A large fire had been built toward the center of the space, and guards had been posted along the perimeter. They appeared whenever the fire found an especially flammable piece of wood, then vanished when it was consumed. Dorn's stomach rumbled as he smelled the cereal-based mush, and he eyed a line of wooden water barrels.
Release came quickly, along with orders to stay in the immediate area and eat dinner. Dorn hurried to comply. He visited the water barrels first, followed by the chow line and a second trip to the water barrels.
Then, tired, but unwilling to accept sleep, the teenager set about the serious business of running away. The logic seemed irrefutable.
First, Dorn expected that his physical condition would deteriorate rather than improve.
Second, the school, and whatever help he would find there, was only twenty or so miles to the rear, but would be at least twice that distance away by nightfall the next day.
Third, it was safe to assume that the Sharma Metal Works, for that's where rumor said they were headed, would feature all sorts of fancy security measures designed to counter the sort of thing he had in mind.
Yes, no matter how one chose to look at it, conditions favored an immediate rather than a delayed escape attempt. The problem was, how?
Dorn yawned, spotted an open spot near the very edge of the security perimeter, and ambled that way. Once in place, with other prisoners to either side, he scooped a trough in the sand and lay on his side. He yawned for a second time, fought against the fatigue that threatened to pull him down, and forced himself to look around.
The fire had burned down by now, the area around it practically deserted because some off-duty guards had chased the prisoners away and claimed the fireside for themselves. Dorn turned away from their dark silhouettes, allowed his eyes to adjust to the dark, and quartered the campground. Hundreds of variously shaped mounds marked where his fellow prisoners had chosen to spend the night. Most were asleep by now, snoring, muttering, and in a few cases twitching, as if trapped within the most demanding of dreams. There were sobs, snatches of conversation, and the soft sound of the prayer drum that he'd heard before.
But nothing the youth heard or saw suggested a means of escape. The guards seemed alert, and, try as he might, no clever stratagem came to mind. Dorn had almost given up, and was drifting off to sleep, when luck made an unexpected appearance. Someone said, "Give me that!"
Someone else said, "Screw you!" and a fight broke out on the far side of the holding area. Every guard in that particular area, plus those seated around the campfire, headed for the scuffle. The rest, a motley assortment of drifters, stevedores, and beached spacers, stared toward the action, hollered advice, and wished something exciting would happen on their side of the camp. So they missed the shadowy figure that slipped between them, lost its footing in the dark, and tumbled head over heels onto the beach below.
Dorn scrambled to his feet, listened for the sounds of pursuit, but heard nothing more than the ruckus already underway. He ran down into the water. It was relatively warm and splashed his legs. He couldn't do anything about the footprints already made, but his trail would disappear in the surf, and leave his pursuers to wonder which way he'd gone. North? South? Out to sea? There would be no way to tell.
The water rushed past his calves, ran up the beach, and left a wavy line. The camp was located on an island, or so he'd been told, so it made very little difference which way he went, not in the long run anyway. Still, the road home led in a northwesterly direction, and that was the first place they'd look. With that in mind, Dorn turned to the right and headed south.
The waves broke against his left leg as he paralleled the beach. He watched for signs of pursuit and was prepared to drop when it appeared. The water would hide him and, with any luck at all, allow him to escape. The sand shifted under his sandals, found its way beneath the leather straps, and abraded his skin. That could become a problem if he let it go, since his feet would carry him home.
Still there was no pursuit, and Dorn started to relax a bit. He wasn't clear yet, not by a long shot, but he had five or six hours before the sun rose and the prisoners shackled themselves to the chain. That's when he'd be missed and the search would begin.
A wave broke against Dorn's waist, and he realized he had angled away from the beach. The teenager turned toward what he thought was the southwest and considered his options. He could make for the road, pass behind the camp, and sneak over the causeway. That was the most efficient approach, but the most obvious as well.
