Where the Ships Die (34 page)

"And my brother? Does she know about my brother?"
 

"Perhaps," the co-marshal signaled. "Time will tell."
 

Unable to pry additional information from Torx, Natalie examined her surroundings. Their entourage, composed mostly of children, dwindled steadily as they left the harbor behind. The once-white adobe buildings loomed to the left and right. Dwellings, each shoulder to shoulder with its neighbors, gave way to warehouses as Rollo followed Market Street along the hillside. How he knew where he was going was a mystery, but Torx had confidence in him, so Natalie allowed herself to relax.

Signs, many of which hung low enough to touch, passed just above her head. Most were carved and announced everything from boat builders to food wholesalers. People stared out of doorways and their heads swiveled as Rollo passed. They wondered what he was. Most assumed he was an exotic beast of burden, similar to the genetically engineered cattle grown by the first landers, the descendants of which still plowed the fields.

The spacer noticed that anything that could be manufactured from wood had been—giving the area an ambience unlike any place she'd been before. It would have been charming except for the rich amalgam of sewer, fish, and lord knew what else that hung in the air.

Finally, after countless twists and turns, the Dromo paused as if consulting a map tucked away in his memory, and headed for a large dilapidated warehouse. Insects circled in front of the partly opened door and buzzed Natalie's face as Rollo entered. It was dark inside, and she peered into the shadows. A voice echoed off distant walls. "Marshals Hypont and Torx?"

Rollo made a grunting sound that Natalie recognized as a laugh. "How many beings of my description wander in here, anyway? Yes, I am Marshal Hypont, Rollo to my friends, and Torx, who never walks when he can ride, is seated on my neck. The human is none other than Natalie Voss, sister to Dorn Voss, and a ship's officer. And you are?"

"I go by the name of Rikki," a woman said, stepping into the light. "My real name doesn't matter."

"Exactly," Rollo said agreeably. "Thank you for meeting with us. You brought the girl?"

"Yes," Rikki said matter-of-factly, "I did. Kara, step out here, please. The marshals want to see you."

Kara, her heart pounding ever so slightly, did as she was told. The act of doing so was the final installment of her revenge. By the time the night attendant told her that Ari had been discharged, two days had passed. Which meant that the bodyguard, like everyone else in Kara's short life, had knowingly deserted her. So, seething with anger, she had gone in search of someone like Rikki, a person with the power and the reason to find Ari, and having done so, to punish her. Because the man Ari had killed, the man whose weapon Kara had stashed away, had been Rikki's cousin. Yeah, payback
was
a bitch, but so what? The bodyguard had it coming. The light hit Kara's face and she waited for the questions. She'd heard them before.

The arrival of Carnaby Orr's yacht, and the commotion it caused, gave Myra the opportunity she'd been waiting for. The servant girl drifted toward the fence, waited until the unexpected landing had claimed the guards' attention, and slipped through the open gate. Then, with a basket hung over her arm, she hurried down the hill.

Had the girl chosen the right moment to look back over her shoulder, she would have seen a second figure slip out of the compound and follow in her footsteps. She didn't, however, and, in her hurry to put as much distance between herself and the mansion as possible, barely noticed her surroundings. A group of children spotted her, recognized the household uniform she wore, and swarmed around her. "How 'bout it, miss? You got metal?"

"My momma's got vegetables ... you want some?"

"Hey lady, follow me, we got class-A number-one jewelry."

In fact, the street urchins were so loud, and so insistent, that Myra nearly missed the child she was looking for. Someone tugged on her skirt. "Myra... my name is Dee Dee."

It took a moment for the words to sink in, but once they did, Myra stopped. A sea of faces looked up at her. One of them belonged to a girl with sun-bleached hair, a slightly upturned nose, and bright blue eyes. She matched the description Dorn had given her. "Dee Dee?"

The little girl grinned. "That's me! You're pretty, just like Dorn said you were."

Myra felt herself blush. "And so are you," she said truthfully. "How is he?"

"Better," the girl said, shooing the others away. "Much, much better. Boy, will he be surprised!"

"Surprised?" Myra asked. "About what?"

