Where the Ships Die (10 page)

The men had agreed to collect dead bodies in return for extra food. One of them balanced the additional corpse on top of an already full cart while the other returned for the lantern. His feet slapped on wet concrete. He had unruly black hair, at least four days' worth of beard, and a gravelly voice. He held the light up, and a giant appeared on the wall behind him. "Take it from me, boy ... none of us is
supposed
to be here ... but this is where we are. Conserve your strength. Use it to survive. That's all anyone can do." The man exited the cell, the gate clanged closed, and the light wobbled away.

A bowl of steaming mush was shoved under the gate an hour later. It had a yeasty smell and contained lumps of what might have been meat. Dorn was so famished he didn't care what the mixture contained. He scooped the concoction into his mouth, chewed hungrily, and licked the bowl clean. The meal left him thirsty, but there wasn't any water beyond what had accumulated in the cell's lowest corner. He considered scooping some up but decided not to. Not with the bacteria that swarmed in it. Not yet, anyway.

The teenager wrapped his arms around his knees, ignored his thirst, and waited for morning to come. He wanted a stim stick and cursed his own weakness. Voices murmured in the next cell, a deep racking cough came from across the way, and a prayer drum could be heard in the distance. Dorn started the slide toward self-pity and was almost there when the corpse collector's words came back to him. "Conserve your strength. Use it to survive. That's all anyone can do."

The words amounted to little more than common sense but triggered an important understanding. Suddenly Dorn realized that
he
had responsibility for his life. Not his parents, not his teachers, not society in general. Yes, life had dealt him a bad hand, but only after a long series of good ones. It was
he
who had ignored Tull's advice and gambled his money away. Maybe someone would come to his rescue and maybe they wouldn't. His job was to survive, and that's what he would do. The key was to think about each move that he made and devise realistic plans for his release.

Rats chased each other up and down the far side of the cell for a while, but Dorn grew accustomed to their antics and drifted off to sleep. Nothingness felt good.

Dorn awoke to the sound of male voices and the clatter of chains. Light filtered through the bars and threw rectangles on the floor. His mouth tasted foul, and his shoulder ached from sleeping on the ground. A key rattled and hinges squealed. The guard was short and stocky. He smiled and slapped his leg with a half-coiled whip. "Morning, sweetums, time to rise and shine."

True to his new philosophy, Dorn wasted no time pleading his case before what amounted to a minor functionary and hurried to exit the cell. Mud squished between the teenager's toes as he stepped out into the sun. He blinked and stumbled as the man pushed from behind. "What's the matter, sweetums? You think I got all day? Get your ass to the other end of the line."

The line was reasonably straight. Dull-eyed men and women, some with children, stared at Dorn as he jogged past. Most were young to middle-aged, wore little more than rags, and appeared malnourished. Guards, all of whom had whips, smacked Dorn's head, shoulders, and arms as he passed. Not for any specific reason, but because they could, and that, plus a little more food, was all that distinguished them from the slaves they guarded.

The rearmost prisoners showed little interest in Dorn as he was pushed into position and shackled to a muck-covered drag chain—a valuable artifact on metal-starved New Hope. No sooner was the leg iron secured than a whip cracked and the line moved forward. Dorn led with his right foot, realized his mistake, and fell as the other foot was jerked out from under him. The teenager hit the ground, flinched under the whip, and scrambled to his feet. The line jerked forward, and he hopped to catch up.

It took an hour of starts and stops for the prisoners to snake their way through the holding pens and into a makeshift amphitheater. An assembly area had been established at the center of an old gravel pit and equipped with a makeshift platform. It boasted a red-and-white-striped awning, a simple wooden table, and a comfortable-looking chair. Concrete blocks fronted the platform. Due to the nearly random manner in which they were positioned, they looked like leftovers.

The guards took up positions around the perimeter. Their leader approached the head of the line, touched a wand to the first man's shackle, and kept on walking. The leg irons hit the mud one after another, and the prisoners drifted away. Two minutes had passed before the man arrived in front of Dorn. The teenager waited for the touch, heard the resulting click, and felt the bracelet let go. He massaged his ankle and saw that his skin was raw. A long walk would make it worse, and Dorn resolved to find some padding.

