Where the Ships Die (30 page)

Myra made a choking sound and raced toward the other end of the balcony. Seleen watched the other girl go, pushed the sunglasses higher on her nose, and took a sip from her drink. The lemonade was cold and pleasantry tart.

If Dorn had learned anything over the last few months, it was that things are never as simple as they seem. Wrecking was an excellent example. Spaceships, especially those designed to survive multiple reentries, are built to last. So, while brute force may be sufficient to rip paneling off bulkheads, and pull ductwork down from the overhead, some installations require more finesse.

The huge radiation-sealed engines were a good example, as were the data banks, solar accumulators, and control boards, all of which could be reconditioned and sold to the shipyard in Oro. Dorn, who had no idea how to ready such equipment for removal, wasn't allowed to touch it. No, his activities were limited to the relatively brainless work of carrying materials freed by others up onto the main deck, where they were tossed over the side, usually without looking below.

Dorn, who had been dodging sheet metal only the day before, tried to convince the other wreckers to be more careful, to consider the safety of the haulers, but met with limited success. Yes, the wreckers knew fellow workers had been killed by falling materials, but it was as if they wanted the haulers to run the same risks they had. Dorn refused to follow suit, however, and looked before he tossed salvage over the side. Jana waved on occasion, and he waved back.

The day progressed slowly, and while Dorn had escaped the push and pull of the sea, the work was equally hard. The metal was heavy, and the task of carrying it up to the main deck consumed a great deal of energy. Still, he was in excellent shape and had little difficulty matching the others.

The problem was his inability to access the captain's cabin. Oh, he passed the compartment all right, not just once, but many times. The shift bosses seemed to haunt that particular area, however, and one occasion, Dorn saw Castor himself, ensconced in his yellow walker, clanking down the corridor. The fact that the wreck master wore the rig aboard ship was a testimonial to what? His ego? Insecurity? Cowardice? Dorn wasn't sure and didn't care. He lifted a four-by-eight sheet of fiber panel up next to his face and hurried by. The wreck master, his mind on other things, failed to notice.

So, as the day wore on, and it became increasingly obvious that he wasn't going to gain access to the cabin, Dorn made plans to stay the night. The most pressing need was for a light of some sort. A portable generator powered the work lights that were strung along the ship's corridors, but Dorn knew the crew would kill it when they left. There were other possibilities, however, thanks to the fact that the ship was in the early stages of salvage. Spacesuits stood like suits of armor along the main corridor, and bins, many filled to overflowing with emergency repair packs, first-aid kits, fire extinguishers, and yes, rechargeable flashlights, waited near the main lock.

Dorn waited till no one was around, grabbed a likely looking hand light, and stashed the device in the partially dismantled galley. He hoped no one would find it there, but knew they wouldn't be suspicious if they did. After all, who knew where crew beings put things, or why? The wreckers came across more interesting things nearly every day—including the occasional stash of money, drugs, or jewelry.

Proud of how provident he'd been, Dorn was secretly pleased when the bins were taken topside and a crane lowered them onto a barge. Yes, he felt pretty good about himself. Until a really horrible thought raised its ugly head. What if the flashlight required charging? Dorn called himself every name in the book—and prayed that he would survive his own stupidity.

Time passed, the tension grew, and the shift eventually ended. The siren was a muffled but still audible wail when Dorn stepped into his carefully chosen hidey-hole, slid to the deck, and wrapped his arms around his knees.

The lights went out. It took a while for the footsteps to die away, and for the voices to disappear, but they finally did. Dorn was tempted to abandon his hiding place, but forced himself to wait. He didn't think he'd be missed, not immediately anyway, but there was no way to be sure. Minutes ticked past as the temperature fell and the ship groaned, creaked, and popped.

Then, just when Dorn thought he had adjusted to the darkness, and the sounds that never seemed to stop, metal clanged, a man swore, and sandals clattered across loose gratings. The voice belonged to an assistant shift boss.

"Wake the hell up and come out of there, boy! A nap's one thing, but you don't want to stay out here. Hey, you think Castor rides your ass now? Just wait till you come crawlin' up the beach. He'll take whatever you stole first, beat the crap out of you second, and beat the crap out of you third. It ain't worth it, son. Come on, now, I'll tell him you were sick, and he won't be half so rough."

