"Of course," Seleen said matter-of-factly. "They have to be. How else can they keep order? Surely you understand. The workers know nothing beyond feeding their miserable faces. I imagine your family has the same kind of problems."
Dorn was struck momentarily dumb. His mouth worked, but nothing came out. Finally, he exploded. "Are you crazy? Or just plain stupid? These people are just like you and me. Some are nice and some aren't. They had bad luck ... and you had good luck. If you call sitting in that mansion 'good.' I'd rather die in the surf than live like you do."
The words hit Seleen like so many slaps across the face. Never, not in her whole life, had anyone dared speak to her in such a manner. Her eyes blazed and her chin trembled. "Then enjoy the next couple of hours, Dora Voss! Because the guards will find you! And when they do, I'll applaud when they haul what's left of you to the top of the hill and strap it to a cross!"
With that the girl turned, made her way to the door, and slammed it behind her. Mrs. Sandro was the first to react. "Stop her! She'll bring the guards down on us!"
Sandro jumped for the door, followed by Dorn. They hurried outside and ran toward the path. The dog was barking but the girl was gone. In minutes, an hour at most, the men with the guns and truncheons would arrive.
22
The fundamental principle is that no battle, combat, or skirmish is to be fought unless it will be won.
Che Guevara
Cuban revolutionary
Circa 1950
The Planet New Hope
Carnaby Orr liked Sharma's cigars. He was going to have a second one. And why not? The symbiote would mitigate the negative effects. He lit one, took a deep, satisfying drag, and surveyed the slums below. The mansion's defensive wall was four feet thick and offered an excellent vantage point. The paths were illuminated by torches. A breeze blew off the ocean. One of the torches sputtered and disappeared. Shadows moved, and a baby cried.
The industrialist heard footsteps and turned toward the sound. Ari looked lean and lanky, maybe too lean and lanky, but he liked her that way. His orgasm had been much more intense than usual. The result of his self-enforced celibacy? Chemicals the symbiote added to his bloodstream? Whatever it was felt good. He gave the bodyguard a hug. "You slept well?"
"Extremely well," Ari replied meaningfully. "Thanks to you."
Orr laughed delightedly. "Good. It doesn't seem fair, given what you've been through, but we have work to do. Once the wormhole belongs to us, there will be plenty of time to rest. The Voss boy is here, we know that for sure, and so are the coordinates. I can feel it. They were hidden on a Voss Lines ship, the kid either knew it or figured it out, and murdered a man to get them. His mother would be proud."
Ari looked out over the slums. The stamping mill was silent. It seemed as if the whole peninsula was holding its breath. Waiting. The hair rose on the back of her neck, and she took Orr's arm. "It's too quiet. I don't like it."
"Yeah, Sharma said the same thing," Orr replied casually. "He says they're lying in wait for us. So what? We've got his guards plus hired muscle. We'll go down, break a few heads, and take the place apart. It should be fun."
Orr? Breaking heads? Having fun? Ari looked to see if he was serious. Judging from his expression, it seemed that he was. First the hyperintense sex—now this. Her boss had changed. He seemed more powerful somehow. The bodyguard smiled. "Yeah—well, don't get carried away. I need you. For a good night's sleep if nothing else."
Orr knew she was playing to his ego and didn't mind a bit. He laughed and took her hand. It felt good to be alive. "Come on ... opportunity waits."
The waiting room had never been intended for someone of Rollo's size and temperament. That, plus his propensity for pacing back and forth, made the receptionist nervous. The fact that Torx had fallen asleep on her couch and was snoring loudly didn't help. The truth was that the High Commissioner could have seen the co-marshals during the previous day or nearly anytime since. Could have, but chose not to, for reasons she could only guess at.
Maybe it had something to do with the message torps that had arrived during the last twelve hours, or the aliens who came and went through the back door. Whatever it was had driven her to take up smoking after years of abstinence.
The floor creaked as Rollo reached the far end of his ten-pace journey, turned, and bumped her favorite plant. It toppled and fell. The Dromo was nudging the half-empty pot with his horn when the intercom buzzed. The receptionist touched a button and checked the screen. "Yes?"
