Where the Ships Die

by William C. Dietz

  Still, the crew interpreted the run-in as proof of her innocence, and that, plus the attack on O'Tool, had restored her credibility. So much so that Natalie had been asked to assume her previous duties, including the normally innocuous position of weapons officer, and the title that went with it. The pirates had followed the Willie down into the planet's atmosphere, and Jord was understandably worried. "Bridge to weapons control... how's it look, Guns?"

  Natalie saw O'Tool out of the corner of her eye. Like the rest of the crew, he wore space armor in case they were holed. She couldn't tell where his body began and the pressure suit ended. He was watching and waiting to see if she'd make a mistake. Well, screw him. And the horse he rode in on. She scanned the board. The Willie mounted four missile launchers and an equal number of energy cannon. Light armament for a warship, but respectable for a merchant vessel. "All systems green, sir... standing by."

  "Good," Jord replied, eyeing the information before him. "Okay, everybody, here's the plan. The pirate packs more throw weight than we do, that's a given, but isn't free to use it. Not without blowing the ship to dust. That being the case, I plan to turn and let 'em have it. Guns, you're the expert, what do you think?"

  Natalie mustered some saliva and pushed it around her mouth. Having never fired a shot in anger, she felt anything but expert. The discussion of strategy would have been unthinkable on a cruiser but was typical of merchant vessels. The officer tried to sound confident. "Good strategy, sir. I suggest a diversion. Something to draw their missiles and give us a crack at them."

  Jord had invited Natalie's input but hadn't expected to receive any. Damn the woman anyway! Time was passing, and she was about to waste some of it. "Yes? Go ahead."

  The Will of God shuddered as she passed through a high-altitude jet stream. Natalie felt the seconds ticking away. The words poured out and nearly ran together. "Let's rig the life pods to run hot. .. and eject them as we turn. We wait, they fire, and blam! We take 'em." Every spacer knew it took at least five seconds to ready and fire a flight of ship-to-ship missiles, so Jord had no difficulty appreciating the value of Natalie's suggestion. He was surprised and struggled not to show it. "Excellent! We'll fire the cannon too. O'Tool, you heard number three. Rig the pods."

  The cyborg winced at the extravagant use of valuable equipment and reached for one of his many keyboards. It swung into place and rippled with light. "Yes, sir. I need ten minutes."

  "You have five," Jord said, watching the distance between the two ships narrow. "Make them count."

  Cowles was afraid. He knew that for sure. What he didn't know was which option scared him the most: killing Sanko and dealing with the consequences of his treachery, or not killing Sanko and dealing with the consequences of that.

  It should be a no-brainer. Wait in orbit, pot the Will of God as she lifted, and reel her in. Just like fishing with dear old good-for-nothing Dad. Except that Sanko chose to chase the merchant vessel and place his own ship at risk.

  Cowles touched the weapon with his knee and turned so that Sanko appeared in his peripheral vision. It seemed as if the jacker was staring at him, eyes open wide, lips straight and narrow. Could the captain see his first officer thoughts? Ice water leached into Cowles's veins, trickled through his body, and froze his extremities.

  Jord watched real honest-to-god video of the planet's surface as the freighter dropped through thick clouds and leveled out above an endless maze of lakes, ponds, pools, rivers, streams, and channels. It was a place of wandering waters indeed, and not where he hoped to end his life. His gods ruled Earth and extended their influence to New Delhi after that. Did the deities live everywhere? Or were they linked to the soil from which they had sprung? And how far did their influence extend? Far enough to find his soul? Most said yes. Were they correct? He pushed the question away. The ship slowed, reached equilibrium, and hovered in place. The combat clock continued to run. He waited for a row of zeros to appear and uttered a prayer. Echoes were heard in every part of the ship.

  Sanko followed his quarry down through the clouds, grinned wolfishly, and watched the distance narrow. There were no signs of opposition. This was going to be easier than he'd thought. They'd catch up, force her down, and waste the crew. Orr would be pleased, he'd pocket half a mil, and the syndicate could kiss his ass. All he needed was a quiet planet, not too isolated, but away from ... Cowles interrupted. "The merchant ship has slowed, sir."

