Where the Ships Die (26 page)

Ari nodded soberly and stood. "Well, thanks for your time. My assistant and I may pursue an investigation of our own, just to confirm your suspicions, and provide my family with a sense of closure. May we call on you as a reference? Off-worlders get the runaround sometimes."

"How true," Tull said understandingly. "Please let me know if I can help."

The next hour seemed to last forever as Ari was forced to inspect the room where the boy had slept, take possession of his clothes, and sign for the money his real sister had sent him. All of which was a drag, but not nearly as bad as dealing with the mealy-mouthed teachers, and the scrawny little boys who talked about Dorn as though he were a deity of some kind. Who was this kid, anyway? She felt jealous and knew her reaction was stupid.

The bodyguard eventually won free and returned to her car. The street girl was still there. That was not too surprising, since Ari had taken the key with her, but it was commendable nonetheless. The girl claimed her name was Kara, but Ari wasn't ready to bet on it. Her own name belonged to a vid star, after all-—and it was the first thing she'd stolen.

The bodyguard started the car, engaged the fan, and felt it lift off the ground. The paint was shot, the interior smelled, and only half the accessories worked, but it moved. The driveway switchbacked down the side of the hill. "So, Kara, anything happen while I was gone?"

The girl shrugged. "A bird took a shit on the hood, and a security guard hit on me. That about covers it."

Ari, who didn't like the fact that the government had taken an interest in her activities, gave the girl a look. "Security? What kind of security?"

Kara made a face. "The disgusting kind, with a big belly, and hair growing out of his nose."

Ari felt the tension melt away. The description fit half the academy's security staff, and none of them mattered.

"So," Kara asked, "what's next?" She was doing her best to sound casual, Ari could tell.

"I think we'll poke around a bit," the older woman said thoughtfully, "and see what we can find. Maybe the Dorn kid took a shot to the noggin and maybe he didn't. The lack of a body makes me wonder. People disappear every day. Some want to."

The car arrived at the bottom of the hill and turned into the slums. The girl looked out the window. "There are lots of ways to disappear... some worse than death," she said slowly.

Ari honked at an overloaded cart and pulled around it. "Ain't that the truth? Well, stick with me, kid. If the little bastard is around, we'll find him."

The sky was blue, the sea sparkled, and the carefully manicured lawn was emerald green. The yard crew had spent two days erecting the red-and-white-striped awning, placing the tables and chairs just so, and laying crushed seashells on the paths. These paths would carry a hundred and fifty guests from the landing pads to the feast Myra and the rest of the kitchen staff had worked on for the better part of three days now.

Chef Fimbre shouted orders, people ran every which way, and Myra hurried to finish setting the tables. Each guest was provided with a water glass, a wineglass, a gold-rimmed dinner plate, a butter dish, and, light winking off their highly polished surfaces, real honest-to-goodness stainless steel utensils, including two forks, two spoons, and a knife.

All of which would have been splendid enough. But Mr. Sharma had gone one step further by engraving each guest's name on his or her table setting, a gift worth hundreds of credits.

Myra, who, like the rest of her peers, had grown up using fingers, chopsticks, and wooden spoons, marveled at the splendor of it all. There wasn't much time to gawk, however, not with Fimbre cracking the whip, and it wasn't long before the gleaming white tables were ready, the centerpieces finished, and a small army of carefully groomed children put to work keeping insects away.

Myra and three others were ordered to the rear courtyard where thirty-six hand-picked waiters and waitresses awaited final training. Each had survived a rigorous screening process designed to eliminate anyone lacking social skills, some brains, or the ability to communicate.

There had been no shortage of volunteers, since each person chosen received a shower complete with soap, a white uniform that they would be allowed to keep, and their share of what would almost certainly be a prodigious amount of leftovers. Half the candidates had no experience, so training was of utmost importance, and who better than the kitchen staff to provide it? All of which meant that Myra and the others had a big job to do.

