Where the Ships Die (21 page)

"Come," Sa-Lo said, "it's time to leave the ship."

Tor Sanko, comfortably ensconced in his wraparound command chair, placed a grape on his tongue, popped the tight green skin, and savored the juice that flooded his mouth. "Pilot... time to contact, please."

The pilot, a cyborg who was literally one with his ship, knew Sanko would be unhappy and kept his voice neutral. "Four hours ... fifteen minutes."

Sanko glanced at the heads-up displays, tapped numbers into a keypad, and frowned. "The
Will
of God
will enter the planet's atmosphere in four hours,
five minutes
according to my calculations."

The cyborg held his nonexistent breath. "Yes, sir."

Sanko's voice was dangerously calm. "Please explain. You indicated that we had more than enough time two hours ago."

The pilot wished he had legs, wished he could run, but knew he couldn't. "It would seem that the ship picked up speed, sir, not much, but enough to open a small gap."

"Then increase our speed, you fool," Sanko snapped, "or I'll cut your sensors."

The cyborg, whose only contact with the external world was through the ship's electronics, started to gibber. There was nothing he feared more than the deathlike darkness of sensory deprivation. "We're going full out, sir... ask engineering."

Sanko called the chief engineer, confirmed the pilot's data, and swore out loud. Assuming nothing happened to the other ship's drives, and she made planetfall as projected, the jacker would have a decision to make. He could follow the
Will of God
down and destroy her on the ground, or wait in orbit and attack when she lifted. The first was the more direct, and therefore more satisfying, possibility, but the second made better sense.

The Place of Wandering Waters carried a PTL rating of 16, which suggested a primitive, largely undeveloped planet having some advanced technology. So, given the fact that backwater planets had an unsettling tendency to acquire missile launchers prior to microwave ovens, the locals could have all sorts of nasty little toys stashed in the trees. The thought made Sanko angry.
Very
angry. "The pilot needs a rest. Cut his feeds."

The second officer didn't like the cyborg. She caressed a row of buttons, gloried in the knowledge that the pilot could feel her touch, and smiled as she cut his sensors. The com link went last, so the crew could hear the cyborg scream, and reflect on what it meant.

Rollo was bored, irritable, and given to unexpected barrel rolls, all of which made him poor company, and a rather unstable platform on which to work, play, or snooze. That being the case, Torx did what any self-respecting Treeth would do under similar circumstances, and sought the company of other more reasonable beings.

Like his distant ancestors before him, Torx was well equipped for travel through the trees, and took pleasure in the long series of leaps that carried him from a platform near the pool of contemplation, deep into the sun-dappled woods. Despite the fact that his route carried him through the forest's upper canopy, the path had been used thousands of times before, and was clearly marked. Smaller branches had been broken off, while the stronger, more mature limbs had developed thick layers of protective bark and were worn from constant use.

There were breaks too, places where ancient giants had succumbed to the ravages of wind, water, and time. Torx could imagine roots breaking free from the wet, swampy soil, branches crackling as the disaster began, and a long, drawn-out groan as younger, still viable trees surrendered to the giant's weight and were carried to their deaths.

The result was a gap in the foliage, a place where the sun could coax new growth from the ground, and the forest could strengthen itself. When they encountered gaps such as those, the ancient Treeth had been forced to turn aside, or, if determined to proceed, face the carnivores on the ground, a situation that had led to the development of clubs, bows, and, after a sufficient amount of time had passed, firearms.

Those days were gone, of course, the gaps having been bridged by pulley-mounted T-handles on monofilament line. As if to emphasize that fact, an elder passed Torx traveling in the opposite direction. Her motor-driven pulley whirred loudly as it pulled her upward. Torx signed his respect and marveled at her dignity. To be dragged through the trees like a side of meat! So much for the benefits of old age.

The glen was huge, more than five hundred feet across, and ringed with trees. Most were old, dating to prehistorical times, but some were little more than hand-planted saplings, the giants of the future. Torx dropped through layer after layer of Treeth, all eating, playing, and gossiping, fingers flying as they signed back and forth.

