Where the Ships Die

by William C. Dietz

  "Everyone's here ... good. We have a ship on our tail, and, judging by the fact that it alters speed every time we do, it could be a pirate."

  Jord surveyed the compartment and tested each individual with the intensity of his stare. "So," he continued, "the question is why. Why would a pirate ship take an interest in the Will of God? Especially in light of the fact that our cargo consists of hybrid water-weed seedlings, low-grade replacement parts, scientific data modules, and medical supplies. Yes, the cargo is worth money, but not the kind that would attract attention, not unless we have something else on board, something or someone of much greater value."

  Natalie was still processing what the captain had said, still trying to understand what he meant, when Jord looked her way. "A couple of possibilities come to mind. The first has to do with Third Officer Voss. Her family owns a shipping line, or did, and the pirates might have ransom on their minds." Jord turned to die Traa. "Then there's our passengers to consider. Perhaps the pirates want them."

  The Traa stiffened but were otherwise motionless.

  Natalie thought about Orr, the lawyers he'd sent after her, and the explosion that had taken her parents' lives. Would the industrialist destroy an entire ship? Just to take her life? Maybe ... but what good would that do unless ... Suddenly it came to her, the fact that Dorn would be eighteen soon, and old enough to affix his print to legal documents. With her out of the way, and the right amount of pressure on Dora, the industrialist could acquire the gap for a song.

  Jord's voice brought her back. "I think we need look no farther than our third officer's face to confirm my theory."

  Natalie scanned the mess and, with the possible exception of the XTs, who wore what she interpreted as neutral expressions, saw nothing but dislike on the faces that surrounded her. She tried to explain. "Yes, the people on the other ship could be after me, but it's far from certain, and I had no idea..."

  "Please," Jord said holding a hand palm outward, "save the self-justification for someone else. Your family's tendency to put their interests above all others is well known. I should have known better, should have waited for a more reliable officer, but succumbed to my own impatience and greed. I hereby apologize to the ship's company and, assuming that we manage to survive, will give blood to the altar of life."

  Natalie wanted to respond, wanted to explain, but knew their minds were closed. There were other nonbelievers aboard, but none held officer rank or were at the meeting. Only the Traa had what might have been sympathetic expressions.

  "So what's the plan?" O'Tool asked, light glinting off the right side of his face. "Do we run or fight?"

  "We run and prepare to fight," Jord said grimly, "assuming they stay on our tail. I propose to reach The Place of Wandering Waters before our pursuers do and deliver our cargo. Once down, we can wait or fight our way out. The choice will be ours."

  There was discussion after that, but most of it was pointless, and the captain's plan was approved. The crowd dispersed, O'Tool brought the drives to max, and the Willie hurtled through space.

  The pool of contemplation was a lake-sized body of water, fed by no less than two separate rivers and open to numerous waterways, each of which was guarded by a pair of ancient stone towers. Rollo knew that there were other, more modern means of defense hidden all around, but couldn't see them as the tug pulled him through "fool's" gate, where the rebels of 1810 had made their final stand.

  Lagoons passed to either side. Some were empty, or thick with weed, but most teemed with life. Torx saw hundreds of Treeth and Dromos laboring in front of waterborne holo screens as announcements blared, flags snapped in the breeze, and robotugs churned this way and that. It was quite colorful, and very much what government should look like, or so it seemed to Torx.

  Tugs were not permitted within the pool of contemplation itself, so Rollo surrendered his machine to an attendant and proceeded under his own power. Once he was within the ancient gathering place, formally sanctified by the great King Halory, time seemed to slow. A long series of attendants, each more solemn than his or her predecessor, greeted visitors, checked their credentials, offered ritual advice, and passed them on. Finally, after an hour of such nonsense, the summons that had brought Rollo from hundreds of miles away was read with the same agonizing deliberation given to changes in the tax code. Then, just when it seemed as if some progress had been made, and the co-marshals would be ushered into the pool, they were ordered to wait. Government officials came and went so slowly that their movements left no wake. The calendar slipped, then slipped again, as emergencies arose and were dealt with. Finally, as the sun started to set and the moon rose over the eastern horizon, a Dromo surfaced at the center of the lagoon. Her Treeth, a bedraggled-looking creature, much abused by all appearances, shook itself, and water flew in every direction. "Citizen Rollo? Citizen Torx? This way, please."

