Where the Ships Die

by William C. Dietz

  The line was reasonably straight. Dull-eyed men and women, some with children, stared at Dorn as he jogged past. Most were young to middle-aged, wore little more than rags, and appeared malnourished. Guards, all of whom had whips, smacked Dorn's head, shoulders, and arms as he passed. Not for any specific reason, but because they could, and that, plus a little more food, was all that distinguished them from the slaves they guarded.

  The rearmost prisoners showed little interest in Dorn as he was pushed into position and shackled to a muck-covered drag chain—a valuable artifact on metal-starved New Hope. No sooner was the leg iron secured than a whip cracked and the line moved forward. Dorn led with his right foot, realized his mistake, and fell as the other foot was jerked out from under him. The teenager hit the ground, flinched under the whip, and scrambled to his feet. The line jerked forward, and he hopped to catch up.

  It took an hour of starts and stops for the prisoners to snake their way through the holding pens and into a makeshift amphitheater. An assembly area had been established at the center of an old gravel pit and equipped with a makeshift platform. It boasted a red-and-white-striped awning, a simple wooden table, and a comfortable-looking chair. Concrete blocks fronted the platform. Due to the nearly random manner in which they were positioned, they looked like leftovers.

  The guards took up positions around the perimeter. Their leader approached the head of the line, touched a wand to the first man's shackle, and kept on walking. The leg irons hit the mud one after another, and the prisoners drifted away. Two minutes had passed before the man arrived in front of Dorn. The teenager waited for the touch, heard the resulting click, and felt the bracelet let go. He massaged his ankle and saw that his skin was raw. A long walk would make it worse, and Dorn resolved to find some padding.

  The prisoners stood in small groups, sat on the concrete blocks, or lined up for the chance to drink at one of two free-flowing spigots. The water gushed and made a puddle through which people were forced to wade. Dorn joined the right-hand queue on die theory that it would move faster but was quickly disappointed. Children slowed the process, and there were more of them on the right than the left. The slow, shuffling progress reminded the youth of school, when one of the more popular entrees appeared on the menu and everyone came.

  The conversations were interesting, though. One man in particular seemed to have a pretty good grasp of what would happen next. He'd been through the process before, it seemed, and for reasons not entirely clear was going through it again. Whatever the case, the man claimed that a magistrate would soon appear, hearings would be held, and those judged vagrant according to the city's codes would be given over to the owners of the Keno Labor Exchange. They in turn would sell the condemned men, women, and children into what amounted to forced servitude. Not a pleasant prospect... but some information was better than none.

  Forty-five minutes passed. Dorn was close now, so close he stood ankle-deep in mud, and could practically feel the cool liquid trickling down his throat. But what if the magistrate appeared? What if the guards ordered the prisoners to disperse? He'd lose his turn at the spigot, and the knowledge made him edgy. He started to see those in front of him as enemies, as people who, through their slow, dim-witted piggishness were out to steal that which was rightfully his. He fidgeted, resisted the urge to shove the person in front of him, and telepathically ordered everyone to hurry up.

  A commotion was heard. Orders were shouted, guards stood straighter, and a processional appeared. It had a medieval feel, complete with an heraldic device and robes of black. The magistrate had arrived! Dorn was only three people away from the spigot now, his throat burning with thirst, his tongue swollen in his mouth. Water! He had to have water! The first person drank, stepped aside, and was followed by the second. An order, amplified through a bullhorn, boomed across the pit. "You! By the water spigots! Take your places at the platform!"

  Dorn was about to drink, about to take his chances with whatever punishment might come his way, when a hand touched his arm. He turned, ready to snarl, and found himself face to face with a teenage girl. She had big brown eyes, a dirt-smeared face, and a six-month-old baby in her arms. The infant was clearly ill. The older child had a calm, matter-of-fact voice. "Please, mister ... my brother has diarrhea. He'll die without water."

  Dorn felt a terrible shame settle over him as he looked into that face, for the girl's lips were as cracked as his, but she asked nothing for herself. He forced the semblance of a smile. "Quickly, then ... up to the spigot."

