"This ship, formerly known as the Mary Voss, will be cut into pieces, sold to you, and reshaped into tools, buildings, bridges, and thousands of other useful things, bringing jobs and prosperity to our planet. Remember this moment, because you won't see anything like it again!"
Dorn stood stunned as the very heart of everything his parents had worked to build hurtled toward the beach. Someone yelled, "I can't see!" and hands pulled him away. Obedient, but unwilling to take his eyes off the liner, Dorn tripped, recovered, and watched from outside the pavilion.
The Mary Voss was coming fast, much faster than was necessary or prudent, and the youth was reminded of the runaway ship and the destruction it had wrought. Would the same thing happen again? He almost hoped so, even if it meant that Sharma and all of his guests would almost certainly die. The fact that he would go with them was regrettable but worth it.
The Mary Voss was big now, very big, and the air displaced by her massive hull had created a miniature tidal wave that rolled in front of her. The sound of her mighty engines was so deep, so powerful, that the ground shook and cups rattled.
The sun was gone, eclipsed by the huge machine that had been mined from alien soil, steered through gaps in the space-time continuum, and condemned to serve out her final moments as mealtime entertainment. A memory surfaced briefly and was swept away. It had something to do with the ship and his seldom seen father, but Dorn couldn't focus on it. Not with tears streaming down his cheeks. Not for the ship, but for his parents, who were surely dead, for nothing less than their deaths could explain the sight before him.
The vessel slowed, hit the water with a gigantic splash, and sent waves in every direction. They broke against the older wrecks, swept haulers off their feet, and rushed toward land. Then, like a sea monster exhaling its last breath, the liner groaned and slid to a halt.
As Dorn wiped the tears off his cheeks, he felt something small and warm nestle in his hand, and knew Myra had joined him. "I'm sorry, Dorn, really sorry."
Dorn swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. "Thanks, Myra, that helps."
Myra's reply was interrupted by one of the guests. "Excuse me ... could we have some service over here?"
Myra withdrew her hand. "Fimbre will be furious if he sees us standing around. We'll meet during the fireworks, remember?"
Dorn nodded soberly, returned to the busing station, grabbed a tray, and collected the empty soup bowls. Sharma offered the first of what turned about to be an endless round of toasts. The ceremony kept the guests busy, and made Dorn's job that much easier.
The hours passed, courses came and went, and the sun dropped below the data liner's massive hull. Finally, as the dessert goblets were cleared away, and the after-dinner drinks were served, a steady stream of aircraft started to arrive. Then, as the most important guests were escorted to the pads, the less fortunate were treated to a carefully programmed fireworks display, complete with lasers and three-dimensional holographs. These included twenty-foot-high portraits of the Sharmas, plus each guest in attendance, all captured during the afternoon's festivities.
Dorn searched for Myra and found her in the shadow cast by the house itself. They came together with the sureness of lovers. Her body, soft yet firm, melted against his. Lips met and met again. Light strobed as a holo lit the sky, and the guests clapped. Neither saw Seleen leave the house and stop to watch them.
18
Greed makes man blind, foolish and ... an easy prey for death.
Rumi
Persian Sufi poet
Circa 1250
The Place of Wandering Waters, the Planet Mechnos, and Aboard a Traa Survey Ship in Deep Space
The rain fell in sheets, splattered across the spaceship's deck, and cascaded down her flanks. Natalie, who was soaked to the skin, and had given up all hope of ever being dry again, looked up and flinched as the raindrops hit her face. She pointed toward the lead-gray sky and held her hand aloft. The launch rocked gently and was dwarfed by the spacegoing leviathan above.
Captain Jord stood silhouetted against the dark gray sky. He wore foul-weather gear, and it was impossible to see his face. He remained motionless, as if to extend his third officer's misery. The entire crew knew their commanding officer held Natalie responsible for what he regarded as a bad run. Never mind the fact that the government would reimburse the owners as though the Will of God's holds had been fully loaded, never mind the fact that they would pocket the difference between what fuel costs would have been with a full load of cargo and the lesser amount actually used, and never mind the fact that Jord would receive a bonus. The Will of God had been built to haul freight, and that's what she was supposed to do. Unscheduled side trips, no matter how profitable, were aberrations. Finally, after what seemed like forever, he gave the necessary nod.