  The Dromo found it difficult to swim as slowly as his guide did, and felt a growing sense of excitement as he was led out to the area where a ring of floating lights signaled which part of the pool was in use that day, surrounding as it did the seventeen elders, not to mention their various aides, assistants, advisors, and hangers-on.

  Finally, after passing through a series of identity checks, detector screenings, and a rather insulting pat-down, Rollo and Torx were admitted to the center of the ring, where presenters traditionally floated, their audience arrayed before them. The Master at Arms, a huge bull who had been around so long no one could remember when he hadn't been, announced their presence. His voice rolled like thunder and brought an elder to the surface. He looked annoyed and had a giant wad of weed in his mouth. "The council has the privilege of greeting Commerce Marshal Rollo Drekno-Hypont III, and Co-Marshal Pilo Horlon-Torx."

  An elder, barely visible in the quickly gathering darkness, blew water out through his nostrils. It spattered in front of him. "Thank you for coming. The council reviewed your summary and is ready to hear the entire presentation. Please proceed."

  Rollo, who had been working toward this moment for months, remembered his mother's admonition to be careful what you ask for, and took a deep breath. "Thank you. It's an honor to be here. Our thesis is as follows: First, in the absence of faster-than-ship communication, transportation and interstellar communication amount to the same thing.

  "Second, that the steady consolidation of shipping lines through bankruptcy, mergers, and secret partnerships threatens to leave transportation and communications in the hands of an ever dwindling number of individuals and races.

  "Third, that the use of wormholes, or gaps as they are more popularly known, serves to exacerbate the situation, especially in light of the fact that at least one and maybe two of these discontinuities have fallen under Traa control."

  "Implying what?" a voice growled from Rollo's right. "That the Traa are attempting to undermine the Confederacy? Or that they are extraordinarily successful? Which, to the best of my knowledge, continues to be legal."

  Rollo chin-splashed his respect. Like all of his kind, the Dromo had excellent night vision that grew even better after the sun had set. That's why he was able to see the elder and the injury that earned him the nickname "Half-horn." He chose his words with care. "You are correct. Any analysis by members of one race that reaches potentially negative conclusions about the motives, actions, and outcomes of another should be regarded with the utmost skepticism. And the evidence supporting such claims should be of the highest caliber."

  "And you have such evidence?" an octogenarian named Grodley inquired, his equally elderly Treeth asleep on his back.

  "Yes," Rollo replied calmly. "I think we do."

  "Then let's see it," a third voice called. "It's late, and I tire of governmental babble."

  Rollo, who didn't appreciate having his carefully rehearsed presentation characterized as "governmental babble," swallowed his ire. "Yes, ma'am. Torx?"

  Torx, who had provided the council's staff with the appropriate data cube earlier in the afternoon, touche
d a button on his hand-held remote. The entire north end of the lake was replaced by a volcano, and no sooner had the elders identified the object for what it was than the mountain exploded, hurled rock hundreds of feet into the air, and released clouds of superheated gas. The lava, which hissed realistically where it flowed into the lake, was reddish orange.

  Rollo checked his audience to make sure that he had their complete and undivided attention, saw that he did, and continued the presentation. "The Mountain of the Moons is located in the northern hemisphere of the planet La-Tri.

  "The eruption took place about three local months ago, and, due to the fact that approximately one-third of the Traa population was gathered below, killed more than eight hundred thousand members of that race."

  "Which implies a rather small population," Half-horn said thoughtfully. "Especially when compared to the humans."

