Where the Ships Die (19 page)

"In order to implement their plans, and seize control of the Confederacy's economic infrastructure, the Traa seek control of a wormhole called the Mescalero Gap. The owners died under questionable circumstances, and their daughter, a human named Natalie Voss, will arrive here soon. Once that occurs, and the female comes under our protection, we will proceed with our investigation.

"At that point, or as soon as their agents learn of our activities, the Traa diplomatic corps will swing into action and do everything they can to block our efforts. They support a powerful lobby backed by a network of secret alliances, partnerships, and agreements. High-level officials will be persuaded to put pressure on our superiors at the Commerce Department, and, after a certain amount of squirming, they will attempt to limit our investigation."

"And you want our diplomats to counter such efforts and build support for your activities," Half-horn said thoughtfully.

"Yes, sir."

"Have you any idea of how difficult that will be?" the old bull demanded. "We'll be accused of everything from racism to public nudity. All of our initiatives will come under fire."

"Yes, sir."

"All right," Half-horn said wearily. "You heard him. All in favor of taking on a really difficult, thankless, and execrable job, say 'Aye.' "

Rollo heard a basso chorus of "Ayes," and not a single nay.

"So, it's agreed," Half-horn said. "We'll do what we can. Now leave us. The council has another two intervals' worth of work to do."

Rollo chin-splashed, made for an exit, and thought about what they'd accomplished. The first battle had been won. The second would be a lot more difficult.

13

The wise (adult female) adapts herself to circumstances much as water assumes the shape of the vessel which contains it.

Inscription on an earthenware jug discovered

in the Forerunner ruins of Itchar IV

Radiocarbon dated to 20,000 B.C. Standard

The Planet New Hope

Bright sunlight, which streamed in through a gap in the makeshift curtains, combined with the smell of food to bring Dorn up from a dimly remembered dream. He lay there for a moment and gloried in the comfort of his makeshift bed. Then, forcing himself to confront the chill morning air, he rolled out and scrambled to his feet. It didn't take long to slip into his trousers, brush his teeth, and wash his face.

La-So crouched in front of the brick stove. He nodded toward the nearly empty wood box. "Follow the main footpath north. When you reach the wood lot, ask for Sandro. Tell him La-So sent you. Breakfast will be ready when you return."

The words were gruff, as if the XT wanted to put him off, and Dorn wondered if he should just leave. But the odor of food, combined with a ravenous appetite, convinced him to follow the alien's instructions.

He opened the door, stepped outside, and found a trail leading down the side of the hill. The sun slanted in from the east and glazed the peninsula with golden light.

The shanties stood in ranks as if leaning on each other for support. Beyond them, where the slum stopped and the beach began, Dorn saw all manner of salvage large and small. There were hull plates, which, in spite of the fact that they had traveled millions of light-years through space, were stacked like so much cordwood. Orderly rows of reels, each fat with salvaged cable, occupied one section of beach, while bins filled to overflowing with smaller pieces of metal lined the security fence.

There were tools too, though surprisingly few, including a couple of yellow cranes, a barge that might or might not float when the tide came in, and a dozen or so exoskeletons, frozen in whatever positions their operators had left them.

Of even more interest to Dorn were the dimly seen shapes that lay beyond the curtain of mist that separated the salvage yards from the mud flats, because it was there, halfway to the point where brown met blue, that the half-consumed carcasses of once-mighty ships could be seen, wings clipped, hulls breached, ribs pointing toward the sky.

It was a sad yet compelling sight, and Dorn found himself torn between feelings of regret and curiosity. As a boy he had begged his parents for permission to explore old ships, ducking into musty compartments, fingering dead controls. But that was when he'd been younger—and firewood had been something that droids dealt with.

Dorn stopped long enough to make use of a partially screened privy. Insects whined around his head. He gagged on the smell and left as quickly as he could.

The main path was heavily used, and Dorn made the mistake of stepping in front of some children. They pushed on by, made fun of his appearance, and laughed as they pursued each other up the incline. Dorn, unsure of the best way to carry the wood box, followed along behind. Mud squished under his sandals, woodsmoke drifted across the pathway, and vendors hawked their wares. They lined the broader parts of the trail and vied for his business. "Fresh night fish! Fried just for you! Get 'em while they're hot!"

