Where the Ships Die (14 page)

Dorn turned just in time to see that a middle-aged man with black hair and a slightly hooked nose occupied the front passenger seat, while a girl, perhaps Dorn's age or a little younger, sat just behind.

The man had no interest in the prisoners, to judge by his expression, but the girl did, and for the second time that day Dorn found himself staring into a pair of brown eyes, eyes that seemed to see and acknowledge him. Then she was gone, leaving the young man to wonder who she was, and why it mattered.

Time seemed to drag after that, but eventually passed, as did the heat of the day. Dorn had played horsey to a three-year-old for about two hours by the time the column veered off the road and entered a rest area. The prisoners knew the routine by now. Shackles were released, lines were formed, and food was served with minimum fuss.

Dorn spotted Myra almost immediately, resisted the temptation to rush over, and came to regret it as another youth sidled up and started a conversation. Dorn closed the distance as subtly as possible, entered the line behind them, and waited for Myra to look his way. His reward came a few moments later when she saw him, smiled, and turned her back on a clearly disappointed admirer. "Dorn! It's good to see you. Shall we eat together?"

It was like a dream come true, marred only by dirty looks from the would-be suitor, the always lumpy gruel, and the less than ideal circumstances. Dorn had never been part of a romantic dinner, but had seen plenty of them on vids, and knew the setting was way wrong.

Still, Myra was easy to talk to, and it wasn't long before Dorn heard himself blurting out nearly every secret he had, including his expulsion from school, the death of his parents, and his feelings of guilt. It turned out that Myra had similar feelings about her brother's death, and the commonality drew them together in a way that no amount of small talk ever could.

Finally, after what seemed like minutes but was actually hours, they looked around and realized that with very few exceptions, the rest of the prisoners were asleep. It seemed natural to lie side by side, and later, when a cloudburst drenched everyone to the skin, to wrap arms around each other so that bodies touched, and lips nearly met. It was then that Dorn felt himself harden, cursed his untrustworthy body, and recited math formulas in his head. The strategy worked. Myra fell asleep, and so, eventually, did he.

Morning dawned bright and clear. Dorn, who found his legs wonderfully tangled with Myra's, felt embarrassed, saw that she did too, and hurried to extricate himself. They headed for separate privies but met in the chow line.

Rumors, many of which were wrong, had been flying up and down the column every day. This morning's buzz, supposedly based on comments made by a guard, suggested that their final destination lay less than a half day away.

Dorn suspected the rumor was part of an elaborate trick, designed to make the prisoners more malleable, but Myra thought it might be true, and hoped that it was. And, despite his doubts, Dora had to admit that the guards seemed more cheerful than usual, as if they had something to look forward to. Or maybe it was his imagination.

In any case, the breakfast chores were completed in record time and the column was underway shortly thereafter. Time passed quickly, and the terrain gradually changed. The wooden bridges that marked the more recent portion of their journey were all behind them, and ahead was a climb up through gently rolling hills.

Hand-fitted rock walls appeared to either side of the road, holed here and there by careless drivers. The vegetation, lush till now, grew steadily more sparse, until it virtually disappeared, leaving little more than wind-tortured shrubs to hold the nutrient-poor soil. The grade, and the consequent switchbacks, were both a help and a hindrance.

The good part was the fact that south-bound trucks were forced to slow down—their engines roaring as they climbed upward. The hindrance came as the result of the climb itself, which was hard for Dorn and represented a real trial for those less able.

Still, each footstep brought the summit a little bit closer, and with it, the promise of a downhill grade. Dorn looked up, hoped to see the top, and saw three wooden crosses. They were positioned like the letter X and bore the remains of three bird-pecked corpses. Mouths hung open as empty eye sockets stared into the sun. A breeze stirred their rags, raised dust from the ground, and touched Dorn's face. The odor of rotting flesh filled his nostrils and made him gag. Others had similar reactions and looked away. No one said anything. It could happen to them, any one of them. That was what they were supposed to think.