The prisoners stood in small groups, sat on the concrete blocks, or lined up for the chance to drink at one of two free-flowing spigots. The water gushed and made a puddle through which people were forced to wade. Dorn joined the right-hand queue on die theory that it would move faster but was quickly disappointed. Children slowed the process, and there were more of them on the right than the left. The slow, shuffling progress reminded the youth of school, when one of the more popular entrees appeared on the menu and everyone came.

The conversations were interesting, though. One man in particular seemed to have a pretty good grasp of what would happen next. He'd been through the process before, it seemed, and for reasons not entirely clear was going through it again. Whatever the case, the man claimed that a magistrate would soon appear, hearings would be held, and those judged vagrant according to the city's codes would be given over to the owners of the Keno Labor Exchange. They in turn would sell the condemned men, women, and children into what amounted to forced servitude. Not a pleasant prospect... but some information was better than none.

Forty-five minutes passed. Dorn was close now, so close he stood ankle-deep in mud, and could practically
feel
the cool liquid trickling down his throat. But what if the magistrate appeared? What if the guards ordered the prisoners to disperse? He'd lose his turn at the spigot, and the knowledge made him edgy. He started to see those in front of him as enemies, as people who, through their slow, dim-witted piggishness were out to steal that which was rightfully his. He fidgeted, resisted the urge to shove the person in front of him, and telepathically ordered everyone to hurry up.

A commotion was heard. Orders were shouted, guards stood straighter, and a processional appeared. It had a medieval feel, complete with an heraldic device and robes of black. The magistrate had arrived! Dorn was only three people away from the spigot now, his throat burning with thirst, his tongue swollen in his mouth. Water! He had to have water! The first person drank, stepped aside, and was followed by the second. An order, amplified through a bullhorn, boomed across the pit. "You! By the water spigots! Take your places at the platform!"

Dorn was about to drink, about to take his chances with whatever punishment might come his way, when a hand touched his arm. He turned, ready to snarl, and found himself face to face with a teenage girl. She had big brown eyes, a dirt-smeared face, and a six-month-old baby in her arms. The infant was clearly ill. The older child had a calm, matter-of-fact voice. "Please, mister ... my brother has diarrhea. He'll die without water."

Dorn felt a terrible shame settle over him as he looked into that face, for the girl's lips were as cracked as his, but she asked nothing for herself. He forced the semblance of a smile. "Quickly, then ... up to the spigot."

The look of gratitude the girl gave him reminded Dorn that no matter how desperate things got for him, there was always someone even worse off. A man attempted to push the girl aside, but Dorn blocked the way. The guards pushed into the crowd. Their whips cracked right and left. People screamed and hurried to escape. The girl appeared next to Dorn, shouted words he couldn't understand, and placed something in his hand. Then, still holding the baby, she was swept away.

Dorn turned toward the platform and followed the people in front of him. The youngster's hand felt wet. He examined the object, saw it was a scarf, and realized what she'd done. Working quickly, so as to conserve every precious drop, he crammed the fabric into his mouth and sucked as hard as he could. Nothing had ever tasted so good as the rusty, brackish water that trickled down his throat.

The moment the last vestige of moisture had been removed, Dorn pulled the scarf out of his mouth and tied it around his arm. A guard demanded their attention. ' 'Court number six, of the Oro municipal court system, is now in session. Judge Janice Tal presiding."

The hearings were conducted in alpha order, which meant that he had plenty of time to observe the way things worked. Moving slowly, so as to avoid negative attention, Dorn eased his way through the crowd. He joined the first row and craned his neck to see.

The magistrate wore her hair in a carefully constructed topknot. She had thin, heavily plucked eyebrows, half-hooded eyes, and a slit-shaped mourn. The proceedings were more form than substance. A name was called; the person who answered to it was pulled, shoved, or dragged onto the platform where charges of vagrancy were read; a halting, often tearful defense was offered and gaveled to silence. The magistrate wore a boom mike, and her voice issued from a sphere that hung over the crowd. "Guilty as charged. Sentenced to five years compensated labor. Next."