  "Exactly," Rollo said, pleased that at least one elder understood the importance of what he'd said. "And, since the Dromo and the Treeth are even less numerous than the Traa, we are uniquely qualified to grasp the enormity of what occurred.

  "Of equal and perhaps more importance, however, is who died during that eruption. Traa psychology is significantly different from our own, in that it stems from a highly stratified society in which each individual belongs to one of three highly specialized septs. Generally speaking, these groups could be said to consist of commercial beings, warriors, and priests."

  "So?" Council Member Grodley inquired. "What's your point?"

  "Simply this," Rollo answered patiently. "Nearly all of those killed by the volcanic eruption were members of the religious sept, and, because they represented a sort of racial conscience, the overall society is out of balance. That being the case, the commercial and warrior septs are doing what comes naturally, which is to control everything they can."

  There was silence as the elders took it in. Council Member Dor-Zander, his eyes glowing with reflected moonlight, was first to speak. "Let me see if I understand ... You're saying that the Traa evolved a group, rather than an individualized, conscience, and lacking that, are mentally unbalanced. So much so that they are a threat to us, the Confederacy, and themselves. I find that rather hard to believe."

  "Really?" Rollo asked, peering through the dark. "Judging from appearances, I'd say that your Treeth companion is a good deal younger than you are. What happened to her predecessor? And how did you feel at the time?"

  The bond between Dromo and Treeth was so ancient that neither race could be sure of its origins. But there was absolutely no doubt that they had coevolved, with the Dromo providing the protection needed on a hostile planet, while the Treeth contributed their hands and their subsequent ability to make and use tools, along with the capacity to go where Dromos couldn't—an absolute necessity where activities such as mining were concerned.

  Later, as communication became more important to their joint destinies, the fact that the Dromos evolved spoken language, while the Treeth relied on various forms of nonverbal expression, had served to further bind the races together. All of which was known to the elders, as was the fact that the relationship between a Dromo and his or her Treeth, normally established during the first five years of life, was of much more importance than bonds with family, friends, or an eventual mate. Which was why Rollo had asked the question and Dor-Zander had been slow to respond. "Fabra died in an accident and I felt as if half of me went with her. I stand corrected. Comment withdrawn."

  "So," Half-horn said slowly, "let's assume that you're correct regarding Traa psychology. What sort of data has been gathered to support your thesis?"

  "An, excellent question," Rollo answered respectfully. "Torx?"

  The Treeth touched a button, and the first of twenty-five documents appeared over the lake. It took the better part of a standard interval to review all the data that Rollo and Torx had collected. Traa holdings had increased enormously during the last quarter, and, based on a combination of public records, reports of secret transactions, and a certain amount of educated guesswork, there was little doubt that the aliens were up to no good.

  However, suspicions are one thing, and facts are another, as an elder named Horla Dormire-Proxley made clear. "You offer an impressive case, Marshal, very impressive indeed, but where's the proof? Most of the activities you documented are entirely legal, and the rest of your evidence is highly speculative."

  Rollo knew she was correct, and was searching for the right reply, when Torx tapped one into his shoulder. He passed it along. "Yes, it is highly speculative, which is why we haven't charged anyone with a crime."

  "Which brings us to the next logical question," Half-horn added. "Given the fact that you represent the Confederacy itself, and have its resources at your disposal, why call upon us?"

  Rollo and Torx found themselves in a delicate position. They were planetary citizens, and as such had every right to appear before the council and ask for support, but as law enforcement officers, sworn to put the interests of the Confederacy above all else, they were expected to steer clear of politics. Which was a nearly impossible task, given the fact that the Confederacy was by its very nature a highly political organization. The Dromo chose his words with care.

  "In order to implement their plans, and seize control of the Confederacy's economic infrastructure, the Traa seek control of a wormhole called the Mescalero Gap. The owners died under questionable circumstances, and their daughter, a human named Natalie Voss, will arrive here soon. Once that occurs, and the female comes under our protection, we will proceed with our investigation.

