Where the Ships Die

by William C. Dietz

  Dee Dee, Ahmad, and Dougie were hidden amongst the junk that bordered the slums. The area immediately behind them had been evacuated on the theory that the toughs would strike there first. Dee Dee had recovered the data ball and wore it in a pouch that hung from her neck. She twisted the thing this way and that while they waited. Ahmad saw movement and pointed toward the gate. "Look, Dee! Here they come!"

  Dougie saw the exoskeletons marching out front, heard dogs barking with excitement, and wanted to pee. This in spite of the fact that he'd gone only fifteen minutes before. "Come on, you two... we gotta tell Kane."

  "Not yet," Dee Dee countered grimly. "Kane said to count 'em, so we gotta count 'em."

  "What if there's more than ten? I can't count more than that."

  "So, count the skeletons," Ahmad said patiently. "We'll handle the people."

  Dougie swore, fought his bladder, and counted exoskeletons. They, like the people behind them, were silhouetted against the mansion's security lighting. "Three ... four ... five. There's five! I see five!"

  "Good," Dee Dee replied. "I counted sixty-three goons. Ahmad? How 'bout you?"

  "Sixty-one," the boy answered. "But it's hard to tell with people moving around."

  "We'll split the difference," Dee Dee said pragmatically. "Sixty-two it is. Let's tell Kane." The children backed away, faded into the shadows, and scampered toward the center of the slums. Dougie ran fastest of all.

  The barricades were as good as they were going to get. They were wide where the slums began and narrowed until they closed on what Kane referred to as "the killing zone."—a cul de sac surrounded by head-high walls.

  Dorn, who still felt guilty about his role in precipitating the crisis, had volunteered for what Kane referred to as "the bait patrol," a mixed force of workers who would engage the goons and draw them into the killing zone. It was dangerous duty, the worst possible, which explained why Dorn sought it out. Having done so, it seemed natural to accept a steel wrecking bar and march next to Jana. She and Sandro had been named as noncoms and led teams of twelve people each. Dorn noticed the axe the woodcutter carried and shivered. If someone was wounded with it, there would be little chance of survival. There was a hollow feeling in his stomach.

  Orr had fought hundreds of intellectual duels in which the victor fired words and the loser hemorrhaged money. However, with the exception of some boyhood fistfights, and one barroom brawl in college, he'd never been part of an honest-to-god battle. The prospect was quite invigorating, and made even more so by the knowledge that unlike those around him, he'd survive anything short of a bullet through the head. Yes, Orr thought as Ari took her place in front of him, the prudent man has at least one insurance policy, and two if he can afford it.

  Though ostensibly civilian craft, Traa landers were equipped like assault boats, including high-performance propulsion units. They raced just above the whitecaps and traveled at four hundred miles per hour. Torx was impressed but careful not to show it. The decision to accept a ride from the Traa had been part pragmatism, part politics. The Traa, who had previously blocked their attempts to obtain a search warrant, proved remarkably cooperative when invited to come along. The invitation to use their in-atmosphere flight craft followed. That, plus the fact that Captain Jord had refused to loan the marshals his remaining shuttle, led to an agreement in which both parties would arrive simultaneously and monitor each other's activities, an arrangement that was sure to come apart if Jord learned the Traa were involved.

  The lander rocked from side to side as a gust of wind hit from the south. Rollo, who'd been roped to the cargo area's deck, braced himself, and put a curse on bipedal ship designers. Natalie Voss freed herself from a Traa-style jump seat and crossed the deck. She grabbed a strap, jerked the slack out of it, and secured the loose end. "There, that should do it."

  The marshal looked back over his shoulder. "Thank you. I was built to swim .. .not fly."

  Natalie patted his back. "Still, you get around when you need to."

  The Dromo smiled. "We do what we have to. Don't worry so much. Your brother is fine."

  Natalie forced a smile. "You think so?"

  The Dromo delivered a human-style nod. "Absolutely."

  Natalie smiled. A real one this time. "You're probably right. Dorn's fine and I'm worried for nothing."

