Where the Ships Die

by William C. Dietz

  Dee Dee grinned sadistically, pulled a lanyard, and laughed as the water splashed onto Dorn's head and shoulders. She wasn't supposed to peek—but did anyway. Dorn, whom she had come to regard as part friend and part brother, danced under the cold water and uttered a series of war whoops.

  The shower ended two minutes later as Dorn rinsed, pleaded with Dee Dee to stop the water, and toweled himself dry. Breakfast was ready, and he followed the smell. Once they were inside, La-So ladled one of his delicious concoctions onto mismatched ship plates, ordered Dee Dee to wash her hands, and reminded Dorn to lather up.

  The lotion, if that's what the thick, gooey mess could properly be called, was a neighbor's creation, and it worked surprisingly well. Smeared liberally over the user's body, the gunk was proof against sunburn, heat rash, and, if the substance's inventor was to be believed, attack from foraging needlefish, which was a rather dubious claim but comforting nonetheless. Careful to minimize contact with the cargo module's furnishings, Dorn slid into his salt-stiff work clothes, herded Dee Dee toward the table, and sat down to breakfast. It was his favorite moment of the day. The prayer, led by La-So, affirmed that each would be granted an opportunity to learn, help others, and harmonize with the universe.

  Dorn and Dee Dee chanted the prayer in Traa, while the previously moody La-So smiled approvingly and guided them through the appropriate hand gestures. The change in La-So's personality seemed both miraculous and inexplicable until Dorn learned the importance of triads. When Dee Dee joined the household, she completed the necessary three-person unit and restored balance to La-So's life.

  The prayer ended, and Dee Dee waited for La-So's nod. He gave it, and she started to eat. Not like an animal, as she had at the beginning, but with something approximating the manners Dorn had acquired from his sister, and been taught at the academy. Manners that had been intended to be of assistance as he made his way through the highways and byways of upper crust society. His present circumstances were somewhat different, and he smiled at the irony.

  "So," La-So said sternly, ever ready to heap more food onto Dee Dee's already full plate, "what sort of mischief do you have planned for today?"

  Dee Dee, who had dealt with the same question every morning for weeks now, and who regarded the alien as a sort of grandfather, tried to appear solemn. "Well, work comes first, so I'll do my chores, study the lessons Dorn prepared for me, and then, when you least expect it, I'll follow you around and get in your way. How does that sound?"

  "Terrible, just terrible," the alien replied gruffly, "but I have no choice. It's penance for my many sins."

  "Maybe," Dee Dee answered serenely, "or just bad luck. Like when Dorn's and my parents died. You never know."

  "No, you don't," the Traa replied, "nor do you need to, since we must dwell in the ever present now. Eat some drift-weed ... it's good for you."

  Dee Dee made a face, Dorn laughed, and the meal was soon over. When the table was cleared, and Dee Dee had started her chores, Dorn left for work.

  He knew the trails by heart, which left his eyes free to roam. They went to the Mary Voss like magnets to metal. Approximately two weeks had passed since the beaching party, and, thanks to other ships already aground, the data liner was relatively intact. Dorn still found it difficult to believe that she would be cut into pieces, fed to the mills, and rolled, stamped, and extruded. Into what? Screwdrivers? Soup ladles? Axe heads? It made no difference. No matter what they made from her flesh and bones, it wouldn't add up to a spaceship.

  Suddenly the memory that had been eluding Dorn came flooding back. He was transported back in time, to one of the rare occasions when his father had taken him to the best of places, a spaceship. The liner was to be christened that day, and in response to the boy's whining, or on a personal whim, the senior Voss took his son on a tour. The ship smelled new, and to a child the odor of plastic and ozone seemed like a ticket to the places his parents talked about, distant planets that teemed with aliens. He remembered the engineering spaces, followed by vast multilayered memory banks, and long, empty corridors. Most of all, he remembered the U-shaped bridge, control boards, and wraparound view screens. And—the best—the captain's chair, a powered affair with rows of touch-sensitive controls built into both arms, and a swing-out com monitor.