  The look of gratitude the girl gave him reminded Dorn that no matter how desperate things got for him, there was always someone even worse off. A man attempted to push the girl aside, but Dorn blocked the way. The guards pushed into the crowd. Their whips cracked right and left. People screamed and hurried to escape. The girl appeared next to Dorn, shouted words he couldn't understand, and placed something in his hand. Then, still holding the baby, she was swept away.

  Dorn turned toward the platform and followed the people in front of him. The youngster's hand felt wet. He examined the object, saw it was a scarf, and realized what she'd done. Working quickly, so as to conserve every precious drop, he crammed the fabric into his mouth and sucked as hard as he could. Nothing had ever tasted so good as the rusty, brackish water that trickled down his throat.

  The moment the last vestige of moisture had been removed, Dorn pulled the scarf out of his mouth and tied it around his arm. A guard demanded their attention. ' 'Court number six, of the Oro municipal court system, is now in session. Judge Janice Tal presiding."

  The hearings were conducted in alpha order, which meant that he had plenty of time to observe the way things worked. Moving slowly, so as to avoid negative attention, Dorn eased his way through the crowd. He joined the first row and craned his neck to see.

  The magistrate wore her hair in a carefully constructed topknot. She had thin, heavily plucked eyebrows, half-hooded eyes, and a slit-shaped mourn. The proceedings were more form than substance. A name was called; the person who answered to it was pulled, shoved, or dragged onto the platform where charges of vagrancy were read; a halting, often tearful defense was offered and gaveled to silence. The magistrate wore a boom mike, and her voice issued from a sphere that hung over the crowd. "Guilty as charged. Sentenced to five years compensated labor. Next."

  Then the haggard man, woman, or child would be directed to the far side of the gravel pit, where the condemned waited, their chains laid next to them. More than three hours passed before the youth heard his name. "Voss .. .Dorn ... take the platform."

  Like most of his peers, Dorn had spent a lot of time analyzing Milford's faculty and playing to their weaknesses. Now, having spent the last few hours watching the magistrate, he had some theories. Judge Tal felt no sympathy for those who came before her, or if she did, hid it well. Sad stories and equally sad appearances had no effect on the sentences handed out. Only three people were found innocent, and every one of them had demonstrated the poise and bearing of the upper classes. So Dorn mounted the platform like a visiting dignitary. He kept his chin up, his back straight, and looked Tal right in the eye. "Good afternoon, your honor... my name is Dorn Voss."

  Tal's eyelids hung at perpetual half-mast. They rose a quarter of an inch. "Read the charges."

  The guard, who had already read the boilerplate hundreds of times, did so again. "The defendant stands accused of vagrancy, a lack of visible support, and homelessness."

  The woman eyed Dorn in a speculative manner. "You heard the charges, Citizen Voss ... how do you plead?"

  Dorn stood even straighter. "Not guilty, your honor. I am a minor, my parents own a business, and I have rooms at the Starman's Rest. A call to the hotel or the Milford Academy will verify my story."

  Tal tapped a stylus against her lips and looked thoughtful. "Yes, I'm sure it would, just as some com calls, intersystem record checks, and the expenditure of a modest amount of shoe leather would substantiate at least some of the other claims
heard today. Unfortunately, niceties such as those cost money ... more money than the good citizens of Oro have to spend. That's why we rely on identification cards and other evidence of solvency, such as credit chips or cash. Do you have any of these in your possession?"

  A lump had formed in Dorn's throat and made it difficult to swallow. The half-lie came easily. "No, your honor, my residency card and money were lost when I fell in the river."

  Tal shrugged. "That's what they all say ... give or take a few details. Tell me Citizen Voss, or whatever your real name is, what college did your mother attend?"

  Dorn felt his heart leap. Could it be? Did the Judge know his mother? If so, this might be the break he'd been hoping for. "The University of Mechnos, your honor."