The cradle tree, so called because of the way its branches had cradled his race, was thousands of years old, and so dominated the center of the clearing that nothing could grow in its shadow. It was said that the great Folar, companion to King Halory, had held court in the lower branches of the tree, arguing for the alliance that still bound the races together, and swilling endless tankards of dra.

Just being there made Torx feel good, and it wasn't long before he encountered beings that he knew. The first hour passed pleasantly enough, as he flirted with an administrator from the Department of Rivers, Lakes, and Dams, but the real payoff came as the result of chance.

Lorno, a rather tiresome Treeth who hailed from the northern swamps, and actually bragged of the fact, was busy complaining about his boss, a mid-level functionary in the Department of Defense, when he dropped what amounted to a juicy nugget. It seemed that a vessel named the
Will of God
had entered their system and requested emergency inbound clearance. A human called Tord... or was it Ford? ... insisted that jackers were after them. Never mind the fact that the second vessel denied the charge and seemed peaceful enough. Could his audience imagine anything so absurd?

Torx could, and, having made some hurried excuses, raced to tell Rollo. Yes, the fact that
Will
of God
had apparently been targeted by a pirate
could
be unrelated to their case, but Torx, like most law enforcement beings, had little faith in coincidence. No, there were other possibilities, all of them bad. The Treeth cursed his friend's unwillingness to wear a vibcom, picked his way up through the maze of crisscrossed branches, and felt the sun hit his face. He missed the initial jump, hoped no one had seen him, and grabbed a branch. The rest was easy.

Sa-Lo left the cabin, followed by Ka-Di. A quick glance confirmed that the corridor was empty. The Traa strolled toward the ship's stern. If discovered, they'd pretend to be lost. As with most vessels of her size, the
Willie
carried a number of auxiliary craft, including two shuttles that doubled as lifeboats, a pair of maintenance sleds, and four ten-person life pods, none of which had a propulsion system of its own. Which was why Ka-Di had chosen the shuttles as their escape vehicles of choice, and more specifically the starboard unit, since it was newer than its counterpart, and theoretically more reliable. He had checked the controls and discovered that they were well within his training parameters. Though long, and somewhat boring, the journey would be safe.

A hatch opened, a human emerged, and Sa-Lo felt a sudden stab of apprehension. They were a long way from the shuttle bays and clearly off limits. Light glinted off the man's face. His voice was gruff. "Sorry, but this section of the ship is restricted to crew. The lounge is this way."

Ka-Di nodded as if in agreement, allowed the human to pass, and slapped him on the back. The injector squirted liquid sedative through the engineer's clothes and the pores of his skin. A human would have folded, but O'Tool was a cyborg. He swayed and tried to communicate. "O'Tool to bridge ... watch out for..."

Desperate now, and on the verge of a more permanent solution, Ka-Di tore the headset off. The engineer frowned, clawed at his back, and fell over backwards.

The Traa ran. Down the corridor, past the heat exchangers, and through an altar. A trio of plastic goddesses fell and rolled away. Voices yelled, and feet started to pound. The corridor curved away from the heavily shielded drives, along the ship's hull, and past the emergency control room.

Ka-Di started to lag. His breath came in gasps. Sa-Lo put an arm around his companion's waist, lifted him off the deck, and ran for the shuttle. It loomed ahead, its lock eternally open, ready for launch. Sa-Lo pushed Ka-Di through the hatch, hit the "launch" button, and pulled a hand weapon. He didn't
want
to shoot anyone, but was determined to escape. The hatch whirred, a computer droned instructions at them, and a face appeared. It was still there, shouting orders, when the hatch closed.

The
Willie
sealed herself against hard vacuum, a klaxon sounded, and the shuttle pushed itself off. Artificial gravity disappeared as the shuttle accelerated away from the larger and presumably dangerous freighter. The Traa lost contact with the deck. They flailed about, found handholds, and hoped for the best.

Captain Jord, who had been on the bridge during the entire episode, brought his fist down on the console with such force that a hand comp jumped and fell. "I want information... and I want it now!"

"I found Voss in her cabin, sir," a voice reported. "She's unconscious."

