Where the Ships Die (24 page)

Given the fact that it was nearly impossible to free up a hand, Dorn kicked the door instead. It opened, the alien took one look at the girl, and motioned Dorn forward. "Put her over there. What happened?"

Dorn explained while the alien checked the girl's vital signs, made strange clucking sounds, and marshaled his meager medical supplies. The female had a fever, that was obvious. But why? There were various possibilities. He worked his way through each one of them.

"So," Dorn said, bringing his narrative to a close, "I came here."

"It's well that you did," the Traa said evenly, "because the company doctors are reluctant to invest time, energy, and pharmaceuticals in anyone not capable of hard physical work. Fortunately, one of my ex-patients works as an orderly at the clinic and steals medications one capsule at a time. Assuming my diagnosis is correct, this child will be better in five or six days. What's her name?"

Dorn shrugged. "Somebody said she wasn't worth diddly squat, but I never heard them call her by name."

"Then Diddly it is," the Traa said, "until we think of something more fitting."

Dorn nodded, stood, and backed toward the door. "Thanks, La-So. I'll pay you the moment they pay me."

The alien looked at the girl and up to the boy. There was something new in his eyes. Respect? Admiration? Affection? Whatever it was made Dorn feel good. "No, I am the one who owes you, for the privilege of serving another. Make a bed on the floor. It is better than sleeping on the ground."

Dorn ate the Traa's cooking and slept on his floor. It was the best night's sleep he'd had in a long, long time.

16

You learn something the day you die. You learn how to die.

Katherine Anne Porter

American writer

Circa 1950

The Place of Wandering Waters and the Planet Mechnos

The pirate ship went in hard and cut a broad swathe through two miles of thick forest before slamming to a stop. The hull, parts of which were red-hot, started a class three canopy fire. In spite of the fact that hardly a day passed without some rain falling in the huge temperate zones that occupied most of the planet's northern and southern hemispheres, the topmost foliage received a great deal of sun, and was very dry. So dry that lightning started hundreds of fires every year, which, though momentarily devastating, had the meritorious effect of clearing old growth and making room for new. Young, healthy trees had an amazing ability to survive such conflagrations and even benefited from them.

Still, Torx didn't like the smoke that boiled up to merge with the lead-gray sky and, like his kinsmen, harbored a deep and abiding fear of habitat-destroying flames. This was a phobia not shared by his water-dwelling friend, who seemed oblivious to the sparks, branches, and other bits of burning debris that plopped into the water around them, hissed like death spitters, and were soon extinguished. Which was fine for Rollo, safe within his fireproof environment, but didn't help the Treeth one bit.

Conditions grew worse as they led a procession of battle-ready teams along one of the many channels in toward the crash site. The ship had buried its nose in a low-lying hill. In spite of the fact that the better part of a day had passed, flames still fed on combustibles within it, and licked at the vessel's badly crumpled superstructure.

Rollo touched mud with his plate-shaped feet, lumbered out of the water, and felt Torx stir. The reason was obvious. Although most of the canopy in the area over their heads had been consumed, isolated patches continued to burn, showering them with debris. There hadn't been much of a ground fire, however, since sunlight rarely touched the forest floor, and plants were sparse. The marines, each Dromo draped with body armor, their Treeth armed with automatic weapons, emerged to either side. Gallons of water ran off their flanks and trailed behind.

Rollo wore a military-style com rig. It had a speaker capability, and his voice boomed through the forest. "This is Confederate Marshal Rollo Drekno-Hypont the third. Throw your weapons to the ground, place your hands on your heads, and approach the beach."

There was no reaction until something exploded inside the spaceship. Fire shot skyward, and a patch of white cloth appeared over a fallen tree trunk. A voice yelled, "Don't shoot!" and a handful of humans staggered toward the water. They were unarmed, or appeared to be, and looked the worse for wear.