  Tal nodded approvingly. "Very good! Mary and I were classmates. Too bad about her death. The story made the news the day before yesterday. Including the fact that Mary graduated cum laude from the U of M. She even had a son about your age ... though cleaner, I suspect." The magistrate turned toward the nearest guard. "Guilty as charged. Five years compensated labor. Take the imposter away."

  The guard gestured toward the stairs. Dorn ignored him. "Dead? My mother's dead? How? When?"

  But the magistrate ignored him, the guards grabbed his arms, and Dorn was half guided, half carried off the platform. The beating started the moment his feet touched the ground. The blows came hard and fast. The teenager tried to defend himself, fell under the assault of baton-style whip handles, and lay huddled on the ground.

  The punishment might have been worse, and lasted even longer, had it not been for the prisoner who shouted obscenities and tried to attack the judge. A guard called for help, her comrades rushed to the rescue, and Dorn was left alone. He made sure that they were truly done with him, got to his feet, and stumbled toward the area where the others waited. He hurt all over, but nothing was broken.

  Dorn chose a hunk of concrete and took a seat. A man moved in the boy's direction, saw the expression on his face, and thought better of it. Dorn turned his back on the other prisoners, thought about what the judge had said, and felt an overwhelming sense of grief. Sobs racked his body as tears ran down his cheeks. His mother was dead, and quite possibly his father as well. That would account for a number of things, including the lack of communication and the cessation of financial support.

  Still, why hadn't he heard from the family lawyers by now? Or, failing that, from Natalie? Assuming she was aware of what had occurred. And even more important, why was he thinking of himself when he should be thinking about them?

  Guilt, grief, and self-loathing combined to pull Dorn down. He thought about how foolish he'd been to gamble his money away, about the undeliverable letters that had arrived by now, and the likelihood that he'd never get to read them.

  But something, the memory of his parents perhaps, or the knowledge that they never gave up, no matter what the odds, lifted him back up. Slowly, bit by bit, the sobs died away. Still, even as the teenager blinked the tears away and regained control of his breathing, he knew the empty feeling was there to stay.

  A voice boomed across the gravel pit. "On your feet, scum. You have ten miles to walk before nightfall... so get those shackles on ... and keep the line straight."

  Dorn suspected that minute advantages could be realized depending on where one was located along the chain's length, but didn't know what they were, or how to harvest them. He remembered the chafing problem, removed the scarf from his arm, and tied it around his left ankle. The shackle was a tight fit, but there was no pain when the guard snapped it closed.

  The prisoners were forced to wait for the better part of an hour as Judge Tal put her thumbprint on a four-inch stack of hardcopies, reviewed a transcript of the proceedings, and thumbed that as well. Then a man in a dirty gray turban appeared, transferred the correct number of credits to the Labor Exchange's account, and shouted orders to his guards.

  Dorn felt hopeful when a rather plump doctor appeared and, accompanied by two assistants, walked the length of the line. He examined feet, listened through a stethoscope, and dispensed medications. Dorn realized the doctor was little more than a glorified maintenance technician, hired to minimize the wear and tear on recently purchased assets.

  Still, Dorn welcomed the disinfectant that was sprayed on his many cuts and scratches, the antibiotics that were pumped into his arm, and the vitamins they insisted he swallow. Of even more value, to him at least, were the sturdy sandals issued to those who didn't have shoes. They were ugly as sin, but far better than bare feet. They would help during the march ahead.

  The march, once it began, was almost pleasant at first. Dorn was rested and, thanks to the resiliency of youth, felt pretty good. At first the line went more slowly than he would have liked, but it picked up speed as it moved out onto the road, and a good steady rhythm was established. People, children mostly, swarmed out of the surrounding slums to witness the spectacle. Like the guards, most of the onlookers were only a residency permit and a few credits away from joining the procession themselves, and reveled in their brief moment of social superiority.

  But there were others, kinder souls perhaps, who offered scraps of bread to some of the more pitiful prisoners, or bent their heads in prayer.