The other option was to find a place where he could cross the beach without leaving footprints, secure a hiding place, and wait for the searchers to depart. Time was money, or so Dorn assumed, which would limit the duration of the search. Once everyone left he'd emerge from his hidey-hole, double-time up the road, cross the bridge, and make his way to the academy where Tull would put everything right. Or so he hoped.
Satisfied that he'd selected the best of all possible plans, Dora waded into the shallows and felt sand turn to rock. He tripped, nearly fell, and caught himself. The surf broke white where it surged along a two-foot-high ledge and ran up the beach. Dorn felt for a way up, found a series of stairlike ledges, and mounted what had been a lava flow.
He followed the outcropping shoreward, across the beach, and into the thick, junglelike undergrowth. The teenager pushed branches out of the way and forced a passage. Darkness consumed the stars, and Dorn felt his way forward. Leaves crackled under his sandals, animals scurried through the brush, and a seabird launched itself into the air.
Finally, when Dorn judged himself to be a hundred feet away from the beach, and almost certainly invisible, he sized a clearing with his hands, sat down, and listened for signs of pursuit. There were none. The teenager lay down, curled into the fetal position, and entered a dreamless sleep. That's where he was when the sun rose, branches snapped, and the whip fell across his back.
8
When God wills that an event will occur, he sets the causes that will lead to it.
Babikir Badri
Sudanese scholar
Circa 1900
The Planet Mechnos
The impact sent a jolt through Natalie's body. She grabbed for the wrought iron rail, missed, and grabbed again. The steel felt cool under her hands. It took every bit of her strength to pull herself up. A voice ordered her to stop. She ignored the impulse to look back over her shoulder, swung her legs over the rail, and stood on the balcony. The sliding glass door was locked. She swore, shook the handle, and tried again. Should she break the glass, and risk a cut? Or try another balcony? The second choice seemed best.
Natalie climbed over the rail and knelt on the narrow strip of duracrete. Then, having secured a grip on the lower part of the rail, she dangled over the edge.
In the meantime, the man named Shank, still carrying the head named Johnson, stood on what had been her balcony and hurled obscenities in her direction.
Natalie, determined to escape, forced herself to ignore them. Concrete pressed on the inner surface of her arm. It hurt. Natalie swung out, in, and out again. Then, as the outward motion completed itself, and the inward motion began, she let go. The balcony rushed upward, smacked the soles of her feet, and threw her off balance. She backpedaled into the railing, caught herself, and reversed the motion. Four steps carried her to the door. It was unlocked and slid out of the way.
Natalie entered as a naked man left the bathroom. He saw her, covered his genitals, and backed away. She waved cheerfully and left through the hallway door.
Natalie opened a fire door and ran down what seemed like interminable flights of stairs to the ground floor. She considered the rental car, assumed it was covered, and took a side exit instead. It opened onto a large courtyard. A walkway led her past the swimming pool and the cabanas, and into an alley. From there it was a short sprint to a side street and an autocab.
Most people would have called the authorities, but Natalie was a spacer, and like most spacers placed l
ittle trust in local police, even on Mechnos. So she headed for Freeport. Spacers, especially free spacers, take care of their own. The only problem was that it would be relatively easy for her pursuers to guess her destination and arrive there first, especially since the autocab was programmed to obey the legal limit, and ignored her orders to the contrary.
The cab crawled through traffic as its meter displayed an ever-ascending fare and the onboard computer obeyed each and every one of the city's multitudinous traffic laws. Natalie ground her teeth in frustration as she scanned the surrounding cars and prayed that the thugs were behind rather than in front of her.
Freeport, with its seedy demeanor, and even seedier residents, had begun to stir; Later, in three or four hours, things would start to hum. Still, a sprinkling of spacers, most dressed in their ship's colors, had already filtered up from the harbor and were wandering the streets.
Good. A call would bring five or six crew-beings to her side, most if not all of whom would be tougher than the dirt-siders at her hotel room.