One of the humans, a scrawny specimen with a badly burned arm, identified himself as First Officer Cowles. He seemed especially eager to describe how he and his fellow survivors had been held against their collective will, done what they could to foil the evil captain, and survived the crash. Rollo gave orders for them to be held separately, so the interrogators could compare everything they said, and led a sweep for stray survivors. He didn't find any. Then the officer in charge of the ecological contamination unit took control, and Rollo waddled toward the water. The
Will of God
had landed safely and he wanted to reach her as soon as possible.

The bedroom was almost totally dark, with nothing more than the hallway light to provide illumination. Something sharp pricked the surface of Carnaby Orr's skin. He awoke with a start, tried to sit, and found a knife at his throat. He could feel the needle-sharp point and saw light wink off the blade. A knee pinned him in place while a face floated into view. The industrialist expected to see an assassin, a kidnapper, anyone but his wife. Anger and hatred had distorted her normally beautiful face. He activated a subcutaneous alarm and tried to bully his way out of the situation. "Melanie? What is this? Some sort of joke? Stop this nonsense immediately."

The knife went in a quarter inch and sliced sideways. The blade missed the carotid but cut through a dozen capillaries. Orr felt something warm trickle onto his chest. He was bleeding! She'd cut him! He struggled, and the steel went deeper. Melanie was cold and sarcastic. "What's the matter, lover? Have an aversion to cold steel? It didn't bother you earlier when the aliens cut our son open and put a parasite in his belly. No, that was just god damned fine with you! Well, listen, asshole, your doctors are going after that organism, and if our son dies on the table, so will you."

Orr's mind raced. His wife had found out the truth about Jason's operation. How didn't matter. The threat to her son's well-being had somehow awakened her from the half-drugged state that had characterized most of her adult life. The challenge was to ignore the inconsequential and focus on that which was important: How much did she know? And where were his security people? They should have intervened by now.

Melanie grinned. "What's the matter, lover? Wondering where your lackeys are? They're late, aren't they? Ooops. Did I forget to tell you? I made some changes after your whore left. The staff works for me. Luther, Munalo, escort my husband to the car."

The knife was withdrawn, but hands seized his arms. They jerked the industrialist out of bed. The lights came on, and Orr made eye contact with Luther. Ari had recruited the high-grav wrestler and used him as a shield in crowd situations. Orr had been nice to the bodyguard and hoped for some loyalty in return. It was nowhere to be seen.

They had hauled Orr half way to the door when Luther spoke. "Ya shouldn't have done that, Mr. Orr. Puttin' some-thin' in Jason like that. We gotta take it out."

The situation was clear. His security people liked Jason, and his wife had taken advantage of that. The bitch. Still, that's what insurance policies are for, to mitigate the impact of unforeseen catastrophes. Orr had one, but how to activate it?

Grim silence prevailed as Orr was escorted down the stairs, past the null-gravity well, and into the main hall. His son was there, thumb in mouth, head resting on the nanny's shoulder. The businessman saw open hatred on the woman's face as she walked past. Jason turned, removed the thumb, and pointed at his father. "You have blood on your jammies. Are you coming with us?"

Orr, who had been forced to pause while his wife descended the stairs, forced a smile. "I'll be there in a moment, son ... save me a seat."

"You're lucky we don't drag you behind the car," Melanie Orr said coldly. "Take him outside."

"I need to visit the bathroom," Orr said plaintively. "You wouldn't want me to embarrass myself would you?"

"I don't care what you do," Melanie said unsympathetically. "Let's go."

Orr swore silently as Luther and Munalo manhandled him out through the front door. Triggers had been installed throughout the mansion. One was tucked away in the kitchen, two were hidden in the living room, and another had been installed in the bathroom off the hallway. Once he left the house and entered the family limo, there would still be one opportunity left. But what if they put him in a van? Or some other vehicle? Fear rolled itself into a ball and rode in the pit of his stomach.