"O'Tool's coming around," another voice chimed in. "They hit him with a slap shot."

"It was the Traa," a third crew person volunteered. "I saw them board the shuttle."

"Shall I give chase?" Russo inquired eagerly. "We could nail them in fifteen minutes or so."

Jord rubbed his chin and scanned the readouts that hung in midair. The idea was tempting, damned tempting, but he had other things to think about as well. "The pirates? How are they doing?"

"Gaining ... but slowly."

"Will we beat them into the atmosphere?"

"Yes, assuming both speeds remain constant."
 

Jord sighed. "Then let the pirates have them. There's no profit in a fight, especially if we lose. Keep me informed."

Having thrown their weight around, and successfully exaggerated their authority, Rollo and Torx gained entrance to the Defense Command's control grotto, an underground lake accessed by elevator. It was there, beneath the latticework of catwalks used by the Treeth staff, and hip-deep in the thermally warmed water, that Rollo, with Torx standing on his back, watched the drama unfold. Floating video screens, each shaped like a cube, told the story.

First, for reasons that weren't clear, a shuttle parted company with ship number one. That raised the possibility that the second, and allegedly hostile, vessel would snap it up, but no, they seemed uninterested. A rather boring period ensued during which the first ship, broadcasting all manner of emergency signals, headed for the atmosphere, while the second vessel, still protesting its innocence, followed.

Still, it wasn't too long before the
Will of God
entered the atmosphere and the situation became crystal clear. The second vessel, ominously silent at this juncture, ignored all orders from orbital control and followed the freighter down. Threats, which the locals were powerless to carry out, proved equally ineffective. The co-marshals, well aware that the woman who could be their most important witness was very much at risk, held their collective breath.

"They're heading for the surface," Cowles said disapprovingly.

"I have eyes," Sanko replied irritably, drumming his fingers on the console that adjoined his command chair. "Tell me something useful." Sanko was worried that the shuttle, long gone by now, carried the very people Orr wanted him to kill. Still, given the choice between chasing the shuttle, which might turn out to be a high-priced decoy, and pursuing the ship, which was worth a great deal of money, the answer seemed obvious. The shuttle thing was annoying, though—and the jacker wished he could have snatched it up.

Cowles, who had grown increasingly weary of Sanko's arrogance, considered the energy weapon taped below the panel in front of him. He could remove the device, turn, and shoot Sanko through the head. But what of the crew? Would they back his play? Only if it was in their interest to do so. He wished they had the imagination to see how dangerous the situation was. Especially if Sanko followed the merchant ship down into the atmosphere. Neither vessel had been designed for combat under those conditions. And what of the locals? Would they stay neutral? Or side with the
Will of Goal
There was no sign of military ships in the vicinity—but there very well might be surface-to-air missiles. The weapon beckoned, and the tension grew.

That part of the planet's surface not obscured by cloud cover was greenish blue. Sanko struggled with the decision. Should he follow the
Will of God
down? Or wait till she attempted to lift? The second was the more conservative choice, and therefore the safest. But what if a third ship arrived? The balance of power could shift in his opponent's favor and force him to run. Where to? Orr would find him, that was certain, and notify the Hidalgo Crime Syndicate. They'd do the rest. No, messy though it might be, it was best to take the ship now, or, failing that, destroy her in the atmosphere. The jacker leaned back, took some eye drops, and addressed the crew. "Secure the ship for battle. Arm all weapons systems. Take her down."

Natalie was strapped into the backup control slot. She'd been conscious for a couple of hours now, but had a headache, and wished the already subdued lighting was even dimmer. O'Tool, similarly recovered from the slap shot, reclined next to her. The encounter with the Traa had left Natalie angry and shaken.

Still, the crew interpreted the run-in as proof of her innocence, and that, plus the attack on O'Tool, had restored her credibility. So much so that Natalie had been asked to assume her previous duties, including the normally innocuous position of weapons officer, and the title that went with it. The pirates had followed the
Willie
down into the planet's atmosphere, and Jord was understandably worried. "Bridge to weapons control... how's it look, Guns?"