  "At that point, or as soon as their agents learn of our activities, the Traa diplomatic corps will swing into action and do everything they can to block our efforts. They support a powerful lobby backed by a network of secret alliances, partnerships, and agreements. High-level officials will be persuaded to put pressure on our superiors at the Commerce Department, and, after a certain amount of squirming, they will attempt to limit our investigation."

  "And you want our diplomats to counter such efforts and build support for your activities," Half-horn said thoughtfully.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Have you any idea of how difficult that will be?" the old bull demanded. "We'll be accused of everything from racism to public nudity. All of our initiatives will come under fire."

  "Yes, sir."

  "All right," Half-horn said wearily. "You heard him. All in favor of taking on a really difficult, thankless, and execrable job, say 'Aye.' "

  Rollo heard a basso chorus of "Ayes," and not a single nay.

  "So, it's agreed," Half-horn said. "We'll do what we can. Now leave us. The council has another two intervals' worth of work to do."

  Rollo chin-splashed, made for an exit, and thought about what they'd accomplished. The first battle had been won. The second would be a lot more difficult.

  13

  The wise (adult female) adapts herself to circumstances much as water assumes the shape of the vessel which contains it.

  Inscription on an earthenware jug discovered

  in the Forerunner ruins of Itchar IV

  Radiocarbon dated to 20,000 B.C. Standard

  The Planet New Hope

  Bright sunlight, which streamed in through a gap in the makeshift curtains, combined with the smell of food to bring Dorn up from a dimly remembered dream. He lay there for a moment and gloried in the comfort of his makeshift bed. Then, forcing himself to confront the chill morning air, he rolled out and scrambled to his feet. It didn't take long to slip into his trousers, brush his teeth, and wash his face.

  La-So crouched in front of the brick stove. He nodded toward the nearly empty wood box. "Follow the main footpath north. When you reach the wood lot, ask for Sandro. Tell him La-So sent you. Breakfast will be ready when you return."

  The words were gruff, as if the XT wanted to put him off, and Dorn wondered if he should just leave. But the odor of food, combined with a ravenous appetite, convinced him to follow the alien's instructi
ons.

  He opened the door, stepped outside, and found a trail leading down the side of the hill. The sun slanted in from the east and glazed the peninsula with golden light.

  The shanties stood in ranks as if leaning on each other for support. Beyond them, where the slum stopped and the beach began, Dorn saw all manner of salvage large and small. There were hull plates, which, in spite of the fact that they had traveled millions of light-years through space, were stacked like so much cordwood. Orderly rows of reels, each fat with salvaged cable, occupied one section of beach, while bins filled to overflowing with smaller pieces of metal lined the security fence.

  There were tools too, though surprisingly few, including a couple of yellow cranes, a barge that might or might not float when the tide came in, and a dozen or so exoskeletons, frozen in whatever positions their operators had left them.

  Of even more interest to Dorn were the dimly seen shapes that lay beyond the curtain of mist that separated the salvage yards from the mud flats, because it was there, halfway to the point where brown met blue, that the half-consumed carcasses of once-mighty ships could be seen, wings clipped, hulls breached, ribs pointing toward the sky.

  It was a sad yet compelling sight, and Dorn found himself torn between feelings of regret and curiosity. As a boy he had begged his parents for permission to explore old ships, ducking into musty compartments, fingering dead controls. But that was when he'd been younger—and firewood had been something that droids dealt with.

  Dorn stopped long enough to make use of a partially screened privy. Insects whined around his head. He gagged on the smell and left as quickly as he could.

  The main path was heavily used, and Dorn made the mistake of stepping in front of some children. They pushed on by, made fun of his appearance, and laughed as they pursued each other up the incline. Dorn, unsure of the best way to carry the wood box, followed along behind. Mud squished under his sandals, woodsmoke drifted across the pathway, and vendors hawked their wares. They lined the broader parts of the trail and vied for his business. "Fresh night fish! Fried just for you! Get 'em while they're hot!"