  Dorn had been allowed to sit in the chair for only the briefest of moments, and had just begun to explore its many wonders, when a hand pulled him away. The next place they saw held little interest for the boy but seemed important to his father. The captain's cabin was small but nicely finished. Howard Voss dropped to his knees, took a small hand in his, and pressed it against the smoothly finished metal. "Forget the captain's chair, son, the real power is here. Do you feel it boy? Vibrating under your hand? It'll be yours someday."

  Dorn had felt nothing other than a certain coolness and the urgency in his father's voice. He nodded. "Yes, Daddy."

  Howard Voss nodded. "Good. Now, look at the plate. See anything different about it?"

  Dorn shook his head. "No, they all look the same."

  "Darned right they do," his father replied, "but they aren't. Make a fist and thump three times. Quickly now."

  The child did as instructed. Nothing happened in response to the first two thumps, but the third produced a surprising result. A mechanism whirred, and the panel opened. The recess was shallow and lined with foam padding. The ball bearing, for that's what it looked like, was nestled at the center of the space. It gleamed with reflected light. "There it is," Howard Voss said proudly, "the jewel of our empire. We keep a copy aboard every ship we own. The crews don't know about it, not even the captains. It's a way to safeguard our most important secret. But you must tell no one, not even your sister. Promise?"

  Dorn had given his word and kept it too. And now he was glad, because he knew, or thought he knew, what the shiny metal ball contained: the coordinates for the Mescalero Gap. What was it his father had said? "... Our most important secret"? What else would qualify? Yes, Natalie might have the coordinates, or know where to find them, but what if she didn't? What if his parents had died without passing the secret along? Would that explain why the money stopped?

  His thoughts practically tripped over each other as they moved through his mind. The voice that interrupted them was gruff and accompanied by a shove. "Hey, buster, what the hell's wrong with you? Move or get off the path."

  Dorn realized that he'd been standing there, staring at the ship for what? Five minutes? Ten? He mumbled an apology and followed the other workers down toward the beach. He felt different somehow. It was as if everything had changed. The memory was an elusive thing. It had surfaced at the party, or tried to, and been buried by emotion. Not any more. Now it was at the very center of his being. Burning like a star. He had to find the correct plate, open the secret compartment, and retrieve the sphere. Nothing else mattered.

  A crowd had formed, and Jana was there. She smiled broadly and waited for him to join her. "Hey, Dorn, I memorized those times tables ... you wanna hear them?"

  "Yeah," Dorn lied, "but not right now. There's something I have to do ... and I need your help."

  Jana frowned. “I don't like the sound of this, Dorn... What's happening?"

  "I need to go aboard the Mary Voss, and that means joining the wreckers. And I might need to stay all night, so if I don't show up, tell La-So I'm okay. Got it?"

  Jana opened her mouth to object, but the siren overrode her words, and Dorn disappeared. The nearest members of the wrecking crew glanced at him as he joined their ranks. They had seen him around and weren't especially surprised. Most haulers tried for the next step eventually and he looked sturdy enough, especially after weeks of hauling.

  Jana's coaching, plus lots of hard physical exercise, had packed muscle onto his previously slender frame. Now, with long, sun-bleached hair and a heavy tan, Dorn looked the part of a barbarian. All muscle and very little brain. But he had brains, and used them as the group shuffled toward the entry gate.

  Hi
s hands, which had failed the first test, were more callused now, and the surreptitious addition of grease from the outer surface of his arms, and reddish-brown clay, gathered while adjusting one of his sandals, made them appear more rugged than they actually were.

  The line jerked forward, the man directly in front of him stepped through the gate, and a guard looked Dorn over. "You a hauler, ain't you? The one that works with the black woman. She's somethun' else, that one is. Well, let's see them hands. Maybe you ready, and maybe you ain't."

  Dorn held his hands out for inspection. The guard took hold of them, examined the backs, and flipped them over. "Not too bad ... reckon you ready. Welcome to the wreckin' crew."

  The scanner read the bar code imprinted on his forehead, sent the new classification to a computer, and logged him in.

  Dorn thanked the guard and stepped out onto the sand. He hadn't gone more than fifty feet toward the tool bins when an amplified voice boomed across the beach. "Hey, boy! Yeah, you! Where ya going? You ain't no wrecker, not till we run out of men anyway."