  Having been alerted by Dee Dee, Ahmad, and Dougie, Kane ordered the bait patrol to make contact. Like thousands of soldiers before him, Dorn felt a rock hit the bottom of his stomach and heard blood pound in his ears. Everything was clear and sharp—the smell of his own sweat, the feel of gravel beneath his sandals, and the glow up ahead.

  The street curved, and it wasn't long before they saw the exoskeletons, torches, and a mass of undifferentiated bodies. The blob looked like a monster with thirty arms, thirty legs, and too many heads. It roared and rushed to meet them.

  "All right," Jana shouted over the noise. "Remember the plan. We engage, then retreat. Are you ready?" The team roared their defiance, and Dorn yelled with the rest.

  Jana lifted her wrecking bar over her head. "Charge!" The battle was joined.

  "You ready?" Dee Dee asked tersely. "We gotta be quick."

  Dougie looked out onto the street. The bait patrol was running uphill and the goons were running down. In seconds, a minute at most, the whole lot of them would collide in front of him. Then he and his friends would dash out, hook a rope onto an exoskeleton, and pull it over. It was a stupid, nearly suicidal plan. He checked Dee Dee and Ahmad. They appeared eager and ready to go. What was wrong with them, anyway? Couldn't they see how stupid it was? Or did the problem lie inside him? Dougie swallowed the lump in his throat. His voice was thick and raspy. "Yeah, I'm ready. Let's get it over with."

  The combatants came together. There were grunts of expelled air, a variety of oaths, and the clank of steel on steel. Some of the goons had firearms, but weren't supposed to use them. Not when each death lowered Sharma's profits by two or three hundred credits. A wrecking bar stabbed at the salvage operator's groin. He parried and back away. The key was to look aggressive but survive.

  Orr uttered a shout of pure joy and waded into the battle. Besides the weapon holstered on his hip, he carried a four-foot nightstick wrapped with metal. It rang on pipe. The wrecker holding the pipe was strong, very strong, and pushed the industrialist back. Orr's fear turned to rage as the symbiote added chemicals to his blood. He pushed the other man off balance and struck with the club. It fell on an unprotected shoulder. Bone cracked; the man fell to his knees and begged for mercy. Orr laughed, raised the club, and crushed the man's skull. He died instantly. It was a new kind of power, and Orr drank it in.

  Dorn discovered that the strength gained as a hauler and the martial arts techniques learned from his sister made an effective combination. A man moved forward, raised his baton, and prepared to strike. Dorn shifted his weight, aimed for the man's knee, and launched a side kick. The blow connected, cartilage gave, and the man went down.

  The goon was still falling, still screaming, when something hit Dorn from behind. It knocked him facedown, drove the air out of his lungs, and opened his wound. He rolled right and fought for air as a rust-covered pod landed next to his head.

  An exoskeleton! The thought had no more than crossed Dorn's mind when the rest of the machine towered above him. He watched the pod rise, center itself over his chest, and start to fall. He rolled clear, and was scrambling to his feet when a group of children appeared.

  One yelled, "Hey, shitface," while another hooked a rope to one of the exoskeleton's legs, and the third pulled. Nothing happened until the other two tailed on. A pod came off the ground, the machine swayed, and toppled over. Dorn recognized Dee Dee and shouted her name. He might have followed, might have caught her, if Jana hadn't yelled over the noise.

  "Fall back! It's time to fall back!" Sandro echoed the order, took a blow to the head, and fell. The battle passed him by. It took a while to disengage, to retreat as a unit, but the workers mana
ged to do so. Orr, seeing the enemy waver, charged forward. The mercenaries followed.

  Ari broke a man's arm, put a needle through his temple, and frowned. Fall back? Why? The workers had held their own. It didn't make sense. Not to be outdone by the mercenaries, Sharma's security forces followed their lead. They ran full out, yelling their heads off, oblivious to their surroundings. Their employer, clearly wishing he were somewhere else, followed along behind. That was when Ari noticed the barricades, the way the street narrowed, and knew what lay ahead. The bodyguard started to jog, to call Orr's name, but knew it was too late. A wall of flesh and steel appeared, parted to let the fugitives through, and closed behind them. Orr attacked like a madman. The rest followed.

