Where the Ships Die (36 page)

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! Listen 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.

Dee Dee, Ahmad, and Dougie were hidden amongst the junk that bordered the slums. The area immediately behind them had been evacuated on the theory that the toughs would strike there first. Dee Dee had recovered the data ball and wore it in a pouch that hung from her neck. She twisted the thing this way and that while they waited. Ahmad saw movement and pointed toward the gate. "Look, Dee! Here they come!"

Dougie saw the exoskeletons marching out front, heard dogs barking with excitement, and wanted to pee. This in spite of the fact that he'd gone only fifteen minutes before. "Come on, you two... we gotta tell Kane."

"Not yet," Dee Dee countered grimly. "Kane said to count 'em, so we gotta count 'em."

"What if there's more than ten? I can't count more than that."

"So, count the skeletons," Ahmad said patiently. "We'll handle the people."

Dougie swore, fought his bladder, and counted exoskeletons. They, like the people behind them, were silhouetted against the mansion's security lighting. "Three ... four ... five. There's five! I see five!"

"Good," Dee Dee replied. "I counted sixty-three goons. Ahmad? How 'bout you?"

"Sixty-one," the boy answered. "But it's hard to tell with people moving around."

"We'll split the difference," Dee Dee said pragmatically. "Sixty-two it is. Let's tell Kane." The children backed away, faded into the shadows, and scampered toward the center of the slums. Dougie ran fastest of all.

The barricades were as good as they were going to get. They were wide where the slums began and narrowed until they closed on what Kane referred to as "the killing zone."—a cul de sac surrounded by head-high walls.

Dorn, who still felt guilty about his role in precipitating the crisis, had volunteered for what Kane referred to as "the bait patrol," a mixed force of workers who would engage the goons and draw them into the killing zone. It was dangerous duty, the worst possible, which explained why Dorn sought it out. Having done so, it seemed natural to accept a steel wrecking bar and march next to Jana. She and Sandro had been named as noncoms and led teams of twelve people each. Dorn noticed the axe the woodcutter carried and shivered. If someone was wounded with it, there would be little chance of survival. There was a hollow feeling in his stomach.

Orr had fought hundreds of intellectual duels in which the victor fired words and the loser hemorrhaged money. However, with the exception of some boyhood fistfights, and one barroom brawl in college, he'd never been part of an honest-to-god battle. The prospect was quite invigorating, and made even more so by the knowledge that unlike those around him, he'd survive anything short of a bullet through the head. Yes, Orr thought as Ari took her place in front of him, the prudent man has at least one insurance policy, and two if he can afford it.

Though ostensibly civilian craft, Traa landers were equipped like assault boats, including high-performance propulsion units. They raced just above the whitecaps and traveled at four hundred miles per hour. Torx was impressed but careful not to show it. The decision to accept a ride from the Traa had been part pragmatism, part politics. The Traa, who had previously blocked their attempts to obtain a search warrant, proved remarkably cooperative when invited to come along. The invitation to use their in-atmosphere flight craft followed. That, plus the fact that Captain Jord had refused to loan the marshals his remaining shuttle, led to an agreement in which both parties would arrive simultaneously and monitor each other's activities, an arrangement that was sure to come apart if Jord learned the Traa were involved.

The lander rocked from side to side as a gust of wind hit from the south. Rollo, who'd been roped to the cargo area's deck, braced himself, and put a curse on bipedal ship designers. Natalie Voss freed herself from a Traa-style jump seat and crossed the deck. She grabbed a strap, jerked the slack out of it, and secured the loose end. "There, that should do it."

The marshal looked back over his shoulder. "Thank you. I was built to swim .. .not fly."

Natalie patted his back. "Still, you get around when you need to."

The Dromo smiled. "We do what we have to. Don't worry so much. Your brother is fine."

Natalie forced a smile. "You think so?"

The Dromo delivered a human-style nod. "Absolutely."

Natalie smiled. A real one this time. "You're probably right. Dorn's fine and I'm worried for nothing."

Having been alerted by Dee Dee, Ahmad, and Dougie, Kane ordered the bait patrol to make contact. Like thousands of soldiers before him, Dorn felt a rock hit the bottom of his stomach and heard blood pound in his ears. Everything was clear and sharp—the smell of his own sweat, the feel of gravel beneath his sandals, and the glow up ahead.