"About you, silly," Dee Dee replied, taking Myra's hand and pulling her down the road. "He doesn't know you're coming!"

Myra felt a sudden sense of alarm. "He doesn't? Then who sent the message?"

"I did," Dee Dee answered brightly. "I wanted to cheer him up."

And turn me into a fugitive, while destroying our escape plan, Myra thought bitterly. Still, there was no point in scolding the girl. She loved Dorn too ... and was trying to help.

Dee Dee led Myra into the slums, and Seleen, careful of where she placed her 200-credit shoes, hurried after them. The sun settled in the west and the air began to cool. Seleen shivered, pulled her cape around her shoulders, and continued down the trail. Dilapidated huts dotted the slopes around her. Miserable things full of good-for-nothing people. Oh, how they would love to get their hands on her perfect body! Seleen shivered once more. There was danger in the air, and it felt good.

It was another in a long series of beautiful evenings. A slight breeze stirred the awning, the scent of zucherro vines filled the air, and the sun hung only inches above the western horizon. Mrs. Sharma had ordered dinner to be served on the veranda in front of the house. The meal, one of Fimbre's finest, included locally caught fish, vegetables straight from the garden, and a frothy concoction that tasted of lime. Though they were somewhat provincial by his standards, Orr found the Sharmas to be
his
kind of people, meaning they were shrewd, and knew how to slice a credit six ways from Sunday.

Take their ships, for example: By tracking the financial performance of various shipping lines, and keeping elaborate records on the age and condition of their fleets, Mr. Sharma could forecast the market. Orr was further impressed by the fact that his host could list the ships Orr Enterprises owned from memory, place an approximate value on each one of them, and, based on the kind of usage it had received, predict the month and year when each would hit the scrap market. Of course, savvy wasn't everything. Artificially low labor costs and a strong local market conveyed huge advantages. Orr took a drag from one of Sharma's cigars, raised his glass, and proposed a toast. "To shipping ... new
and
old."

"To shipping," the Sharmas echoed in unison.

Mrs. Sharma lowered her glass. "I'm sorry you missed our daughter—she would have loved to meet you."

Mr. Sharma had wondered where his daughter was but was afraid to ask. Seleen had moods, most of which were unpleasant, and kept to her room a good deal of the time. He knew she felt confined and blamed him. Business seemed like a safer subject. "So, you have an interest in one of our workers ... which one?"

Orr flicked ash off the end of his cigar. It exploded when it hit the deck. "Yes, a trivial matter really, but success is built on details."

Sharma, who didn't for a moment believe that someone of Orr's importance spent his time on trivial details, nodded agreeably. "Yes, how true. The life of a businessman is never easy."

"My point exactly," Orr said indulgently. "Take the Voss boy, for example. No sooner was he expelled from school than he went slumming and wound up in a labor exchange. And a good thing too ... since the Sharmas treat their workers well, from what I hear."

Sharma frowned. Voss? The one who murdered Castor? Yes, probably. And there was something else too, something he couldn't quite put his finger on, something that should have been obvious. There could be danger here ... or the possibility of profit. It was his experience that the two frequently went hand in hand. "Thank you. A happy worker is a productive worker, I always say. Voss, is it? Not
Dorn
Voss, by any chance?"

"Why, yes," Orr replied, sitting a little straighter. "Do you know the boy?"

"No, not personally," Sharma replied, "but I know
of
him. He murdered one of my employees. My security people are looking for him."

Orr felt a sudden stab of fear. To be so close to his goal and have the boy snatched out of his grasp would be intolerable. He wanted to jump out of his seat, grab the man by the throat, and shake him like a rat. He struggled for control. "Really? They won't hurt him, will they? It's imperative that I speak with him."

"What a strange coincidence," Mrs. Sharma said brightly. "We have a ship named the
Mary
Voss
... and that's where Castor was killed."

Mr. Sharma blinked, realized his wife had supplied the missing piece, and marveled at his own stupidity. Dorn Voss ... Mary Voss ... he should have put the two names together. Still, all was not lost. If there was money to be made, he would find it. Sharma made a steeple with his fingers. "Yes, that is a strange coincidence, isn't it? Tell me, Carnaby, is the boy related to the shipping family of the same name?"