Determined to walk the last few blocks and see what, if anything, lay in wait for her, Natalie ordered the cab to stop. She ran her card through the scanner, wondered if Orr Enterprises had the means to monitor citywide credit card transactions, and decided it didn't matter. Such information would only confirm what common sense had probably already told them.
The autocab whirred away as Natalie walked the rest of the block, took a right at the Blue Moon tavern, and headed toward the harbor. The odor of briny water, deep-fried food, and recently released ozone filled her nostrils. She took a deep breath, nodded to an engineer she'd met somewhere, and smiled. This was home. For her, at least.
The street sloped down toward Discovery Bay, providing a good view of the harbor. At least fifty or sixty ships were bellied up to the docks, Most were loading or unloading cargo. And not symbolic cargo either, but the real thing, like variform cattle, critical machine parts, desperately needed antibiotics, weapons and ammunition, and much, much more.
All of which meant that the track-mounted cranes were hard at work, lifting cargo modules in and out of holds. Tractors, their beepers beeping, pulled lines of trailers along finger-shaped wharves while exoskeletons minced this way and that, their arms loaded with boxes.
Natalie paused at the bottom of the slope, searched the area for signs of pursuit, and heaved a sigh of relief when none was visible. She hurried across the maglev track, waved her pass in front of a bored-looking guard, and made for the terminal building. It crouched low as if seeking to avoid attention. The structure, and its single largest office, served as headquarters for Logenny MacAllister III, a notoriously crotchety man who carried the title of dock master, and served as Freeport's unofficial mayor, marshal, and magistrate.
She found MacAllister, as most people did, sitting in his office, monitoring his kingdom via sixty carefully placed vid cams, and smoking a pipe. A wreath of blue smoke encircled his head and drifted away from the incoming air. He was old, exactly how old no one knew for sure. He had a full head of white hair, and laser-bright eyes. He greeted Natalie the moment she entered. "So, lass ... how were the hearings? Did they find a cause?"
Natalie shook her head and dropped into one of the dock master's mismatched guest chairs. They were arranged in a semicircle and fronted his beat-up desk. "Some say yes, some say no."
The dock master scowled, examined the bowl of his pipe, and emptied it into a much abused servo cover. "Talk, talk, talk, that's all they ever do. Here, have a cup of coffee."
Natalie couldn't remember seeing MacAllister without a cup of coffee, not in all the years she'd known him. He seemed to live on the stuff, and used it not only as a beverage, but also like some sort of universal balm, pouring great dollops of the brew on winches that refused to work, dogs that peed on the garden patch below his window, or anything else that annoyed him, including people. Natalie accepted the mug, took a sip, and looked through the steam. "I need help, Mac, and some advice."
The dock master shrugged and sat on the edge of his desk. "Of course. It's been a long time since pretty young ladies came knockin' for anything else. What can I do for you?"
It took Natalie the better part of fifteen minutes to tell her story, starting with the missing coordinates and ending with Orr's goons. Once she was finished, MacAllister nodded thoughtfully and said, "Well, lass, that's quite a story, and an interestin' one too, especially in light o' the hearin's and the lack o' cause. Starships don't explode very often, not in atmosphere anyway, and it makes ya wonder. Especially with the likes o' Mr. Orr pokin' around."
Natalie felt something heavy hit the bottom of her stomach. The idea had been there for a long time, lurking in the back of her mind. But it seemed too paranoid to be true. Until now. Maybe, just maybe, her parents had been murdered. A host of emotions fought for dominance. A sort of cold anger won. "So, what should I do?"
"Well," the dock master said thoughtfully, "first things first. Sounds like some real unpleasant people might be comin' ta visit... and I don't allow no riffraff on my docks."
So saying, the old man pulled a boom mike down in front of his mouth, gave some orders, and pushed it up again. "That should cover it, lass... ain't no one takin' you where you don't want to go. Now, as for the coordinates you're lookin' for, how 'bout a peek inside that safe?"