The Commissioner looked tired. "Send them in."
The receptionist killed the link and breathed a sigh of relief. "Marshal Hypont?"
Rollo looked up from the plant. "Yes?"
"The Commissioner will see you now."
"It's about time," the Dromo grumbled. "Hey, Torx! Wake up! We've got work to do."
If the sound of the plant crashing to the floor hadn't been sufficient, the head nudge certainly was. The couch slid three feet and bumped a wall. Torx yawned and stretched. His fingers fluttered. "What time is it?"
"Four hours later than the last time you asked."
"Ah," the Treeth replied, "that would explain why I feel so rested. Nice couch—nearly as good as a tree. Did his highness send for us?"
"That he did," Rollo said grimly, "and just in time. You know how what happens when I get frustrated."
"Tsk, tsk," Torx signed. "None of that now. We can't afford the damages. And we sure can't afford to lose our pensions."
"Screw our pensions," Rollo replied ominously. "There's the door .. .you first."
The receptionist waited for the marshals to pass, righted her plant, restored the soil to its pot, and went to grab a quick smoke. Aliens. Who could understand them? She'd be glad when they were gone.
The Commissioner was a middle-aged man with thinning hair, slightly protuberant eyes, and an upturned nose. He'd been on the fast track once, a sure bet for Secretary of Commerce, when this sponsor, a senator from Earth, had taken a bribe. The scandal had ruined her career and capped his. The posting to New Hope seemed ironic at first, the final insult from a cruel, uncaring government.
Four years had passed since then, and the Commissioner had concluded that there were worse things than a high-ranking position on a backwater planet. Like swimming in political sewage all day, kissing ass all night, and hating what he was. All it took was the right amount of maturity to see his post for what it truly was, a paradise where his superiors never chose to visit and no one cared what he did. Or didn't do. Not until now anyway, when a pair of unlikely badge jockeys, a wayward rich boy, and a shipload of influence-wielding aliens had conspired to compromise his little hideaway. He could tell there were big uglies hiding in the bushes, the kind of big uglies he didn't want any part of, the kind that would draw attention to his hidey-hole. All was not lost, however. The Commissioner had a plan, and, assuming all parties agreed to it, he would rid himself of the entire lot.
The door opened, and the Commissioner rose. The marshals were no surprise. The Commissioner had met members of both species before. In fact, anyone who had ever witnessed a Dromo consuming hors d'oeuvres at an embassy reception while his companion swung from a chandelier wasn't likely to forget the spectacle anytime soon. His number-three smile conveyed welcome and a touch of pained superiority. He bowed at the waist.
"Marshal Torx ... Marshal Hypont... I apologize for the wait. However, it seems that any number of government officials are interested in your case—and have opinions on how it should be handled. More on that in a moment. Please allow me to introduce gendebeings Ka-Di and Sa-Lo. They represent the Traa government and hope to be of some assistance."
The aliens had been seated, albeit somewhat uncomfortably, on a pair of straight-backed wooden chairs. They stood at the mention of their names, nodded, and bore no discernible expressions. Rollo and Torx recognized the Traa as the same ones who had approached Natalie and absconded with one of lord's shuttles, but gave no sign of their knowledge.
>
Rollo knew a bureaucratic ambush when he saw one. Assistance, bullshit; the Traa wanted the coordinates, and saw the investigation as a quick way to get them. The very ploy that Torx and he had predicted. So how to play it? Hard, as in there are penalties for interfering with a murder investigation? Or easy, as in we'd just love to have your assistance— please tell us more?
Torx had an opinion and tapped it out. "Let's hear what they have to say ... we might learn something. If they tell too many lies, or attempt to lean on us, we can arrest them for stealing the shuttle."
The advice made sense, so Rollo forced a somewhat toothy smile. "Citizen Ka-Di, Citizen Sa-Lo, it's a pleasure to meet you. Particularly if you have information that would aid our investigation."
The Traa, who had absolutely no intention of aiding anyone with anything, tried to look sincere. It was Sa-Lo who answered. "The pleasure is ours."