  Sanko nodded agreeably. "She's probably going to surrender. But keep an eye on her."

  Cowles acknowledged the order, saw the Will of God turn, and knew Sanko was wrong.

  In her capacity as gunnery officer, Natalie had temporary command of the ship. She moved the joystick to the right, swore at the cumbersome way that the vessel responded, and waited for the moment when she'd be bow-on to her pursuer. It seemed to take forever. Each passing moment exposed more and more of the Willie's hull, until midpoint was passed, and their profile grew steadily smaller.

  Sanko, confident that his vessel could take anything the freighter had to dish out, and eager to get the whole thing over with, spent the intervening time shedding all the speed he could. The strategy worked too, except that by the time the ships made visual contact the Willie was three-quarters of the way through her turn, and presented a much smaller target. However, due to the fact that Sanko wanted to capture the trader, not destroy her, the question was more academic than practical.

  Natalie, her eyes locked on the screen, watched the other ship approach, willed the bow to come around, and breathed a sigh of relief when it did. She looked at O'Tool, received his nod, and launched the life pods. Three seconds later their specially rigged life-support systems went critical and their heat signatures started to bloom.

  The weapons tech could still feel the pain in his testicles, not to mention his forehead. There was nothing wrong with his eyesight or reaction time, however. He saw pods bloom, blew chaff, and warned the bridge. "I have missile launch ... repeat, missile launch ... four and tracking."

  Sanko had received the news direct from the ship's onboard computer. His eyebrows shot toward his carefully groomed hair. The sheep had teeth. "Destroy incoming missiles."

  Lights glowed on the technician's board. He played them like a piano, felt the ship shudder, and watched telemetry. All systems green ... missiles running true.

  Energy cannon began to fire. The tech watched their heat sinks with one eye and the monitors with the other. Then the impossible happened. Never mind the fact that no merchant ship he'd ever heard of carried more than four launchers, and never mind the fact that it took a minimum of five seconds to reload, the Will of God fired a second salvo. Since she was a helluva lot closer this time, her ordnance struck before he could warn anyone.

  The ship staggered under the force of three separate explosions; a cacophony of shouts, alarms, and klaxons was heard; and the bow started to drop. Smoke drifted, and voices babbled in Sanko's ears. He hit the override. "Get the bow up, damn it! Bring her around!"

  The second officer did her best, but she wasn't half as good as the cyborg, and the response was painfully slow. Sanko began to scream at her, and Cowles realized what scared him most. His energy weapon bored a hole through Sanko's brain. His eyes were wide open when he died.

  Rollo and Torx, along with most of the planet's senior defense staff, watched the pirate ship crash via airborne remotes, and turned to each other in amazement. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Not on their planet, anyway. Ground forces, medical teams, and an ecological contamination unit were dispatched to the crash site. Rollo and Torx assumed overall command. The Dromo was ebullient as he churned toward the elevator. "Time to get a move on, old friend. Our guests have arrived, and it would be rude to keep them waiting."

  15

  Scatter what you have to the winds. What you need will appear.

  Insula Balloric

  Du'Zaath mystic

  Standard year 1916

  The Planet New Hope

 
The Nebula Storm had taken up moorage toward the center of Oro's bay, where her crew would be safe from the latest plague variant and the intermittent labor riots that troubled the city. The bright blue water taxi pitched up and down as it passed through another boat's wake. Ari braced herself against the motion and marveled at the fact that the launch was made of wood rather than composites. She turned and saw the Storm wallow as waves rolled in off the ocean. She was an old beast, her hull scarred by countless reentries, patched where meteorites had hit. Her shape reminded Ari of the manta rays that roamed the oceans of old Earth. The boatman took exception to an unwieldy raft and passed as close as he could. The raft master's wife waved a frying pan and swore like the sailor she was.

  It was hard to know what to feel. Should she be happy that the long, boring journey was over? Annoyed because the return voyage would start in just seven days? Assuming she found Voss, that is ... which shouldn't be hard. No, it would be a snap. Find the school and you find the boy. Take the brat aside, explain the situation, and pay his way home. Simple as that. Or, take his thumb and arrange for an accident.