  Torx watched pinpricks of light grow larger until they took on meaning. Huge starships, hulls eternally grounded, flashed under the fuselage. A mansion, lights blazing, stood on a promontory. Hundreds upon hundreds of torches outlined streets and paths. A blob of light appeared, and Torx strained to see. The pilot said something in Traa, Ka-Di barked a reply, and the aircraft banked to the right.

  Rollo struggled to stay upright and spoke into a Dromo-sized headset. "Torx? What's going on?"

  The Treeth tapped an answer into his belt pad. Each contact created a corresponding vibration against the Dromo's skin. "A batde of some sort," the Treeth answered calmly. "Right at the center of town."

  "Order them to put us down," Rollo said firmly, "and I mean now."

  "Your wish is my command, oh lawful one," the Treeth replied. It took some gesturing to communicate with the pilot, but he got the idea eventually, and switched the landing lights on. They carved paths through the night.

  Orr bellowed his triumph as the workers wavered, broke, and fell back. Ari was there, shouting something into his ear, but he refused to hear. Not while faces filled with fear, flesh gave beneath the force of his weapons, and blood roared in his ears. The industrialist waved his bloodstained truncheon and urged the troops onward. Ari followed for a ways, stopped, and let the mob go. The street was only fifteen feet wide, and the end was near. She was standing there, watching the insanity, when Sandro, who had come to his senses, and stumbled down the street, cut her down.

  Dorn turned on his pursuers. He was angry now ... too angry to run. Five or six lassos settled over the remaining exoskeleton and pulled it over. A cheer went up, and the troops looked confused. Dorn waved a fist at them. "Come on, you bastards! Fight!"

  A hand grabbed Dorn's belt and jerked him backwards. He swore, stumbled, and fell. The barricade opened. There were five surviving members of the bait patrol. Four staggered to safety, and Dorn, alone except for the goons, remained where he was. The attackers turned in his direction and were about to finish him off, when the sifters slid their spears through holes provided for that purpose and skewered those within reach. Orr's mercenaries, and Sharma's men panicked, ran toward the mansion, and were blocked by a company of angry wreckers.

  Sharma, along with a number of his security people drew handguns, and were about to use them, when beams of white light pinned them in place. The Traa ship rumbled ominously as it circled above. The repellors hummed and debris flew into the air and whirled through the lights. A voice came from above. ' 'Remain where you are ... do not move. Confederate marshals are on the ground ... do as they say."

  Rollo, happy to be off the damnable ship, pushed his way through the workers. Torx, armed with a submachine gun, rode his neck. The muzzle commanded the crowd. Natalie followed behind. The Dromo spoke into his headset. "Make way, make way, Confederate marshals coming through." Mouths dropped open and faces registered surprise as the law enforcement officers pushed toward the center of the trap.

  Natalie, eager to see, moved to the left. She recognized Dorn the moment she saw him. He was bigger now, much bigger, and covered with blood. The bar code looked like a sun-faded tattoo. He stood alone, until a man she recognized as Carnaby Orr stepped into view. He took two steps forward and raised his pistol. Time seemed to slow. "Dorn Voss?" he asked.

  Natalie's blood ran cold as she heard her brother answer, "Yes, I'm Dorn Voss."

  Orr looked curious. "Did you find them? The coordinates?"

  Dorn felt strangely calm as he stared down the pistol barrel. Would he see anything as the bullet emerged? His voice came from a thousand miles away. "Yes, I found the coordinates."

  Orr nodded as if satisfied. "I was right, then. Well, say good-bye to your friends, son, because you and I..."

  Later it would seem strange that the person who took Carnaby Orr's life had never heard of him before. His name was Jorge Petras, and he had survived the camp for twelve long years. Though not especially smart, he was resourceful and extremely resilient. Petras lived while others died. Still, the years took their toll, and finally, after what seemed like an eternity of suffering, he could take no more. He had to strike back. Orr made an obvious target.