Natalie gave a sigh of relief, checked to make sure the area was clear, and dropped her hand. The crane operator, who thought the whole thing was extremely entertaining, pulled a lever. A motor whined, the cable went taut, and water jumped away. The specially fabricated harness creaked under the strain, and Rollo felt heavier as the lake fell away. A sudden gust of wind caused him to spin one half-turn to the left. He felt helpless and awkward.
Though normally proud of his physique, especially when mingling with members of his own species, the Dromo felt momentarily envious of the smaller and therefore more agile races. Why couldn't he be like Torx, who had no need of cranes and the like? Such was the price he paid to venture off-planet, however, a necessity that had presented itself all too frequently of late. Still, the other choice, which would involve the sacrifice of his work, was too painful to consider. No, he was fortunate that the government indulged him to the extent that it did. Not that they could exclude his race and expect them to adhere to the Confederacy's laws. Still, the body that graced the rivers and swamps was a trial sometimes, which left him frustrated.
The crane operator, who was good at what he did, brought Rollo aboard with one smooth motion. Torx had supervised the creation of what amounted to a well-appointed stall. It was ready when Rollo's feet hit the deck. He felt better as the Treeth tapped a greeting into his receptor pad and freed him from the cable.
Rollo's freedom was short-lived, however, since only thirty minutes had elapsed before two members of the crew returned to rope his harness to the deck, and secure the hold. The announcement and matter-of-fact countdown seemed overly melodramatic.
The activity, combined with stress, served to stimulate his appetite. A bale of pond-marinated weed had been placed in front of him. Rollo attacked it hungrily. Chewing had always had a meritorious effect on the law officer's cognitive functions, so, by the time the Will of God had powered free of the lake, the Dromo was lost in thought. So much so that he barely noticed the additional gees or heard the announcements that were meant to reassure him.
The problem, as he saw it, had two dimensions. The first and most obvious thing to do was to locate the perps and take them into custody, a matter that had been made easier to some extent by the fact that a high-speed, eyes-only data torp had dropped into orbit the evening before and been accessed by Torx. It seemed that the head of Orr's security force had landed on New Hope, murdered a government agent, and appeared at Dorn Voss's school. It was a troubling development, but one that simplified the situation, heartless though that might seem. By focusing on the murder, the co-marshals had an airtight reason for investigating matters that their superiors might prefer to ignore. Which explained why they had commandeered the Will of God and were presently headed for New Hope, a locale sure to attract the Traa, and, with a little bit of luck, Orr himself. The problem was to arrive on the scene quickly enough to save the Voss boy and the coordinates. Assuming the youngster knew where they were.
The second and more puzzling part of the case stemmed from the triune nature of Traa society, and the fact that it had suffered the cultural equivalent of a nervous breakdown. Assuming Torx and he were able to intercept Carnaby Orr and apprehend the
Traa, what then? The rest of the race would still be out of whack, and the same sort of nonsense would happen again. It was a depressing thought, and depressing thoughts made Rollo hungry. The second bale tasted even better than the first.
Carnaby Orr's eyes opened. His mind, normally fuzzy following a full night's sleep, was crystal clear. He took one look at the tubes, cables, and monitors connected to his body and knew exactly where he was. He also knew why.
Someone, and he would eventually learn who, had told his wife about Jason. And Melanie, god bless her medicated little heart, had emerged from a drug-induced haze. Then, having suborned his staff, and saved her son from what she saw as a fate worse than death, the woman he had loved had gone one step farther by having the symbiote transferred to him.