"Hey, mister! You want a bath? Lord knows you could use one ... Just five inches of wire, a number-three fastener, or an L-bracket."

"Nice box young sir... how 'bout a trade?"

So it went until Dorn topped a slight rise and spotted the wood lot. It was surrounded by a four-foot-high adobe wall and guarded by half-starved dogs. The nearest one growled, lunged to the end of a badly frayed lead, and snapped its teeth.

Dorn kept an eye on the dogs, located the main entrance, and entered the compound. The wood had been sorted, piled, and priced by type. There was driftwood, nearly white from exposure to the sun; planks, or what had been planks, stripped off long-dead pallets; and branches, each shaped by the wind. Thanks to Mr. Halworthy's tutelage, Dorn recognized the latter as pieces of ironwood, an especially dense shrub that flourished on open hillsides. It burned like coal.

Dorn heard the
ka-thunk
of an axe hitting wood, wandered toward the sound, and was confronted by a woman in a red bandana, blue blouse, and homemade pantaloons. A pile of kindling lay heaped at her feet. Her eyes were blue. An explosion of wrinkles radiated away from them. "Yes? What can I do for you?"

"Is Sandro here?"

The woman bellowed, "Sandro! Someone to see you!" and returned to her work.

Kindling flew, and Dorn stepped out of the way. The voice came from behind and made him jump. ' 'Yeah? What do you want? I don't give no handouts, if that's what you're after."

Dorn turned. Sandro was a small, wizened man. He looked as if every bit of moisture had been leached out of him, leaving nothing but leather. He regarded Dorn with the suspicion of someone who has seen everything... and none of it good. Dorn swallowed. "La-So sent me."

Sandro's features softened. "Oh, he did, did he? How is old snout-face, anyway?"

A little taken aback, unsure of how to respond, Dorn stuttered. "He's fine, that is, I
think
he's fine, though it's kind of hard to tell."

Sandro nodded as if he knew what Dorn meant. "Yeah, well, he can be a surly critter, especially when he gets to thinking 'bout his kin, which is nearly all the time. You know the story?"

Dorn shook his head.

"Well, there ain't much to tell," the man said gruffly. "Here ... put the box down." He approached a pile of iron-wood, chose carefully, sectioned the pieces, and passed them to Dorn. "The Traa marry in threes, you know, kinda kinky if you ask me, but that's how they do it. Anyway, La-So and a couple of females came dirtside on a business trip. Here, take some roots ... they burn longest. Now where was I? Oh yeah, La-So. You know them plagues? The ones that sweep through the slums every year or so?"

Dorn remembered Mr. Halworthy, and how he had died. "Yes, I do."

Sandro nodded. "Well, strange as it seems, the bug that killed La-So's wives didn't bother us humans. Oh, it gave some a headache all right, and a nasty case of the trots, but that's all. Anyway, the poor old slob went on the Traa equivalent of a thirty-day drunk, and woke up in the holding pens. You know the rest."

Dorn
did
know the rest, and lifted the box off the ground. It was heavier than it looked. "So how long has he been here?"

Sandro squinted into the sun. "Two years? Three? Time don't mean much around here. Not to me, anyway ... though some think of nothing else."

Dorn nodded and looked at the wood. "I don't have metal of my own ... and La-So didn't give me any."

Sandro waved the issue away. "That's 'cause snout-face knows I wouldn't take it. I owe him more than I can ever repay. You tell him that Sandro sends his best."

Dorn thanked the man, wondered what La-So had done to earn such undying gratitude, and made his way to the path. The box was heavy. Carrying it was easier when he hoisted it onto a shoulder. The downhill part of the journey wasn't bad, but the subsequent uphill stretch was more difficult, and he arrived out of breath. La-So's dwelling was just as he'd left it.

The teenager heard a humming sound and peered inside. A plate heaped with food sat on the makeshift table, and beyond that, face into a corner, sat La-So.

The Traa was humming a chant of some sort.