  The alternative, which involved waiting for the next ship to arrive, was nearly unthinkable. All her research had led to the same conclusion: New Hope was a godforsaken pus pit. Certainly not a place to spend much time in. Still, supposing she had to stay, a thick wad of credits would see her through.

  It was shit work, Ari knew that, but the pay was good, and she never stopped hoping that the on-again, off-again relationship with Orr would deepen and evolve into a more permanent relationship. Not love, that was asking too much, but a partnership similar to the one Howard and Mary Voss enjoyed. It was too bad about the bomb ... she had admired their courage.

  The waterman put the helm over, shifted into reverse, and brought her fantasy to an end as the boat bumped the wooden dock. "East landing, ma'am. Just like you said. Watch your step."

  Ari paid the man less than she would have if her daydream had been allowed to run full course, hung the bag from her left shoulder, and mounted the water-slicked plank. It gave lightly, but cleats prevented her from slipping.

  The embarcadero curved in both directions and served as a platform for warehouses, boats, nets, cargo modules, cranes, and makeshift shacks. The moment Ari reached the top of the stairs, she was mobbed by street vendors, most of whom were children who seemed intent on pushing, shoving, and yelling their way into her good graces.

  Ari spotted a skinny youngster who looked a lot like she had ten years before, pointed a finger, and used her most authoritative voice. "You! Yes, you! I need ground transportation ... but I don't need a mob. Lose the crowd."

  The children were masters of the hard sell and more than a little reluctant to abandon a rich prize. It took the better part of five minutes for the street girl to disperse the crowd.

  Finally, with the off-worlder all to herself, the youngster motioned, and Ari followed. Horns honked as they crossed the street. Vehicles, some made more from wood than metal, chugged back and forth. Dense slums climbed the lower slopes of a cone-shaped hill. A blanket of warm, fetid air wrapped Ari in a damp embrace. Signs offered everything from food to acupuncture. The street waif, who continued to defend her client from a nonstop assault by vendors, beggars, and con artists, led the bodyguard into a narrow passageway.

  Crude adobe walls rose to either side, bulged inward, and hung overhead. Strips of sunlight lit the way, and the smell of urine filled the air. Most people would have found the situation threatening, but Ari, who had been raised on the lowest sub-deck of an island-sized krill harvester, wasn't impressed. She did keep an eye on her back trail, however, and kept her gun hand free.

  The juxtaposition of the spaceship in the harbor and the poverty around her spoke volumes. New Hope seemed like a strange place to send an only son, but, judging from her time spent with Carnaby Orr, rich people were weird. How else could you account for the fact that Orr, who was unimaginably wealthy, still wanted more?

  A planter crowded with dead vegetation offered a rest for her boot. The tie didn't need tying but she tied it anyway. Ari checked behind her, and wondered why anyone would stop to admire a wall of graffiti. The tail was of medium height, slightly overweight, and too well dressed. She figured him for a thug, a freelancer employed by the Traa, or a pro repping Orr's enemies. The second seemed most likely.

  The bodyguard finished her skit, nodded to her guide, and climbed a flight of terracelike steps. Children built dams, channeled the dirty water into quickly flowing streams, and launched scraps of wood. Some raced alongside while others yelled encouragement. Ari took comfort from the knowledge that while an empty passageway could signal an ambush, this one bustled with activity.

  The alley, if that's what it could properly be called, narrowed and crossed even darker corridors to either side. Seeing that, Ari hurried to close the gap with her guide, pushed the girl into a passageway, and staggered under the force of a reverse elbow strike.

  The girl, certain that her client meant to kill her, pulled a dagger as she turned. It was made out of green glass. Similar weapons were available from street vendors everywhere. Though not especially durable, they were razor-sharp. Ari backed away, shook her head, and held a finger to her lips. Would the girl understand? Or insist on a dart? The bodyguard gestured toward the alleyway and the man who would soon appear. The teenager paused, watched warily, and kept the weapon ready.