The night air was sweet and made all the more so by the Oloroso vines that climbed the east side of the house. The limo was there, doors open, waiting for them to enter. Orr concealed a sigh of relief and hurried to enter first. It was too late. The nanny, with Jason on her lap, sat facing the front. Before Orr could adjust, his wife decreed that he sit in the center backward-facing seat. Luther took one side and Munalo the other. Things could have been worse, however. The backup security system boasted three triggers, two of which were within reach—

Melanie was the last to enter the car. She sat opposite him. She looked angry, very angry, and in spite of the fact that Orr didn't like the situation he was in, the male part of him noticed how beautiful she was. Which was something he hadn't thought about in a long time. Orr remembered their courtship. He had evaluated his weaknesses, designed a plan to compensate for them, and launched his campaign. And it had worked! Melanie had married him in spite of attentions from more attractive men, and the fact that he'd been relatively poor in those days. How had he done it? With words, that's how. Words carefully and faithfully applied. It was worth a try. He mustered a smile. "So, honey, how was your day?"

He saw amusement flicker in her eyes and hurried to follow up. "There is no parasite. I wouldn't do that. The organism is a
symbiote.
It takes nourishment from Jason's blood and provides immunity in return."

He heard the nanny snort in disbelief and ignored her. "Think about it, Melanie; when was the last time that Jason became ill? You can't remember, can you? That's because it was months ago."

Orr saw his wife's eyes widen slightly as she realized that it was true. There was another, less positive dimension to the situation, however, and the knowledge restored her anger. "But what happens when it becomes too large for its host? And is forced to tunnel its way out?"

She was about to say more, about to tell Orr what slime he was, when the nanny frowned. Her meaning was clear. Jason was present and unaware of his condition. Melanie bit off the words and crossed her arms. Her anger spoke louder than words.

The driver cornered too fast, the passengers leaned away, and Orr extended an arm as if to brace himself. The button was hidden beneath a decorative medallion. Orr felt it give under his hand. Luther frowned and pushed the arm away. Orr apologized and leaned back in his chair.

Fifty miles away, in the loft of what had been a small factory, a buzzer sounded and a light started to flash. It was a large space with white walls, wood floors, and a minimal amount of furniture. Mozart's Allegro in B fiat was playing in the background. The man who lived there paused in the middle of his nocturnal workout, raised an eyebrow, and ordered the domocomp to kill the music.

There was no question as to where the summons came from. The man had retired many years before and retained only one client: a wealthy individual who could afford a fail-safe security system and knew better than to use it without reason. Though not in need of additional funds, the man used the obligation the client represented to keep himself sharp. To do otherwise was to die mentally, emotionally, and yes, physically, for the man judged everything according to its usefulness, and was unwilling to live without purpose.

The man, who had used many names over the years, was currently known as Riley. He hurried to the partitioned area that served as his office, activated some rather expensive electronics, and watched a grid appear on the wall screen. The orange lines represented streets. Names glowed blue. His client, represented by a flashing red light, was headed toward the business district.

Riley slipped into a black shirt, pants, and boots, armed himself, and grabbed a black duster on his way out the door. The rest of what he needed, equipment for almost every possible contingency, waited in his car. The night air smelled clean, and he was needed. Life didn't get any better than that.

The
Will of God
lay at anchor toward the south end of a large lake. A floating dock complete with cranes and autoloaders was positioned alongside. The process of unloading the freighter's cargo was about half finished when a launch arrived and Natalie was summoned.

She, like the rest of the crew, had been working double shifts for days now. Time was money—and Jord had a schedule to keep. It took two minutes and forty-three seconds for Natalie to reach the main deck. Sparks flew as O'Tool and his technicians replaced a badly burned hull plate. Natalie knew the cyborg didn't like her, and probably never would, but she had earned his respect, and that was sufficient. He saw her, nodded, and returned to work.

Jord paced back and forth along the flat area in front of the ship's prow. He made it a habit to dress well while in port, both in an effort to impress the locals and to set a standard for the crew. His crisp white uniform, complete with shoulder boards, crackled as he moved. The official summons, and the temporary loss of his third officer, was just the latest in a long string of annoyances, especially in light of the fact that he and his crew had already spent countless hours bobbing up and down with waterborne bureaucrats. All because the pirates, for reasons known only to them, had targeted
his
ship. It was more than his heart or wallet could bear. He scowled as Natalie arrived. "So, more time wasted."