  The spear was a homemade affair, taken from a woman who had fallen. The point, fashioned from a piece of hull metal, gleamed with reflected light. The yell came from deep within, from ancient ancestors long dead, and shattered the silence. Petras charged. He sensed bodies moving to intercept him, heard someone shout, and saw Orr turn. The pistol winked red.

  Petras felt the bullet tear his body, staggered, and kept his feet. The spear was heavy now ... it took all his strength to hold it up. Petras knew he would die and looked forward to it. He took two additional bullets before the spear entered Orr's belly. Freedom felt good.

  Orr was surprised when the spear point went in. Surprised that a scarecrow could take so many bullets and live, surprised that anything like this could happen to him, and surprised that it hurt so much. Where was Ari? Damn the bitch anyway. He grabbed the shaft, tried to pull it out, and felt the ground slam against his back. He was conscious, which seemed like an advantage. But it wasn't.

  The industrialist felt something stir deep inside his belly. He wasn't sure what it was at first. Then he knew. The symbiote! It had assessed the damage and written him off. Orr screamed as the organism enlarged the hole in his belly, ripped connectors free from his nervous system, and worked its way to the surface.

  Dorn stared in open-mouthed amazement as loops of intestine slithered out of Orr's abdomen and onto the ground. Something, he wasn't sure what, separated itself from the mess and humped its way toward one of the wounded. It was halfway there when a huge, plate-sized foot landed on it. The symbiote made a popping noise and ceased to exist. Orr died a moment later.

  "The party's over," Rollo announced calmly. "Surrender your weapons."

  Sharma ordered his men to obey, and a wide assortment of clubs, spears, and wrecking bars clattered to the ground as Natalie approached her brother. "Dorn? It's Nat."

  Dorn grinned. "Hi, Nat. You sure as hell took your time."

  Natalie laughed and gave him a hug. His body was covered with blood. She wondered how much was his. "Dorn... Mom and Dad..."

  Dorn hugged his sister and realized she was shorter than he was. "Yeah, I know. We have lots of catching up to do."

  "Dorn? Are you all right?" The voice came from behind. Dorn turned to see Myra hurrying toward him. She held Dee Dee by the hand, and La-So brought up the rear. Truth was, his wound hurt again but he ignored it. "I'm fine, just fine. Myra, Dee Dee, and La-So, this is my sister Natalie."

  Myra looked self-conscious, Dee Dee peppered Natalie with questions, and La-So turned his attention to one of the wounded. The lights reappeared, chased each other around the ground for a moment, and centered on Dorn. The assault craft hovered to one side. Rollo recognized the voice as belonging to the commercial being known as Sa-Lo. "Surrender the coordinates or die. The choice is yours."

  Dorn blinked in surprise. What the hell was going on? Everyone seemed to know about the coordinates. He pushed the others away. "Then kill me! You can't have them!"

  La-So got to his feet and wiped the blood off his paws. The voice, a Traa voice, sounded familiar, very familiar, and he shade
d his eyes against glare. His voice was loud and carried well. "Sa-Lo? Is that you? Stop this nonsense immediately. You should be ashamed of yourself."

  Silence reigned. A light found La-So and bathed him in brilliance. Then, unable to trust what his eyes were seeing and his ears were hearing, Ka-Di emerged from the shadows. He approached, stopped, and exposed the back of his neck. "Greetings, Uncle La-So. Many years have passed."

  "They have treated you well," La-So said ritually. "Have you followed the one true path?"

  "Yes ... no ... I'm not sure," Ka-Di replied soberly. "The Mountain of the Moons exploded. Most of the Philosopher Sept was killed. La-Ma was there and we miss her counsel."

  Sadness filled La-So's eyes. "I am sorry, Ka-Di. Come, let us leave these beings in peace. You will tell me all that transpired and we will make things right."

  The warrior nodded obediently and followed where La-So led. The ship, still hovering above, did likewise. Natalie watched them go, then turned to her brother. "So, Dorn, where are the coordinates?"

  Dee Dee giggled and held the data ball up to the light. It gleamed, and somewhere in the deep blackness of space, a wormhole waited.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1996 by William C. Dietz

  ISBN: 978-1-4976-0667-8

  This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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