Dorn, who had yet to come up with a strategy that would soften the almost inevitable consequences of what he'd chosen to do, was sorely tempted. Still, the vision of the data ball, nestled within its bed of foam, rendered him mute. The punishment wouldn't be pleasant, he knew that, but it couldn't be helped.

"All right," the assistant shift boss said, his voice steadily dwindling. "Have it your way, son ... but don't say I didn't warn you."

The darkness seemed especially dense after the assistant shift boss left. Dorn waited long enough to be reasonably sure he was really gone, eased out of the hiding place, and felt his way to the galley.

The hidey-hole wasn't hard to find, which was fortunate, since the darkness was absolute. His fingers touched the flashlight, accidentally pushed it away, and found it again. The device was cylindrical and cool to the touch. He found the switch. What if he pushed it forward and nothing happened? The whole thing would be for naught. Yeah, he might find his way on deck through pitch blackness, but he might not. It would be easy to lose one's way in the maze of corridors and wander all night. The thought made him sick.

Dorn licked his lips, swallowed some saliva, and pushed on the slider. A beam of bright yellow light leapt forward and wobbled across the bulkhead. He mumbled the Traa prayer of thanksgiving, padded the length of the corridor, and paused by the captain's cabin. His heart beat like a trip-hammer. Here it was, the chance he'd been waiting for, winner take all.

Dorn entered the compartment, proceeded to the opposite bulkhead, and knelt before the panel his father had shown him years before. Conscious that the security guards could arrive any moment now, and eager to end a day of suspense, he hammered on metal.
Bam! Bam! Bam!

Nothing. He tried again.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Nothing. Panic mixed with frustration. No, he musn't let emotion rule, he must think. What was wrong? What was missing? The whirring noise! He should have heard a whirring noise but hadn't! Why not? No power, that's why. The mechanism was wired to the ship's electrical system!

Dorn gritted his teeth in frustration, returned to his hiding place, and retrieved the wrecking bar. He returned to the cabin, located four hair-thin cracks, and went to work.

The tool made a horrendous noise as it clanged against the metal. Dorn gritted his teeth and tried again. Craters formed around a sturdy metal frame. A ragged hole appeared. He shoved the flat end of the tool inside, pulled on the shaft as hard as he could, and heard something creak.

The metal surrendered without warning and dumped him on the deck. He scrambled to his feet, grabbed the light, and aimed for the newly created hole. The cover, which had protected the recess for so many years, hung from a single hinge. And there, surrounded by foam and glinting with reflected light, sat the data ball. Dorn reached out, touched the highly polished surface, and pried it loose. The device popped free and landed in his hand. He had no more than wrapped his fingers around it when a voice called his name. "Voss? You down there, Voss? I sure hope so... 'cause I came all the way out here to kick your ass." The voice belonged to Wreck Master Nick Castor, and his pleasure was obvious.

Dorn got to his feet, slipped the data ball into the single pocket that didn't have a hole in it, and turned toward the hatch. Every light in the ship came on followed by Castor's maniacal laughter. It grew louder with each passing moment. "That's right, boy ... I want you to
see
what your insides look like."

Dorn was frightened. One part of his mind took note of that fact, while the rest tackled the problem. The exoskeleton gave his opponent a huge advantage. Dorn could beat on the machine all day without putting a dent in it. What he needed was an antitank weapon or, barring that, an exoskeleton of his own. There weren't any aboard the ship ... or were there? An idea popped into his head. Dorn took it and ran.

The wreck master enjoyed his stroll along the main corridor. Castor liked to inflict pain on others, but, due to budget strictures imposed by Mr. Sharma, had been forced to conserve the work force. Except for occasions like this one, when harsh measures were called for, lest open defiance trigger rebellion. So, even while such moments were rare, the delay made them that much more enjoyable, especially savored as he planned to do. First he would draw the process out by chasing the kid all over the ship, and then, just when it seemed that he could escape, snatch freedom away. Then, while the unfortunate young Mr. Voss screamed for mercy, Castor would rip the boy's arms off, wave them under his nose, and toss them away. The legs would follow—or would they? It might be amusing to watch him run this way and that, blood spurting from arteries, unable to use one of the ship's multitudinous first-aid kits.

