, and with help from Munalo loaded him on a gurney. Though too weak to move, the industrialist could see and hear. People in OR greens came and went. A voice said, "Prep him." Another voice said, "Yes, doctor," and the ceiling began to move, or that's the way it appeared from his position on the stretcher. He wondered where were they taking him. Then it hit. The surgeons planned to remove the organism from his son and transplant it to him!

  The horror of it sent adrenaline into Orr's bloodstream and enabled him to raise the upper part of his body. The industrialist yelled incoherently and fumbled with the safety strap. That's when a voice said, "Take him down," and Orr felt a second needle penetrate muscle. The businessman struggled, felt tired, and gave up. Melanie appeared and peered into his face. "So, lover, how does it feel? To know they're going to cut your belly open? But wait, I nearly forgot! The symbiote will help you. No need to thank me, it's the least I could do."

  The face vanished, then reappeared a moment later. "Oh, one more thing. You know the empire you built? The one you were willing to sacrifice our son to? Well, my lawyers say half belongs to me, so kiss it good-bye."

  The face disappeared, and half of Orr's life vanished with it. He was still absorbing that, still dealing with it, when they lifted him onto the table. The prep felt cold.

  As with most medical facilities, the clinic had drugs and a system designed to protect them. It was a good system, and Riley spent twenty minutes finding his way through it. He eventually entered through a side door. He produced a semiautomatic handgun, chambered the first of fifteen hollow-point rounds, and reholstered it.

  Then, hoping he wouldn't have to kill anyone, Riley drew a space-certified dart thrower, checked to make sure it was loaded with nonlethal flechettes, and held it ready. His client might be in trouble ... but so were the people who controlled him. They just didn't know it yet.

  The surgeons, three in all, had opened Jason's abdomen and were cauterizing bleeders when Melanie entered the room. Nearly all of them had attempted to talk her out of it, but she wanted to see with her own eyes. She saw the incision, fought the dizziness, and moved closer. Electrodes buzzed, and the odor of burnt tissue filled the air.

  Whatever the creature was, it had grown over the last few months and established connections with Jason's circulatory, respiratory, and digestive systems via slowly pulsating tubes. Melanie gagged and turned away. A nurse took her elbow. "Come with me, Mrs. Orr... there's a chair over here."

  The doctors started to sweat. The symbiote liked the boy's body and didn't want to leave. Every time a tube was severed, the symbiote lowered the child's blood pressure or slowed his respirations. The message was clear: "Stop or I'll kill him." The surgical team countered with drugs, but were doomed to failure. Much as they hated to admit it, the Traa had played a significant role in the initial operation, and the aliens were badly missed.

  Finally, in what amounted to an act of desperation, the lead surgeon left for the neighboring suite. Consistent with Melanie Orr's instructions, her husband had been prepped for surgery. The medical team opposed the plan, but had performed one unethical operation and couldn't refuse another. Not if they wanted to maintain their extravagant lifestyles, that is. That being the case, the surgeon saw one last chance to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Orders were given, the staff obeyed, and the self-propelled table was guided through the doors.

  Riley had no difficulty slipping up on Luther and Munalo. With Orr under sedation and strapped to a table, they were taking a break. Had Ari been present, she would have made provisions for a security zone, a primary escape plan, a backup escape plan, and a shitload of firepower. Luther, who was nominally in charge, hadn't even considered the possibility of an external threat, so he was hardly prepared for it.

  The big man was halfway through one of his favorite wrestling stories when Riley pushed a cart full of medical supplies down the hall, approached the place where they were standing, flipped a towel off the dart gun, aimed and fired. Munalo jerked as the flechette entered his unprotected thigh, looked surprised, and collapsed on the floor. Luther started into motion but stopped when the semiauto appeared in Riley's left hand. "That's better... now tell me what's going on in there. And make it good."

  Luther talked. Riley listened, nodded sympathetically, and shot him in the leg. That made the big man angry. He charged, took a dart in the neck, and dropped like a rock. Riley checked Luther's pulse, placed snake cuffs on his extremities, and donned some OR greens.

  The medical team went to work. The first task was to notify the alien organism that a new host was available. Nobody knew what to do, but the lead surgeon had a hunch. In addition to the tubes connected to Jason's blood supply, a multitude of delicate white filaments had invaded his nervous system. By freeing one of the longer connectors, and pushing the patients together, the doctors were able to drop the filament into the father's recently opened incision.

  What happened next was both frightening and disgusting. The connector, because the doctors couldn't think of a better name to describe its function, acquired a life of its own. The filament touched, recoiled, and touched again. It seemed more interested the second time, excited even, as it snaked here and there, felt around, and dived out of sight. Then, as if pleased with the reports it had received, the organism shivered and started to vibrate. Tubes popped loose, connectors broke free, and the organism prepared to move. A doctor scooped
the creature up, dropped the organism into Orr's abdominal cavity, and watched as it took up residence.

  The doctors, all of whom wished they had never agreed to work for Orr Enterprises, heaved sighs of relief, redivided themselves into separate teams, ordered that their patients be removed to their respective tables, and started to close.

  Melanie felt better, elated even, and was about to speak with the doctors, when an orderly pushed a supply cart into the room. He seemed to recognize her. "Mrs. Orr?"

  "Yes?"

  "I work for your husband. I function as a backup for his regular security team, and, judging from the idiots out in the hall, a sorely needed one. What's Mr. Orr's status? And please, no histrionics."

  The man produced a weapon and Melanie felt her knees go weak. She should have known that a first-class bastard would have a first-class backup plan. "Kill me if you must, but leave the boy alone."

  Most of the security man's face was hidden by his surgical mask, but she saw his eyebrows rise, and realized he was surprised. "There's no need for that sort of thing. My only interest is in extricating my client from the present circumstances. Revenge is his concern. Now, if you would be so kind as to instruct your medical staff to close Mr. Orr's incision, I will arrange for transportation to a real hospital. The doctors will fabricate some sort of reason. Understood?"

  Melanie gulped. "Understood."

  "Excellent," Riley replied wearily. "Because I'm retired ... and it's past my bedtime."

  17

  Take care where your footprints appear... lest the innocent follow.

  Author unknown

  Temple inscription Reon IV

  Circa 1000

  The Planet New Hope

  Ari's mother had liked to dispense motherly advice. This in spite of the fact that she saw motherhood as a part-time job. Mom had some things right, though, like when she said that no matter how horrible things were, they could always get worse.