The Commissioner, happy that things were going so well, started to offer seats, and realized his mistake. The Dromo would crush anything he sat on, assuming such a thing was possible, and the Treeth had appropriated a chair. That left him with nothing meaningful to say. Still, like millions of bureaucrats before him, the Commissioner said it anyway. "Well, now that everyone's acquainted, we might as well get down to business. Marshal Hypont, perhaps you'd be so kind as to characterize your investigation."
Rollo decided to play dumb, something Torx claimed he was good at, and frowned when the official lit a stim stick. Rather than lay out what they knew about Traa society, and their efforts to capture the Mescalero Gap, he focused on the murder investigation instead. It took less than ten minutes to review the murder, the trail that pointed toward a forced labor camp, and the need to search it, both for Ari Gozen, who was their main suspect, and the Voss boy, who, assuming he was alive, might be in danger. The only impediment was the requirement for a warrant—which the High Commissioner could and should issue. Having said that, and having choked on the Commissioner's cigarette smoke, the Dromo turned the tables.
"So, gentlebeings, in light of the murder investigation presently underway, Marshal Torx and I would like to hear whatever information you have to offer, as well as a detailed description of the assistance you hope to render. Oh, and one more thing ... Commensurate with Section 27, page 318, paragraph 4 of the rules, regulations and procedures covering intersystem criminal investigations, law enforcement personnel are required to record all relevant conversations, discussions, interviews, and interrogations. Please proceed. Taping now." Torx produced a small recorder and smiled disarmingly.
The Traa looked at each other in alarm. The last thing they wanted to do was speak for the record. The entire point of the exercise was to blunt the inquiry, or, failing that, to co-opt the investigation and redirect the process. However, due to the fact that the co-marshals weren't the out-planet hicks the Traa had hoped for, the first objective seemed increasingly unrealistic. Sa-Lo tackled the second.
Everyone knew, or thought they knew, about Sharma's mercenaries and why they were present. The wreck master abused the Voss boy, the kid punched his ticket, and the owner wanted revenge. More than that, he wanted to make an example of Voss, something most workers could live with, except for one thing: Past manhunts, like the one directed at Dorn Voss, had been indiscriminate, and had affected the entire community. Plus, La-So liked the kid, and claimed he was innocent. So they were willing to fight. Never mind that La-So abhorred violence and begged them not to.
Some of the workers had been soldiers and took charge of the semiorganized defense effort. The strategy originated with Lawrence Kane, a onetime sergeant major. Like the others who been around for a while, he knew what would happen. The security forces would exit the compound through the main gate and follow the road into the slums. Then they would split into groups and follow side paths out into the community. During the premeditated rampage that followed, men would be beaten, women raped, homes looted, and neighborhoods burned to the ground. With one quick stroke the security forces would make the workers more dependent on the company and destroy whatever socioeconomic infrastructure had established itself since the previous cleansing. An infrastructure that, like a noxious weed, was certain to sprout culture, norms, and worst of all, leaders, none of which was acceptable.
Like any good strategy, the one Kane came up with was simple. By sealing the side paths and forcing the security forces down a funnel, he would push them into a trap. People understood the plan and liked it. Word spread, and work began. Teams of haulers dragged raw materials to the edge of the road, where wreckers wove junk into eight-foot-tall barricades, which they would defend using long wooden spears, each crafted by a sifter and tipped with contraband metal.
Dorn, who felt personally responsible for the crisis, offered to turn himself in. Kane, along with other community leaders, refused. The ex-sergeant major was not especially large but radiated strength and authority. He wore a carefully groomed handlebar mustache and hair so short Dorn couldn't tell what color it was. He had green eyes, and they glittered when he spoke. ' "That took guts, son, and if we thought it would save lives, they'd be strappin' you to a cross right now. Only trouble is that it wouldn't make much difference. Sharma ain't about to back down, not with the muscle he hired, and that Orr guy egging him on. The best thing you can do is lend a hand. Nobody blames you for what happened. Pull your weight—that's all anyone can ask."