The recruits were instructed to address each person as ma'am or sir, unless they were members of another race, when "gentlebeing" was acceptable. Each course should be served from the left, except where the Drog'na were concerned, because their culture forbade any being other than a blood-sanctified kinsperson to stand on their sword-side. And there was more, a lot more, which was why
real
waiters had degrees in xenoanthropology.

It was a great deal to learn in a rather short period of time, but the family's security team didn't want members of the great unwashed horde inside the family compound any longer than was absolutely necessary. There had been a full-scale riot three years before, which helped explain the fear that permeated the house, and the sidearm Mr. Sharma wore. Although the enslavement of sentient beings conferred certain benefits on the owner, it carried a price as well.

Myra hurried into the courtyard, saw that the trainees had been assembled, and joined the kitchen staff. Chef Fimbre was only halfway through the list of things the waiters couldn't do when Myra arrived. She scanned their faces and nearly missed the one she was searching for. Dorn was so clean, so well combed, that he looked like a different person. It was the characteristic way that he stood, combined with an ear-to-ear grin, that set him apart. The fact that he looked like an idiot, smiling as Fimbre outlined the seriousness of the occasion didn't bother her in the least. He'd found the means to see her; that's all Myra knew, or needed to know.

Her heart beat faster, blood colored her face, and her stomach felt strange. She felt a desperate need to speak with Dorn, find out how he was doing, and tell him about her plans for escape. Well, not plans exactly, but intentions.

Fimbre wound down. "So, when the ship appears on the horizon, and the announcement is made, it's extremely important that you withdraw to either side of the pavilion. I assure you that Mr. Sharma will be most unhappy with anyone who blocks the view. Questions? No? Then pay close attention to your training. Those who do well will receive something extra when the dishes have been cleared. That will be all."

As Fimbre marched off to reassume command of his kitchen, the trainees were divided into groups of six, and assigned to formally set tables. Then, with five would-be waiters playing the role of guests, the sixth was put through his or her paces.

Myra, who contrived to instruct the group that included Dorn, found it hard to concentrate, especially after the way he looked at her, and the way she wanted to look at him.

Finally, as the training period came to a close, and the first aircraft came in for a landing, they had a moment alone. Myra led Dora around a corner and into a vine-shaded nook where Fimbre took his afternoon wine. There was a table and two chairs. The furniture was damp from a sprinkler but they sat anyway. Dorn took hold of her hands and marveled at how small they were. "How are you? Do you get enough to eat?"

Myra nodded ' 'I'm fine ... more than enough ... and you? Tell me everything."

Another aircraft roared over the house, and Dorn grinned.
"Everything
would take too long, so the basics will do. I haul salvage in from the ships and steal metal to get by. And you? What do you do?"

"I work in the kitchen," Myra said quickly, not wanting to waste time on the seemingly endless process of meal preparation, "but I serve meals too. That means I hear things. The family talks as if we aren't there."

Dorn's eyes lit up. "Really? Good work, Myra. Perhaps you'll hear something we can use."

Myra's heart leapt in response to the word "we," as if they were a unit, and would naturally stick together. She was about to agree, about to say that she wouldn't leave without him, when a coworker stuck his head around a corner. "Hurry up, Myra. Fimbre's looking for you, and you know how he gets."

They stood. Myra looked up at Dorn. "I'll meet you during the fireworks. Dinner will be over, and the darkness will protect us."

Her lips were so close, and so clearly desirable, that it felt natural to kiss them. They were soft at first, then firm as the kiss was returned, and Dorn was lost in a host of wonderful sensations. The clean, fresh smell of her hair, the feel of her back under the pressure of his hands, and the sweetness of her tongue.

The voice was frighteningly close. "Myra? Where are you?" The girl pushed Dorn toward the courtyard, whispered, "Play along," and answered the summons. "I'm over here. One of the waiters wandered away, and I tracked him down."

Fimbre stepped out of the doorway, eyed Dorn's retreating back, and shook his head. "An idiot or a thief. Not that it makes much difference. Now hurry out front... the guests are arriving and we need your help."

Myra marveled at the extent to which Fimbre had distanced himself from his own humble origins, curtsied, and did as she was told. The beaching was only hours away, and there was work to do.