Finally, sluggishly, the column lurched over the hill's crest and wound down the other side. The view was both horrifying and magnificent. The hills dropped sharply in front of them and terminated on a flat, triangle-shaped point of land. Azure water sparkled for as far as the eye could see and foamed as it surged past partially scrapped spaceships, up the slightly rising beach, and onto dry sand. Some of the vessels were nearly intact, while others were so diminished they amounted to little more than piles of junk.

Dora, who had grown up on and around spaceships, recognized the remains of Matsuzaki Data Liners, Sook Intersystem Freighters, Traa Drone Ships, Kilworthy Unihulls, Morgan High Haulers, and many, many more. It was an amazing and, for anyone who loved ships, depressing sight.

But as notable as the ships were, the human ants who worked on them were even
more
remarkable, especially in light of the fact that they were using hand tools to accomplish tasks that would normally fall to androids and cyborgs. Tiny sparks flew as plates were cut away, water splashed as beams hit the oncoming tide, and men rushed to recover the newly harvested wealth. It was difficult to see what happened in the surf, but the cranes were plain enough, as was the massive conveyor belt.

Now the trucks loaded with metal made sense, as did the efforts to find and import cheap labor. Labor that no doubt lived in the warren of huts, hovels, and shanties that stretched from the edge of the mud flats up and around the sturdy-looking one- and two-story buildings that crowded the delta's center. Here were the quarters in which they would live, close by the furnaces and mills necessary to melt, process, and finish the metal recovered from the beached ships.

Beyond it all, a pristine white mansion occupied the farthermost tip of land, shimmered in the afternoon heat, and looked all the more palatial for the squalor that surrounded it.

Here then lay Dorn's young adulthood, assuming he survived long enough to have a future, given the conditions below.

The sight of what awaited them had a sobering effect on the prisoners, reducing them to silence by the time they reached the flats. The sign there was huge and bore the likeness of a broken cogwheel. The name "Sharma Industries" had been spelled out in letters ten feet tall. Dorn figured it was for their benefit, since no one else was likely to see it.

The guards yelled insults at their peers as they herded prisoners through a checkpoint and were greeted in similar fashion. Dorn took note of the nine-foot-high durasteel fence, and the razor wire strung along the top, and knew escape was highly unlikely.

The line slowed, came to an occasional stop, and moved forward in a series of short jerks. One by one the prisoners passed under a strange-looking arch. A camera or something very similar hung over the prisoners' heads and winked as they passed below. Dorn heard cries of pain, the crack of whips, and felt his heart race. What did the thing do? And how did it work?

He soon found out. A guard ordered him forward, the device winked red, and the man in front of him clutched his face. A whip cracked, the line advanced, and the light flashed again. Dorn felt heat sear his forehead and stumbled. He caught himself, heard someone whimper, and looked over his shoulder. The woman behind was crying, and a bright blue bar code had appeared on her forehead. Dorn knew he now wore one as well. The workers had been branded.

Dorn was still feeling the pain when he heard a rumble. He'd been raised with similar sounds and scanned the sky. The ship was a twenty-five-year-old Kawabata Starlight Express. She had a reentry-scarred hull, registration numbers so faded they were nearly impossible to read, and a list to port. She approached from the west, and flew crabwise, as if subject to control problems. The freighter's repellors, the cyclonelike force fields that kept the vessel aloft during takeoffs and landings, were badly out of tune and screamed discordantly as they carved rooster tails through the shallows. Dorn heard six distinct sounds where there should have been one.

The teenager watched with increasing concern as the spaceship jerked, staggered, and resumed its inward drift. Either the pilot was incompetent or, and this seemed more likely, fighting a major malfunction. But the reason for the problem didn't matter much, not if the repellors hit land, not if they touched something structural...

Suddenly all the repellors stopped at once. The ship, which had been no more than a hundred feet off the ground to start with, dropped twenty-five feet, and Dorn's heart skipped a beat. Then, as if from an unwillingness to die, five out of six repellors came on-line, the ship caught herself, and continued her inward drift. Dorn shouted a warning, a siren began to wail, and five man-made tornadoes spiraled up the beach.