Castor smiled at the thought, made his way past the galley and into the eating area. A quick look around revealed no sign of his quarry, so he stepped through and headed for the opposite corridor.

Dorn, who had pressed the access button on the first set of space armor that looked large enough to accommodate him, bit his lip as the suit powered up, and very nearly shouted when the heads-up display board went to green. Yes! Like his sister Natalie, who had gone on to become a full-fledged rocket jockey, Dorn had cut his teeth in space. His skills included the operation and maintenance of his own spacesuits.

He stood perfectly still as the exoskeleton lumbered by the rows of identical armor, waited until Castor's back was turned, and made his move. Like the wreck master's machine, Dorn's suit mirrored his movements and amplified his strength. His first instinct, which he knew to be wrong, was to wrap an arm around the other man's throat and choke him. A none too sophisticated strategy that might work on an unprotected victim, but would do little more than annoy his armored opponent.

Three strides took Dorn into striking range. A bundle of cables, all of which led to servo-operated joints, was in easy reach. Dorn grabbed two and yanked. They pulled free at the same moment that Castor detected his presence and launched a backhanded blow. The impact bounced Dorn's head off the inside of his helmet and triggered rows of indicator lights. The suit comp, which assumed that its client was operating in the vacuum of space, squirted sealer into a zigzag puncture. Castor boomed through Dorn's speakers. "So, the rat-boy fights back. Clever... but not clever enough."

The words might have had more impact except for the fact that the severed cables left the wreck master with only partial use of the exoskeleton's right leg. He lurched forward, arms outstretched.

Dorn backed away. He remembered how his sister had taunted him, had insisted on a workout in spite of his sprained ankle, and called him names while he limped around the room. He'd wondered about those sessions ... Were they training, as she claimed? Or an excuse to kick his butt? Consistency suggested the former, while her manner hinted at the latter.

"You sprained your ankle? So what? You think that's going to slow 'em down? Hell, no, they're going to work on that ankle and hope to take you out. Which is what
you
should do if you ever get the chance."

Dorn stepped in, faked a head strike, pivoted on his left boot, and launched a kick toward the weakened leg. It made contact, and something gave. Castor swore and fell in Dorn's direction. Dorn backpedaled but didn't make it. Metal forearms hit his shoulders, followed by the full weight of Castor's steel body. The wreck master grinned, raised the head cage, and smashed Dorn's face plate.

Dorn, still falling backwards, clutched the other man's machine with his left hand, and delivered a blow with his right. It hit a metal crosspiece, and the wreck master laughed. "You might as well accept it, boy ... I'll be walking the beach while you feed the fish!"

The suit protected him from most of the impact as Dorn hit the deck. But something, he wasn't sure what, passed through six layers of fabric and stabbed him in the side. The pain was intense. He struggled to concentrate.

Every single one of the suit's indicator lights had turned red, all except for the auxiliary tool drivers, both of which glowed emerald green. Dorn looked into the other man's eyes, produced a weary grin, and chinned a switch. "So long, asshole ... try this on for size!"

The drill made a screeching sound as the eight-inch bit bored through a sheet of rusty yellow metal and entered the wreck master's side. He screamed, and thrashed from side to side as the red-hot metal entered his body, but Dorn held on. It was only when the light left the wreck master's eyes, and his body went limp, that Dorn lost consciousness.

When he came to, a damage alarm was beeping in his ear and Castor was staring at a point somewhere over his head. He positioned his hands under the exoskeleton's frame, pushed, and felt the suit amplify his effort. The machine rolled off him and clattered against the deck.

Now that it knew he was conscious, the space armor printed a message across his heads-up display, and spoke the words as well. "You sustained a serious penetrating wound to the lower left quadrant of your back. There has been no damage to internal organs insofar as this unit can tell, but you suffered significant blood loss, and require emergency care. You sustained ..."