Natalie felt a momentary pang of suspicion, decided that she had to trust somebody, and handed it over. The dock master nodded thoughtfully, motioned for her to follow, and led Natalie outside. Docks, not to mention the ships they serve, require endless maintenance, and the port authority's shops were second to none.
MacAllister led her to the machine shop. Metal screamed on metal, sparks fanned the air, and robots stalked through the gloom. The dock master handed the safe to one of the workers, yelled some instructions, and watched as they went to work. It took a minute to slice through the casing, three to let it cool, and part of a fifth for Natalie to peer inside. Nothing. The cube was empty!
Natalie struggled to hide her disappointment as she followed MacAllister out into the fading light. He shrugged. "Sorry, lass ... keep lookin'. You'll find 'em."
Natalie smiled and gave MacAllister a hug. The dock master scowled and said he'd do the same for any other spacer, and knew he lied. Because there were plenty of spacers he wouldn't lift a finger for, and the truth was that he liked Natalie in spite of her parents, not because of them, especially in light of the fact that they had forgotten their roots and used the Gap to suppress free trade. That was transgression beyond all understanding. But their daughter, well, she represented what her parents could have been but never were.
They returned to the office together, and Natalie was just about to leave when the dock master touched his earplug and raised a hand. He listened for a moment, said something in reply, and pointed to one of the wall monitors. "Look ... your friends have arrived."
Natalie bit her lower lip as she saw the woman and her goons get out of a limo and approach the security shack. The security guards, with automatic weapons slung across their chests, stepped out to meet them. Then, as if by chance, a pair of heavy-duty exoskeletons entered the area and assumed positions next to the gate. The display of strength must have worked, because the visitors reentered their vehicle and were gone moments later.
Natalie had allowed herself to hope that Orr and his minions would give up, would leave her alone, but the confrontation at the gate made it clear that they wouldn't. That, plus her failure to locate the coordinates, made her depressed.
She thanked MacAllister for his help, left the dock master's office, and walked toward the other end of the building. The guild hall occupied space leased from the port authority and served as an important gathering place, though not in the afternoon. Natalie followed another spacer through the beat-up green doors and into a large, rather undistinguished room.
The chairs were sturdy affairs, chosen more for strength and durability than for looks, and sat as they had the night bef
ore. Natalie could imagine the scene. A game, it didn't matter which one, playing on the wall screen, as bartenders dispensed endless quantities of beer, and spacers traded lies. But the party had been over for a long time, and with the exception of a med tech who lay unconscious across three carefully arranged chairs, the hall was empty.
Natalie's deck shoes squeaked as she made her way across the floor to the reception desk. It remained open around the clock and provided access to a variety of services. She waited her turn, rolled a thumb on the reader, and watched the clerk depart for her mail.
While he was gone she checked the desk term, confirmed that the Sunbird had lifted two days before, and wished her ex-shipmates, a profitable run. She had hated to sacrifice her slot, not to mention the hard-won seniority that went with it, but hadn't been able to identify an alternative. The Voss Line might be dead, and badly in need of interment, and someone had to bury the poor thing.
That became even more apparent when the clerk returned with a box full of official-looking mail, dumped it on the counter, and hit her with a storage fee. He had a long, thin face, no chin to speak of, and a music implant. His head bobbed to an inaudible rhythm. "Here ya go... anything else?"
"Are the reading rooms open?"
The boy's head bobbed a little faster. "Five cees an hour ... same as always. Take what ya want."
Natalie thanked the clerk, took her box, and headed for the reading rooms. Many spacers chose to live rent-free aboard their ships while in port, and used the little cubicles to handle their correspondence, or anything else that required privacy, including the sort of hanky-panky most COs forbade aboard ship.
Natalie checked to make sure the first cubicle was unoccupied, wrinkled her nose at the smell of disinfectant, and threw her bag on the well-worn couch. It was a simple matter to pull the plastic chair away from the beat-up desk and activate the computer. It was voice-capable and, like most of its kind, overly polite. "Hello ... how may I help you?"
Where the Ships Die Page 9