  Dorn didn't even need to look around to know who it was. The shift boss named Nick Castor had been after him since day one. Why would today be any different? He stopped and turned toward his tormentor.

  Castor, clad as always in a rusty yellow exoskeleton, strode across the sand. Servos whined as the landward leg shortened itself to deal with the slope. Dorn steeled himself against the inevitable abuse. The exoskeleton towered over him. Castor, his features nearly hidden by a thick growth of beard, smiled sadistically. "Get your ass over to where the haulers is workin'. You ain't got no business workin' with real men and women."

  Castor was intimidating, and Dorn was sorely tempted to obey, but the compartment beckoned. Was the sphere really there? Tucked inside its bed of foam? He had to know. "I'm here because the guards approved me."

  Castor nudged a chin switch. His voice, amplified till now, still sounded loud. "Listen to me, you little shit, the guards work for the beach master, and if it wasn't for the fact that I need a favor from her every once in a while, I'd override their decision and send your ass back to where it came from. But that might piss her off, so I'm gonna let you play your little game, remembering that the wrecks belong to me. Which means that you belong to me. Unless you get killed, that is, when the fish take over. Now grab a wrecking bar and hit the water."

  Dorn did as instructed and followed the other wreckers into the surf. Demolition had begun three days previously, but because the workers ripped the interior fittings first, and worked their way out, the vessel looked intact.

  Long accustomed to the impact of waves hitting the front of his legs, followed by the backward pull of the water as it went in the other direction, Dorn was free to examine the hull that loomed above him. It was black as space itself and bore scars caused by micrometeorites, an encounter with a concrete pier, and who knew what else. And there, just below the point where the metal curved up and in, he could see the heat-resistant white letters, badly faded by now, but still readable: Mary Voss.

  It was an emotional moment, but not one that Dorn could afford to indulge in. The entire wrecking crew was waist-deep in water by now, chest-deep when the waves rushed by, and burdened with their steel tools. A cargo net hung against the ship's side, and Dora watched a man and woman scramble upward. They climbed with one hand instead of two, reserving the second for whatever tool they'd been issued, the loss of which was worth ten years of forced labor.

  The ascent involved a rhythmic grab, pull, release, grab, pull, release pattern that continued till they reached the deck. They made it look easy, but Dorn knew it wasn't. The fact that the others were watching, waiting to see if he'd make it, confirmed his suspicions.

  Dorn allowed the veterans to precede him, jumped for a cross rope, and grabbed with his right hand. It took a moment to find the right foothold, push his body upward, and position for the next grab. He went for it, missed, and fell backwards into the sea. Water roared around his head. The bar pulled him down, but he held on and eventually found his feet.

  Just as he was ready to rise, a wall of outgoing water threw him forward. He floundered, reestablished his footing, and struggled to stand. A voice hollered words of encouragement, and he waved. Faces lined the deck and peered downward.

  The net, unburdened since the others had gained the main deck, flapped in the breeze. Dorn, determined not to fall in front of so many witnesses, jumped again. He felt the cross rope hit the palm of his hand, pulled, found a foothold, and pushed. The second grab was timed correctly, and so was the next. He moved steadily upward. Finally, with the L-shaped wrecking bar triumphantly clutched in his left hand, he reached the main deck. The jokes, grins, and friendly insults all said the same thing. The others had been there and knew how it felt. The initiation was over.

  The courtyard bustled with activity as lower-ranking members of the house staff carried supplies into the house. In addition to the high-quality foodstuffs ordered by chef Fimbre, there were luxuries including an airtight canister of Mr. Sharma's hand-rolled cigars, a three-pound box of Mrs. Sharma's chocolates, and cosmetics for Seleen. All of it had to be inspected and signed for.

  Myra had initialed the final item when she felt someone approach from behind. The truck driver, who had been raised in a village not far from her own, pretended to inspect the list while actually peeking down her neckline. Myra, who wore a scooped-neck peasant blouse, allowed him to look. His breath was terrible. "So, sweet stuff, was everything there?"

  "Yup," Myra answered lightly, "thanks to you."