  Ari offered what she hoped was an agreeable smile, motioned for the girl to wait, and watched while a woman with an enormous load of firewood passed the entrance.

  Worried that his subjects had given him slip, and eager to catch up, the tail hurried into the trap. He was only fifteen feet away when the bodyguard stepped into the light. Her body hid the handgun. The man stopped, and Ari crooked her finger.

  The tail looked surprised, took three steps forward, and reached under his jacket. Ari frowned disapprovingly and shot him in the right knee. The airgun made very little noise. The man screamed, grabbed his knee, and fainted.

  Such were the conditions on New Hope that people disappeared into their dwellings and passersby averted their eyes rather than inadvertently get involved in a mugging.

  Ari dragged the man into the dark, took his weapon, and slapped his face. His eyes popped open and he looked frightened. His pockets produced little more than a small wad of currency, a backup magazine for his pistol, and a porno reader. Ari tossed the cube over her shoulder and slapped him again. “Who the hell are you? And who do you work for?"

  The man, who had folded himself into the fetal position, wrapped his arms around his injured knee and groaned. "A doctor... I need a doctor."

  "Yes, you do," Ari said sympathetically. "That hurts, doesn't it? Now answer my question. What's your name?"

  The man winced, bit his lower lip, and confirmed what Ari had suspected. "I'm a freelancer. The name is Pardo. Sam Pardo. Please, I need a doctor now."

  "In a minute," Ari promised. "As soon as you answer my questions. Who sent you?"

  The answer both amazed and frightened her. The man grimaced. "I'm on a retainer from the Department of Commerce. They told me to watch for someone from Orr Enterprises."

  Ari grabbed a handful of his jacket. "Why? What are they after?"

  "I don't know," the man said, tears running down his cheeks. "They didn't tell me. I was supposed to tail you and report. That's all."

  Ari believed him and was afraid that whatever passed for the local police would arrive soon. She stood, took aim, and put a dart through the man's temple. The girl was already in the process of backing away when the bodyguard turned and raised her pistol. It should have been easy to pull the trigger, and rid herself of a witness, but something stopped her. Pity? No. Well, yes, of a sort. The girl reminded Ari of herself, of who she'd been before she'd fought her way free of the harvester and left her home world behind. Or had she? How was this any different from the butchery of bilge city? Or the other hellholes she'd survived?

  Ari h
olstered the weapon and left the next move to the teenager. Gradually, like a wild animal nibbling on a morsel of handheld food, the girl inched forward. The dagger slid into its sheath, and her steps became a swagger. Ari grinned, nodded approvingly, and gestured toward the sun-splashed passageway. "Come on. It's time to go."

  The girl waited for the off-worlder to proceed her, slipped the man's gun into the waistband of her trousers, and followed along behind. The weapon was worth a lot of money. She could sell it or, better yet, model herself on the woman in front of her. The girl smiled and imitated the way Ari walked. Neither saw the glint of reflected light from a distant rooftop, the woman who had tears running down her cheeks, or the badge on her vest.

  Though prepared for the worst, Myra found life in the Sharma household to be relatively pleasant, especially when compared with the obvious alternatives. She'd been assigned to the huge whitewashed kitchen, a bustling place full of spotless pots, pans, and utensils, all of which had their own special hooks, and were worth a considerable amount of money, a fact that hadn't escaped chef Ubi Fimbre, who imposed a rigid code of discipline and took inventory twice a day. That in spite of the fact that he had arrived in chains, established an open-air eatery down in the slums, and been recruited by the Sharmas.

  Still, it wasn't long before Myra discovered that Fimbre's bark was a lot worse than his bite, and adjusted to her new surroundings. Fimbre was a small man with dark hair, a pencil-thin mustache, and quick brown eyes. Myra was headed for the storeroom when they fastened on her. He held a tray and shoved it in her direction. "Here, take this to Mr. Sharma and be snappy about it. He likes his coffee hot."

  Like the rest of the servants, Myra knew that Sharma was either the most or second most powerful person in the house, depending on whether one subscribed to the theory that Mrs. Sharma was little more than an extension of her husband's will, or the theory that she was a clever manipulator who made him dance like a puppet.