Dorn pulled his weight and then some as he teamed with old companions to haul materials up from the beach. It was hard work, damned hard work, and equal to working the surf. He didn't mind, though, and neither did the others, because they were determined to strike back.
The foursome loaded their slings with an odd assortment of lumber and hauled it up the hill. A gang of children ran by, water trailing from the buckets they carried, heading toward a fire station. La-So had enlisted Myra as a medic and, along with other volunteers, was building a makeshift hospital. Dorn wondered how Myra was doing, prayed she'd be okay, and released the sling. The boards crashed to the ground. The barricades were impressive and growing by the hour. He wondered how much time remained and hurried down the hill.
Torches flickered and bottles passed back and forth as Orr's toughs and Sharma's security forces mingled in the compound. Exoskeletons had been brought up from the beach. Servos whined and shadows flickered as the machines stalked from place to place. Past experience had proved them invaluable for ripping the roofs off shanties.
Sharma entered the courtyard through the kitchen. He was furious with his daughter. First because she'd left the family compound without permission, and second because she'd known who the Voss boy was and kept it to herself. All of which had led to the potentially disastrous situation before him.
The slums were like a well-maintained compost heap, in that they required turning from time to time. Not too frequently, however, since excessive chum led to high costs and low productivity. Not that Orr cared. No, the industrialist had decimated Sharma's cigar supply and hijacked his security forces all without so much as a by-your-leave. Now he planned to grab the Voss boy and his wormhole. Owning a wormhole! Imagine! It could have been his, would have been his, if Seleen had any brains.
Sharma sighed, checked to make sure his sidearm was loaded, and left the porch. He didn't relish a foray into the slums, but Orr was going, and that left him no choice. Not if he wanted to retain his people's respect and limit the amount of destruction they caused. But everything wasn't lost. No, Orr might be a tough negotiator, but so was Sharma, and the industrialist had affixed his thumbprint to an exclusive salvage contract. Not a wormhole, perhaps, but millions over the next ten years, and all for the family. Except for Seleen, that is, who would spend the next four years with a rather strict religious sect, making prayer rugs for the poor. The thought made the salvage operator feel better and put a spring into his step.
Orr was about to address the troops when he saw Sharma move into the courtyard. Ari shouted for their attention and got it. "Hey! L
isten up! Mr. Orr has something to say."
Orr, conscious of the fact that Sharma resented his presence, pointed toward the salvage operator. "Let's hear it for Mr. Sharma!"
A cheer went up and died away. It was a nice gesture, and Sharma was pleased. Orr placed hands on hips. He looked as if he'd conquered the wall rather than climbed on top of it. "All right, people, you know who we're looking for. His name is Voss, Dorn Voss, and he's wanted for murder. Justice must be done. However, before this young man pays for his crime, I want to speak with him. I'll pay one thousand credits to the man or woman who drags him in. Providing he's alive, that is."
Ari stepped forward. Her eyes were bright and her voice was hard. "Did you hear that? One thousand credits! Let's hear it for Mr. Orr!"
A cheer went up. Ari noticed that it was at least ten times louder than the one Sharma had received. Orr waved his cigar in acknowledgment. "The talking's over—go get 'em!"
The cheer was spontaneous this time, and they surged toward the gate. It opened on well-oiled hinges. Ari noticed that in spite of her efforts to integrate all of them into a single force, Sharma's security people had instinctively clumped together, as had the mainland toughs. This troubled the bodyguard and didn't bode well for a coordinated effort. Still, the task before them wouldn't call for much cooperation, Ari assumed. Both groups crowded through the gate and started down the hill. Spirits were high, and there was no attempt at discipline.
A group of household servants had gathered to watch. Most favored the slum dwellers. Fimbre stood to one side and frowned. He found the whole thing distasteful. Yes, discipline was an absolute requirement for a stable society, but this was uncalled for. A role for each, and each in their role. That's what he believed in. Anything else led to anarchy. He thought about sending the servants inside, decided the show would expire on its own, and retired to his room. A glass of sherry and one of Mrs. Sharma's books—now that was the way to pass an evening.
Where the Ships Die Page 27