The knowledge that it was there, snuggled in between his organs, had terrified him at first. Not any more, though. No, Melanie had done him a favor. He had undergone major surgery, conked out for a few hours, and felt like a million credits. No, make that a billion credits, since that would be little more than pocket change once his plans were implemented. All because the symbiote was taking care of him. How long would he live, anyway? A hundred years? Two hundred? Life was good. Or would be, the moment he left the hospital.
Orr sat up in bed, jerked the IV out of his left arm, ripped the contacts off his skin, and threw them aside. Buzzers buzzed, lights flashed, and people started to run. A nurse and an orderly arrived first. Both happened to be male. They saw Orr and assumed the worst. It had happened before. A patient awakes, doesn't know where he or she is, and becomes hysterical. They smiled reassuringly and moved forward.
Orr waited with the confidence of someone who knows what he can do, opened his arms in a gesture of welcome, then grabbed the backs of their heads and slammed them together. They crumpled to the floor. Orr loved power, and had accumulated quite a bit of it. But not like this. Never like this. Not physical power of the sort that allowed him to impose his will on people directly. It felt good, damned good, in spite of the fact that it flowed from chemicals produced by something alien living inside of him. But so what? Results are what count. Ask the bozos on the floor.
Having found no clothes of his own, Orr slipped into the hospital-issue robe and tied the belt around his waist. He left the room and was twenty feet down the hall when the next wave of medical personnel ran past. The industrialist smiled. The previous Orr would have stopped at the desk, apologized for what he'd done, and released himself from the hospital. His lawyers, armed with blank checks, would have handled the rest.
Not this Orr, though. He was different. Freed from his traitorous wife, his fortune reduced by half, he was psychologically reborn. He had placed his trust in others, and they had betrayed him. Well, not any more. What was the old adage? If you want the job done right, do it yourself? That made sense, a lot of sense, and he would put it into practice.
The fastest way to rebuild his sagging fortunes was to seize control of the Mescalero Gap and the revenues that would flow from it. Then, with his assets restored, he'd go after Melanie. Not physically, because that would be too easy, but financially. He'd make her watch as he took her possessions away, one at a time, till she was begging on the streets. And then, just when it seemed that things could get no worse, he'd use his influence to take her son. She was a drug addict, after all... and there were laws against that. The thought made him grin.
Voices shouted, another alarm was heard, and Orr stepped through a door marked "Exit." His yacht was moored in the harbor and would make short work of the trip to New Hope.
The Search for Opportunity was registered as a survey vessel, one of many in the Traa fleet, and mounted weaponry similar to that found on Confederate cruisers. This stratagem allowed the Traa to circumvent the Treaty of Stars, through which all races had agreed to decommission their warships in favor of a single peacekeeping force.
In the unlikely event that the ship's commander was questioned, she could honestly say that the ship was searching for a black hole, never mind the fact that it had been in use for years, and belonged to someone else.
Her name was Na-La, and although she was theoretically equal to Sa-Lo and Ka-Di in rank, her position as the ship's commanding officer gave her an edge. She used this advantage to make the operatives slouch lower in their chairs and avoid direct eye contact, the Traa equivalent of pack-style submissive posturing. The setting, which consisted of her day cabin, added weight to her position. The lighting was dim, consistent with the race's better than average night vision, and the bulkheads were ascetically bare.
"So," she said lazily, "let's see if I understand. After forming an alliance with the human named Orr, and using him to screen your actions, you ventured off on your own." Sa-Lo saw where the conversation was headed and, true to his training as a negotiator and deal-maker, remained silent. Ka-Di, always the warrior, launched a counterattack. His demeanor changed, as did his posture. He was on the attack now, fur standing up along his neck, teeth visible. "What are you saying? That we're incompetent? That we should have stayed on Mechnos after the Voss female left? Recycled air grows stale at times. A tour in the field might clear your head."
The words caused fur to bristle along Na-La's neck. "Perhaps you've been in the field too long. Actions without results are like seeds on poisoned soil. Energy wasted and opportunity lost."