The trail led them from the hotel where the Voss boy had left his luggage, to the street urchin named Rali, and to the casino where the youngster had disappeared. There they ran into Miss Carmen and a wall of words, a wall that collapsed when Ari shoved a gun in her mouth and threatened to blow her brains all over the sparkly ceiling. A pair of heavies appeared and would have done who knows what except for the fact that Kara produced the weapon she wasn't supposed to have and threatened to shoot them. They believed she'd do it, and stood frozen in place.

Miss Carmen became quite cooperative after that. The river led to the fishermen, and they led to the Keno Labor Exchange, a foul-smelling warren of cells and pens where the boy had been held. Ari entered with no signs of trepidation.

Kara, who had originally viewed the off-worlder as a run-of-the-mill spacer born to be milked, cheated, and forgotten, followed her in. She knew the older woman was far from trustworthy but admired her anyway.

Or was it the other way around? Maybe she admired Ari
because
she was dangerous. The girl didn't know, and figured it didn't matter, so long as her employer paid at the end of the day, and didn't try to jump in bed with her. Yeah, the situation was pretty good, except for the stink that emanated from the pens, which was worse than anything even Kara's jaded nostrils had experienced before.

It took an hour of earnest conversation and a fistful of Carnaby Orr's money to circumvent the rather corpulent individual known as the Pen Master, and gain access to a scroungy-looking office where a second bribe was sufficient to send a cadaverous computerist to lunch, all of which left them free to browse through the none too carefully maintained records.

They were stored in a computer older than the bodyguard herself and accessed through a rather archaic keyboard. Ari didn't know how to type and used the hunt-and-peck system to find what she wanted. She was feeling light-headed, and very, very warm, which made the search go even slower. She was hungry, she supposed.

The screen blanked, stuttered for a moment, and locked up. All of the D's and half the E's were missing. The V's had survived, however, and the bodyguard felt a rising sense of excitement as she located the appropriate file and scrolled through the list. Bingo! There he was. No less than six Vosses had passed through the Keno Labor Exchange, but only one of them was named Dorn. The entry next to his name indicated that the youth had been declared destitute and sold to Sharma Industries.

Ari shook her head in amazement, transferred the entry to her hand comp, and entered a phony first name in place of Dorn's. The computer asked if she really wanted to do that, blinked agreeably when she indicated that she did, and gave birth to a person named Jorge Voss.

The objective was to muddy the trail, not for the police, who had already given up, but for the man, woman, or alien who would be assigned to investigate the freelancer's untimely death. Kara, who had followed the whole thing the way a student observes a master, couldn't help but comment. "Hey ... that was slick."

Ari smiled at the unexpected compliment, wondered why it pleased her so much, and wiped her prints off the keyboard. She'd been more than a little surprised when Kara had backed her play at the casino. Surprised, and pleased, since loyalty was a rare commodity. Still, the fact that Kara had swiped the gun and carried it all over hell's half acre worried the bodyguard. What would she miss next? Something that would kill her? It was a frightening thought. Like growing old.

The room seemed to spin as the bodyguard gestured toward the door. "It seems the little turd survived. Let's pay him a visit."

Nearly all the guests had arrived, and the lawn in front of the mansion was filled to overflowing with New Hope's wealthiest citizens. There were touches of color, especially among the women, in spite of the fact that the vast majority of those present wore white, or, in the case of the men, blue blazers with white trousers. Conversation was muted for the most part and punctuated by bursts of laughter. The salvage work, which continued half a mile away, was largely ignored.

Dorn, who had responsibility for a table down toward the water, was struck by the similarities between this event and countless dinners hosted by his parents. The conversation was nearly identical, consisting as it did of business, gossip, and the occasional off-color story.

Of course he'd been a member of the privileged class in those days, had accepted personal service as part of his birthright, and grown irritable when it failed to meet his mother's rather exacting standards. Mary Voss would have been mortified to see the depths to which her son had sunk. The thought brought a smile to his lips.