Then the haggard man, woman, or child would be directed to the far side of the gravel pit, where the condemned waited, their chains laid next to them. More than three hours passed before the youth heard his name. "Voss .. .Dorn ... take the platform."

Like most of his peers, Dorn had spent a lot of time analyzing Milford's faculty and playing to their weaknesses. Now, having spent the last few hours watching the magistrate, he had some theories. Judge Tal felt no sympathy for those who came before her, or if she did, hid it well. Sad stories and equally sad appearances had no effect on the sentences handed out. Only three people were found innocent, and every one of them had demonstrated the poise and bearing of the upper classes. So Dorn mounted the platform like a visiting dignitary. He kept his chin up, his back straight, and looked Tal right in the eye. "Good afternoon, your honor... my name is Dorn Voss."

Tal's eyelids hung at perpetual half-mast. They rose a quarter of an inch. "Read the charges."

The guard, who had already read the boilerplate hundreds of times, did so again. "The defendant stands accused of vagrancy, a lack of visible support, and homelessness."

The woman eyed Dorn in a speculative manner. "You heard the charges, Citizen Voss ... how do you plead?"

Dorn stood even straighter. "Not guilty, your honor. I am a minor, my parents own a business, and I have rooms at the Starman's Rest. A call to the hotel or the Milford Academy will verify my story."

Tal tapped a stylus against her lips and looked thoughtful. "Yes, I'm sure it would, just as some com calls, intersystem record checks, and the expenditure of a modest amount of shoe leather would substantiate at least some of the other claims heard today. Unfortunately, niceties such as those cost money ... more money than the good citizens of Oro have to spend. That's why we rely on identification cards and other evidence of solvency, such as credit chips or cash. Do you have any of these in your possession?"

A lump had formed in Dorn's throat and made it difficult to swallow. The half-lie came easily. "No, your honor, my residency card and money were lost when I fell in the river."

Tal shrugged. "That's what they all say ... give or take a few details. Tell me Citizen Voss, or whatever your
real
name is, what college did your mother attend?"

Dorn felt his heart leap. Could it be? Did the Judge
know
his mother? If so, this might be the break he'd been hoping for. "The University of Mechnos, your honor."

Tal nodded approvingly. "Very good! Mary and I were classmates. Too bad about her death. The story made the news the day before yesterday. Including the fact that Mary graduated cum laude from the U of M. She even had a son about your age ... though cleaner, I suspect." The magistrate turned toward the nearest guard. "Guilty as charged. Five years compensated labor. Take the imposter away."

The guard gestured toward the stairs. Dorn ignored him. "Dead? My mother's dead? How? When?"

But the magistrate ignored him, the guards grabbed his arms, and Dorn was half guided, half carried off the platform. The beating started the moment his feet touched the ground. The blows came hard and fast. The teenager tried to defend himself, fell under the assault of baton-style whip handles, and lay huddled on the ground.

The punishment might have been worse, and lasted even longer, had it not been for the prisoner who shouted obscenities and tried to attack the judge. A guard called for help, her comrades rushed to the rescue, and Dorn was left alone. He made sure that they were truly done with him, got to his feet, and stumbled toward the area where the others waited. He hurt all over, but nothing was broken.

Dorn chose a hunk of concrete and took a seat. A man moved in the boy's direction, saw the expression on his face, and thought better of it. Dorn turned his back on the other prisoners, thought about what the judge had said, and felt an overwhelming sense of grief. Sobs racked his body as tears ran down his cheeks. His mother was dead, and quite possibly his father as well. That would account for a number of things, including the lack of communication and the cessation of financial support.

Still, why hadn't he heard from the family lawyers by now? Or, failing that, from Natalie? Assuming she was aware of what had occurred. And even more important, why was he thinking of himself when he should be thinking about them?

Guilt, grief, and self-loathing combined to pull Dorn down. He thought about how foolish he'd been to gamble his money away, about the undeliverable letters that had arrived by now, and the likelihood that he'd never get to read them.