The street curved, and it wasn't long before they saw the exoskeletons, torches, and a mass of undifferentiated bodies. The blob looked like a monster with thirty arms, thirty legs, and too many heads. It roared and rushed to meet them.

"All right," Jana shouted over the noise. "Remember the plan. We engage, then retreat. Are you ready?" The team roared their defiance, and Dorn yelled with the rest.

Jana lifted her wrecking bar over her head. "Charge!" The battle was joined.

"You ready?" Dee Dee asked tersely. "We gotta be quick."

Dougie looked out onto the street. The bait patrol was running uphill and the goons were running down. In seconds, a minute at most, the whole lot of them would collide in front of him. Then he and his friends would dash out, hook a rope onto an exoskeleton, and pull it over. It was a stupid, nearly suicidal plan. He checked Dee Dee and Ahmad. They appeared eager and ready to go. What was wrong with them, anyway? Couldn't they see how stupid it was? Or did the problem lie inside him? Dougie swallowed the lump in his throat. His voice was thick and raspy. "Yeah, I'm ready. Let's get it over with."

The combatants came together. There were grunts of expelled air, a variety of oaths, and the clank of steel on steel. Some of the goons had firearms, but weren't supposed to use them. Not when each death lowered Sharma's profits by two or three hundred credits. A wrecking bar stabbed at the salvage operator's groin. He parried and back away. The key was to
look
aggressive but survive.

Orr uttered a shout of pure joy and waded into the battle. Besides the weapon holstered on his hip, he carried a four-foot nightstick wrapped with metal. It rang on pipe. The wrecker holding the pipe was strong, very strong, and pushed the industrialist back. Orr's fear turned to rage as the symbiote added chemicals to his blood. He pushed the other man off balance and struck with the club. It fell on an unprotected shoulder. Bone cracked; the man fell to his knees and begged for mercy. Orr laughed, raised the club, and crushed the man's skull. He died instantly. It was a new kind of power, and Orr drank it in.

Dorn discovered that the strength gained as a hauler and the martial arts techniques learned from his sister made an effective combination. A man moved forward, raised his baton, and prepared to strike. Dorn shifted his weight, aimed for the man's knee, and launched a side kick. The blow connected, cartilage gave, and the man went down.

The goon was still falling, still screaming, when something hit Dorn from behind. It knocked him facedown, drove the air out of his lungs, and opened his wound. He rolled right and fought for air as a rust-covered pod landed next to his head.

An exoskeleton! The thought had no more than crossed Dorn's mind when the rest of the machine towered above him. He watched the pod rise, center itself over his chest, and start to fall. He rolled clear, and was scrambling to his feet when a group of children appeared.

One yelled, "Hey, shitface," while another hooked a rope to one of the exoskeleton's legs, and the third pulled. Nothing happened until the other two tailed on. A pod came off the ground, the machine swayed, and toppled over. Dorn recognized Dee Dee and shouted her name. He might have followed, might have caught her, if Jana hadn't yelled over the noise.

"Fall back! It's time to fall back!" Sandro echoed the order, took a blow to the head, and fell. The battle passed him by. It took a while to disengage, to retreat as a unit, but the workers managed to do so. Orr, seeing the enemy waver, charged forward. The mercenaries followed.

Ari broke a man's arm, put a needle through his temple, and frowned. Fall back? Why? The workers had held their own. It didn't make sense. Not to be outdone by the mercenaries, Sharma's security forces followed their lead. They ran full out, yelling their heads off, oblivious to their surroundings. Their employer, clearly wishing he were somewhere else, followed along behind. That was when Ari noticed the barricades, the way the street narrowed, and knew what lay ahead. The bodyguard started to jog, to call Orr's name, but knew it was too late. A wall of flesh and steel appeared, parted to let the fugitives through, and closed behind them. Orr attacked like a madman. The rest followed.

Torx watched pinpricks of light grow larger until they took on meaning. Huge starships, hulls eternally grounded, flashed under the fuselage. A mansion, lights blazing, stood on a promontory. Hundreds upon hundreds of torches outlined streets and paths. A blob of light appeared, and Torx strained to see. The pilot said something in Traa, Ka-Di barked a reply, and the aircraft banked to the right.