  Dorn felt humiliated at first, and hated them with all his heart, until the first of many ground cars roared by and peppered the prisoners with debris. He tried to remember the outings he'd been on, and whether he'd seen a long line of prisoners marching beside the road, but nothing came to mind. Was that because he hadn't seen them? Or because such lowly creatures had no reality for well-fed schoolboys on their way to picnics? Dorn hoped for the first but feared the second.

  They entered an area where the old road had been torn up and a new one was being laid. Hundreds of bare backs glistened in the sun as picks rose into the air, fell in a wave, and hit one after another. Though the workers were not linked at the ankles, it occurred to Dorn that they were slaves nonetheless. Economic slaves who had taken what they could get. Why else would they do such work? And if they suffered, what could he look forward to?

  An hour passed, then two. The drag chain rattled as they walked. The slums grew thicker and crowded in on both sides as their balconies, makeshift arches, and badly eroded walls threatened to cave in on the street. Then, as twilight fell and the sun set behind them, the city dwindled away to be replaced by fields, lonely farmhouses, and the occasional dome-shaped temple. Candles flickered and prayer drums thumped.

  The air quality improved as well, causing Dorn to take deep draughts of the stuff, reveling in the way it filled his lungs. The others seemed invigorated too, and the pace increased for a while, but fell off again. Unlike Dorn, who had been in top physical condition to begin with, the others suffered from a wide variety of maladies.

  Physical problems cropped up with increasing regularity, and the line was forced to stop when a middle-aged man suffered a heart attack, and when a woman entered premature labor. Both individuals were unshackled, loaded into one of two hover trucks, and given treatment. The man died, as did the baby, but the woman pulled through. Dorn was glad for the break, realized what that meant, and felt lousy for it. It seemed as though there was no limit to his self-centeredness. The march continued.

  Night fell, and every third person was provided with a battery-powered light and a headband to hold it in place. It seemed thoughtful at first, until Dorn realized the amount of damage a hover truck could do to the prisoners, and the money that would cost.

  Still, no matter how cruel and calculating their new owner-employer might be, the prisoners had their own ways of helping out. Children, who were left unshackled for the most part, and were expected to keep pace with their parents, or whatever adult was willing to take an interest in them, were exhausted by now. They trudged with heads down, gradually fell behind, and ran to catch up again. Parents pleaded with them, guards hit them with whips, but it made no difference. The same thing happened over and over. Until somethin
g amazing happened.

  One by one the children were absorbed into the line where they were hoisted onto backs or thrown over shoulders. Babies, carried by relatives up until that point, were passed up and down the column. Dorn wasn't exactly pleased when a five-year-old was loaded onto his back, but he knew it was the right thing to do and forced himself to cooperate.

  The child switched mounts eventually, to be replaced by a six-month-old infant, who reminded him of the baby the girl had held in her arms. He carried the child for half an hour before a woman took over.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the prisoners arrived at the point where two roads crossed each other, and they were ordered toward the south. A guard must have said something up toward the front, because the news rippled down the line like wind through a row of corn and raised everyone's spirits. "The camp is on an island and we're almost there!"

  Having spent the last few years in an institution, Dorn was skeptical of rumors, and was slightly surprised when this one proved correct. The smell of sea salt provided the first hint. It reminded him of Mechnos, a place so closely connected with his parents that the thought of it brought tears to his eyes.

  He fought them back as the road ended and a wooden causeway began. It thundered with the impact of four hundred feet. The water, if any, was invisible beyond the light cast by their headlamps. Seabirds, disturbed by the noise, squawked and flapped away. The timbers beneath Dorn's sandals sloped upward with the curvature of the bridge, then downward again. Lights appeared, and the line veered left and passed between evenly spaced tree trunks.

  A graveyard, the markers made from tree limbs, piles of stones, and other debris, lay on the right, silent testimony to columns long gone.

  It was three or four minutes before Dorn arrived at the turning point. He felt sand under his feet and fought the tendency to slide as he followed the others down an incline and into a bowl-shaped depression. It had clearly been used before and had the look of a regular stop.