  The truck driver, who would have cheerfully stolen the entire load had there been any chance of getting away with it, nodded soberly. "A man ain't got nothin' if he ain't got his integrity. That's what Momma said, and she was right. So, honey, how 'bout it? You ready to shake this place or not?"

  Myra took a quick look around, assured herself that no one was looking, and kissed his cheek. "You know I am, Jake, but not without my brother. I could hide in the back of the truck, but what about him? He works on the wrecks and has no way to enter the courtyard."

  Jake wasn't too thrilled about the brother aspect of things, but had resigned himself to giving the poor sod a lift. Assuming he didn't get in the way, that is. He spat on a sun-warmed cobblestone. "I'll slow down in front of the mill, you open the door, and he jumps inside. Whaddya think?"

  Myra shook her head as if amazed. "It's brilliant, Jake, just brilliant. When's your next run?"

  "Four weeks from today," the driver answered eagerly. "You'll be ready?"

  "I sure will," Myra whispered suggestively. "Will you!"

  "You can count on it," Jake answered thickly, taking her hand and pressing it against his groin. "I'll be ready and waiting. Hell, I'm ready now!"

  "And so you are," Myra said sweetly, removing her hand as quickly as she could.

  "Is everything off the truck?" The voice belonged to Fimbre, and originated from the other side of the courtyard.

  "Yes, it is!" Myra answered loudly. "Jake's about to leave!"

  Fimbre waved and disappeared into the house. Jake eyed Myra's shapely little body, licked his lips, and shook his head. "It's gonna be a long four weeks ... you take care."

  "You too," Myra said sincerely. "Drive carefully."

  Jake winked, aimed some spit toward the mansion, and entered his cab. Life was good, or would be in four weeks, brother or no brother. The turbine whined, air filled the chamber, and the truck wobbled off the ground. Myra waved, watched the rig pass through the security gate, and made her way to the kitchen. Fimbre, who was touching, sniffing, and tasting some of the just delivered off-world spices, heard her enter. "Seleen requested some lemonade ... would you take it up?"

  Myra wanted to say, "Tell the spoiled little so-and-so to get her own lemonade," but knew that Fimbre would force her to do it anyway. Even worse was the fact that the chef would observe her movements more carefully, making it that much more difficult to leave the compound, and tell Dorn ab
out her plan. She smiled sweetly. "Sure ... I'd be happy to."

  Fimbre, who was well aware of Myra's feelings toward the Sharmas, looked up from his spice canisters. Sarcasm, like other manifestations of defiance, couldn't be tolerated. Not if he wanted to retain his position of privilege. The chef was pleased to see that the servant girl's features were empty of resentment as she prepared the tray and carried it up the stairs. He nodded knowingly. Some took longer than others, but the smart ones, people like himself, accepted their fate and made the best of it. The fact that Myra had made the necessary adjustment raised his estimate of her intelligence.

  Myra, unaware of the chef's thoughts, knew as everyone did that Seleen preferred to sunbathe before the sun grew too hot. Her favorite place to do that was on the balcony that ran along the mansion's west side. Knowing that, Myra padded the length of the upstairs hall, nodded to one of the housemaids, and made her way out onto the breezeway that circled the house.

  A black anodized railing, salvaged from the engineering spaces on a Morgan High Hauler, ran along the right-hand side, potted plants filled the niches between windows, and the sea glittered beyond. A breeze, the same one that ruffled the surface of the ocean, touched Myra's face and moved her hair.

  Of all the hulks, the Mary Voss was closest. Myra could see wreckers moving around on her decks, carrying pieces of metal to the side and throwing them to the haulers below. She could imagine Dorn standing waist-deep in the water, squinting upward as the salvage started to fall, then fighting to get out of the way. What if he didn't make it? What if he was killed before she even got to know him? There would be none other like him, she felt sure of that, and prayed he would survive the next few weeks.

  The sun was warm, but Myra shivered as she stepped out onto the balcony. Seleen was there, beautifully brown and glistening with oil. She wore a white two-piece swimsuit and looked breathtaking. Myra wondered how she would look in a similar suit but assumed she'd never find out. Seleen gestured toward a glass-topped side table. Her eyes were unreadable behind dark sunglasses. "Put it over there."