Ka-Di growled, and was about to retaliate when Sa-Lo intervened. Ka-Di, though not intentionally trying to do so, had provided him with the opportunity to play peacemaker, a position that seemed innocuous but gave the incumbent power over both sides of the dispute. He postured openness.
"Come now, you two. There's little point in dwelling on that which failed. Success belongs to those who nose the correct trail... and this one leads to the Voss boy."
Na-La felt mollified and tried to seem open. "What about the female? Additional pressure could change her mind."
"Perhaps," Sa-Lo replied soothingly, "but no amount of persuasion could produce information she doesn't have."
"You're sure of that?" Na-La asked skeptically. "Sure she doesn't know?"
"Nothing is sure," Sa-Lo said gently, "but the odds are good. Everything we know about the female suggests that she intentionally rejected the family business in favor of her current career. Why seek to preserve something already refused? And why would the flat-face visit her parents' offices on Mechnos, if not to find the coordinates? Coordinates she'd sell if she had them."
"Let's assume you're correct," Na-La said thoughtfully, "and the female doesn't have the coordinates. What leads you to believe that her sibling has them?"
"Nothing," Sa-Lo replied honestly. "But what if he does? How many ships are currently involved in trying to locate the Gap using conventional means?"
Na-La looked away. "Three."
"And why haven't they been successful?"
Na-La's features took on an expression of profound sadness. "Our best physicists died when the mountain blew, and the rest refuse to help. They regard our project as ethically untenable."
Sa-Lo and Ka-Di, both of whom knew how La-Ma would have viewed their activities, signaled their understanding. The naval officer continued. "That being the case, we are left with nothing but scientific texts and alien contract personnel to do the job. The fact that black holes are optically invisible makes for slow work. You can track the X rays they emit, you can look for Doppler shifts, but you can't see them directly. And, to further complicate things, there are two kinds of black holes, the kind that spin and provide a shortcut from one point in space to another, and the kind that don't and will crush you like a bug. All of which means that while we know roughly where the Gap should be, and have some preliminary evidence that it's there, we aren't sure that it's the right one. Not until we find a way to send drones through without the government or our own scientists catching on."
"Fabulous," Ka-Di said disgustedly. "Just frigging fabulous."
Sa-Lo, who disapproved of human colloquialisms, shot his pa
rtner a dirty look. "Thank you, Na-La. Forgive my marriage-brother. He spends too much time with aliens. The discussion has been most helpful, if only to reaffirm our existing strategy. Time was lost while you came to get us. That's why we must make all possible speed for New Hope. The flat-face youth may or may not be in possession of the coordinates. We have no choice but to find out."
19
Courage has many faces ...
General Zeen-Nymore Dronk
On the civilian defense of Lake Hypont
Standard year 1613
The Planet New Hope
The sun had risen in the east and threw long black shadows down across the hillside. Thin plumes of smoke, each fed by the minimum amount of wood necessary to cook one family's breakfast, twisted toward the sky. Dogs barked, a door slammed, and the stamping mill thumped its eternal dirge.
Dorn, clad only in a towel with the name DataCom Freight embroidered across the bottom edge, left the relative warmth of the cargo module and headed for the makeshift shower. It consisted of a wooden framework covered with plastic. Water was stored in a fiberglass tank salvaged from a lifeboat. The girl once referred to as "Diddly" now answered to the name Dee Dee. She was fully recovered. That meant she loved to play, and like most children her age, especially those who live in squalor, had a talent for getting dirty. Very dirty.
Which was why Dorn, who had grown tired of organizing baths, constructed the shower. And, having done so, took advantage of it himself. The water was damned cold in the morning, though—something Dee Dee took immense pleasure in, since it was her job to fill the tank, and then, when Dorn gave the command—or a tiny bit before, if she felt mischievous— to dump the cold liquid on his semiwilling body. Her voice had a high, piping quality, and came from the ladder located at the rear of the enclosure. "Ready?"
Dorn gritted his teeth and nodded. "Ready."
Where the Ships Die Page 21