He put the wood by the stove, retrieved the plate of food, and carried it out front. The stoop made a good place to sit. The fact that the food was hot suggested that the alien had seen the human coming and wished to avoid him.

Dorn spooned mush into his mouth and wondered what the problem was. Did the alien's seemingly antisocial mood stem from sorrow, as Sandro suggested? Or did it flow from something else, like a different set of norms? Or an offense on Dorn's part? There was no way to know.

Dorn ate his meal, washed his dish, and stared at La-So's back. The chanting continued; Dorn shrugged and stepped outside. A siren sounded, people hurried toward the beach, and Dorn, having nothing else to do, joined the procession.

Men, women, and children materialized from all manner of huts, shanties, and tents, turned toward the sea, and followed paths toward the beach. Dorn, who'd been struck by the almost irrepressible good humor demonstrated by the camp's residents up till now, was now struck by the almost eerie silence that fell over them.

He considered returning, but remembered the alien's hard, unyielding back, and knew there was nothing to return to. He thought about Myra, wondered what she was doing, and hoped she was okay.

The paths converged one by one, leading to what amounted to an assembly area. Dorn saw the eight-foot-tall razor wire-topped fence that separated the lowermost slums from the salvage yards, the beach, and ultimately the ships themselves. Equally noticeable were the evenly spaced guard towers, the lights that would illuminate everything at night, and the signs that read: "All salvage belongs to Sharma Industries. Theft will be punished to the full extent of the law."

Such precautions made perfect sense, given the fact that each time the workers passed through the heavily guarded gates they entered the local equivalent of a bank vault. So, if the workers weren't allowed to keep anything, and were denied access to the salvage when off duty, where did the pieces of wire, nuts, bolts, and other bits of metallic currency come from? Smuggled, perhaps? And if so, how? Knowing the answers to such questions, and taking advantage of that knowledge, would help Dorn survive. He would have to find out.

People milled for a moment, and then, as if governed by a single mind, divided themselves into three distinct groups. Two were composed almost entirely of men, with only a sprinkling of women, while the third consisted of women, children, and the elderly. Unexpectedly isolated, and feeling vulnerable, Dorn joined a group of males.

The siren, which had continued to wail, stopped suddenly, and the speaker system popped. The voice originated from a guard tower. "All right, people, you know the drill, wreckers first, haulers second, and sifters third."

The titles had a functional quality, as if they represented specialties of some sort, and, given the fact that the others had come to the assembly area of their own free will, or seemed to anyway, Dora figured the work was compensated in some way. Another item to investigate and understand.

Dorn was nearly left behind as the group he had associated himself with shuffled toward a checkpoint, merged into a single column, and passed between a pair of guards. By peering around the people in front of him, Dorn could see up ahead. He noticed that each person was required to hold his or her hands out, and while most of the workers were admitted, some were rejected. This caused the line to move forward in a series of jerks. No sooner had Dorn made that observation than it was
his
turn in the gate. The guards looked bored. They used a minimum of words. "Stop."

Dorn stopped.

"Hands."

Dorn held out his hands. The guard looked, frowned, and shook her head. "You ain't ready for wrecking, newbie ... try hauling for a while."

Dorn turned, trudged to the end of the line, and fell in with the haulers. One of them, a middle-aged man with scar tissue where temple jacks had been removed from his head, nodded. Dorn offered a tentative smile. "I give up. . . What does a wrecker do? And what's wrong with my hands?"

"Wreckers cut the ships into pieces, haulers drag the pieces to shore, and sifters sift through the mud and sand looking for the little stuff, which might be small but it all adds up in the long run."

"So? Where do hands come into it?"

The man shrugged. "It takes experience to be a wrecker. That's why they receive more pay. If you want to call what we get 'pay.' But it's hard on your hands, real hard, which is why most wreckers wind up with a lot of cuts, burns, and amputations."

It was sobering news, and Dorn was silent as the haulers formed a line and were funneled through the arch-shaped checkpoint. The light flashed and his forehead warmed. The reason was obvious. By scanning each worker's bar code, and running the information through a computer, the company could track how many days each person worked and ensure that they left at the end of each shift. Dorn added that fact to his hoard of knowledge.