Orr saw the glint in the other man's eyes and knew it for what it was. Greed. He could stonewall and lose Sharma's support, or cut the other man in and get what he wanted. The decision was simple. The negotiations began.

Once Myra arrived, and Dorn was summoned from his hiding place, the Sandros gave them the use of their bedroom, which, though separated from the rest of the shack by little more than a Kent Line tablecloth, granted them a small amount of privacy.

What the wood lot owner and his wife made of the long silence that followed the initial exclamations of joy, or the whispering that followed, was anybody's guess, but one thing was for sure, Dorn Voss wore an enormous grin when he escorted the girl to the door an hour or so later. She slipped through the opening, and he watched as Dee Dee led her away.

Much as Dorn hated to part with Myra so soon, common sense dictated that two fugitives—for a fugitive was what Myra was about to become—were more than any one family could, or should be expected to, support, especially when it was so hard to feed themselves.

Euphoria battled with fear as Dorn turned away, thanked the Sandros for their kindness, and headed toward the back door. Fearing that the next search would be more thorough, Sandro had prepared an enclosure at the center of a wood pile. Though open to the sky, it was otherwise secure, and sure to be less claustrophobic than his previous hidey-hole. Dorn was little more than halfway across the room when a knock came at the door.

The sound was so unexpected, so threatening, that his heart nearly stopped. He looked at the Sandros, and they stared back. They all wondered the same thing: Had Myra been spotted? Were the security forces waiting outside? The back door would be covered if they had. Still, where was the truncheon and the demanding voice? Sandro, clearly thinking the same thoughts, peered through a crack. "It's a girl, all by herself as far as I can see."

"A customer, then," Mrs. Sandro said, "out for some last-minute fuel. Let her in."

Dorn pulled the curtain across the room, and was headed for the back, when the door creaked open and he heard her voice. "Hello, I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm looking for Dorn Voss. He's in trouble ... and I can help."

In spite of the fact that he'd heard the voice only a few times, Dorn had no trouble recognizing it as belonging to Seleen Sharma, and felt his heart pound against his chest.

There had been plenty of time to fantasize, until the last day or so in any case; and when he was not dreaming of Myra, Seleen had filled the empty spaces. And why not? The hair, the face, the perfume, everything about her reminded him of the girls on Mechnos, the kind he assumed he'd marry some day. In fact, one of his fantasies dealt with recovering his inheritance and landing a ship in front of her parents' house. How surprised she'd be! And impressed by his transformation from slave to industrialist! Still, that was fantasy and this was the real thing. How had she found him? What did she want?

Sandro had cleared his throat, and was about to deny all knowledge of the boy's whereabouts, when Dorn opened the curtain. "Seleen? What are you doing here? And how did you find me?"

The girl brushed the hood away from her face. A wave of beautiful black hair fell over her shoulders. The Sandros recognized who she was, looked at each other in alarm, and stood frozen in place. The girl took three steps forward. Her eyes were huge. "I followed Myra... and waited till she left."

"But why?" Dorn said, wonderment in his voice. "Your father has enough people searching for me. Did he need you, too?"

"I didn't come for my father," Seleen said simply. "I came for me. For
you.
I know
who
you are."

Dorn felt a sudden stirring of hope. She knew who he was! Did that mean what he hoped it did? That Seleen would intervene with her father? Give him a chance to tell his side of the story? And make contact with Natalie? It was like a dream come true. "Really? How?"

"You were different from the others," Seleen said truthfully. "I was curious. I looked for your name in my father's records, found it, and ran a background check. The off-world stuff took a while, but the answers came back. I'm sorry about your parents."

One aspect of Dora's mind was taken with the girl's magnetism and sincerity, but another part was wary, and wondered why she'd chosen to come alone, and more than that, allowed the search to continue, if she really wanted to help.

The former Dorn Voss, the one who had gambled his future away and wound up in a slave labor camp, would have fallen for it, would have jumped at whatever crumb Seleen had offered. But he'd grown since then, and learned some lessons about himself and others as well. One of which was that when someone or something looks too good to be true—it probably is. Still, there was the chance that the girl was what she seemed to be, so he kept an open mind.