Workers were plucked off the ground, steel plates whirled like autumn leaves, and sand spiraled into the air. The prisoners tried to run, tried to get away, but the chain held them in place. It jerked this way and that as people ran in different directions.

A sudden wind tugged at their clothes as chunks of wood, fiberboard, and plastic sheeting flew into the sky, swirled like snowflakes, and fell toward the ground. In the meantime the deadly repellors cut parallel swathes through the shanties, killing countless people where they stood. Others, screaming in terror, were lifted into the air and released seconds later. Some fell on buildings, were impaled on poles, or, in the case of one lucky individual, landed on the sand.

Dorn yelled at the guards, ordered them to release the prisoners, but they were gone. The shadow arrived first, followed by a total eclipse of the sun, and heartrending screams as energy sliced through flesh. The teenager watched helplessly as an entire line of people, still connected by a twenty-foot length of chain, were pulled into the air. He thought of Myra, saw a woman ripped apart, and yelled her name.

10

You cannot travel on the path before you have become the path itself.

Buddha

Founder of Buddhism

Date unknown

The Planet Mechnos

The rain fell in sheets, drummed against space-black hulls, and formed puddles along the dock. The much vaunted weather management system that was supposed to prevent such occurrences had failed. Natalie delighted in the way the water splashed away from her boots. Puddles, and the opportunities they presented, had been the subject of many childish battles. Dorn had started them—well, most of them anyway—and laughed when she got wet. She missed his laugh and the companionship that went with it.

Lightning strobed, thunder rolled, and raindrops stung her cheeks. The ships were moored in orderly rows, with the exception of the xenophobic Grodd Drift Traders, that is, who clustered together.

The purpose of her journey was a job interview. It seemed a captain named Jord had an opening for a third officer, one step below her slot on the
Sunbird,
but beggars can't be choosers. Not with three or four applicants for every berth. Well,
most
berths, that is, Jord's being the exception, since he commanded what many spacers referred to as a "screamer"—a ship where all or nearly all of the crew were members of the same religion, and spent off hours preaching to each other.

The word "screamer" referred not only to the sermons themselves, but to what the more resistant nonbelievers wanted to do after a month or so, the rest either having been assimilated into whatever religion held sway or at least pretending to have been. Not a pleasant prospect, and one Natalie would have preferred to avoid, if it wasn't for the fact that the
Will of God
was bound for the planet known as The Place of Wandering Waters.

The ship, a Kilworthy Unihull, loomed large through the mist, and floated rock-steady within a web of tractor beams. She sat low in the water, as if already loaded, and there was no sign of activity around her.

Natalie checked to make absolutely sure that she had the right slip, approached the dock-mounted intercom, and touched the control bar. A face appeared on the screen. It belonged to a gray haired woman with the letter "S" branded on her forehead. "Yes?"

Natalie swallowed. "Natalie Voss ... here to see Captain Jord."

The woman's head jerked up and down. "The captain is expecting you. Come aboard."

Natalie was about to say "Thank you" when the screen snapped to black. The aluminum gangplank bounced slightly and moved with the ship. A fragile-looking boat slid out from under the dock. It contained a water-drenched boy who propelled his craft with a single scull and an equally bedraggled girl who held a coffee mug aloft. "Ya wanta cuppa Joe, Captain? Just brewed and right for what ails ya."

Natalie shook her head, tossed a coin into the bottom of the boat, and stepped onto the Will of God's sea deck. The delta-shaped hull had manta raylike wings that doubled as outriggers plus fairings that directed air and water away from the heat exchangers, steering jets and other installations that marred the smooth uniformity of the vessel's skin.

The platform bore the word "personnel" in bright yellow letters. The spacer stepped aboard, touched a button, and waited as she was lowered into the lock. After Natalie stepped off, and the platform had been raised, the internal hatch opened and a tech appeared. He wore a plain blue overall and, like the woman on the intercom, had an "S" emblazoned on his forehead. His voice had the sugary-sweet quality of someone who's nice because they work at it. "Welcome to the
Will
of God,
Third Officer Voss. My name is Peter. Please follow me."