Where the Ships Die Page 5

  So, to prevent that course of events, and guarantee his son's continued good health, the organism would be removed in three years. The symbiote could and probably would resist such interference, so chemicals would be used to subdue it.

  Orr Enterprises scientists were already hard at work searching for the proper combination of compounds just in case a disagreement arose, though The Traa knew what the chemicals were, and were supposed to divulge that information in three years' time. It was their way of holding Jason hostage to his father's word, which was a rather important point from their perspective, since they were putting up more than half the credits required to buy the Mescalero Gap. They certainly didn't want their controlling interest to be known—not until the Confederacy was safely under their control, that is.

  It was not what Orr wanted for his son, or what any father would have wanted, but it was necessary. Because if the industrialist had learned anything during his life, it was that nothing remains constant, and that success must be won over and over again. For, like the organism in question, Orr Enterprises had a single choice. It could find additional resources, and hope to grow larger, or remain as it was, and eventually die. The first alternative sounded a heck of a lot better than the second. The businessman smiled behind his mask. A microbot slithered down into the bottom of the incision, pulled the margins into alignment, and bonded them together.

  Lunch went poorly, a fact that shouldn't have surprised Natalie but did. In spite of the fact that she should have known better, the young woman had hoped that her parents had changed, had matured somehow, and were genuinely interested in her. Nothing could have been farther from the truth. In fact, the dishes had barely been cleared from the table when the conversation switched from a perfunctory interest in her career to a terraforming project gone wrong, and what that meant to the company.

  Not just their company, as her mother pointed out, but her company as well, since she and Dorn had been given equal shares in Voss Lines at birth, and would inherit someday. Not that Natalie especially wanted to.

  In any case, it soon became apparent that the real purpose of the lunch was to advise Natalie of their intention to negotiate a loan and secure her thumbprint on the necessary screens, an approval Dorn didn't have to give since his eighteenth birthday was still months away.

  So, with lunch out of the way, and conversation on the decline, the three departed for Orr Towers, a pair of high-rise buildings that dominated Fortuna's skyline and proclaimed their owner's power. The visitors were received with the pomp and ceremony that befitted both their past and present status, for even with their shipping line on the ropes, Howard and Mary Voss still owned a wormhole, and were theoretically wealthy.

  As a high-speed, executive-only elevator whisked them toward the top of a tower, Natalie found reason to regret the way she was dressed for the second time that day—especially compared to her mother's custom-tailored business suit, tasteful gold jewelry, and perfect nails. She sighed. It was just one more way in which she failed to measure up.

  The elevator stopped and the doors swished open. Carnaby Orr had been warned that they were on the way and came to greet them. He shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, and ushered them into a fashionably furnished office. It looked out on Discovery Bay. Natalie watched a free trader make its final approach, skim over the whitecaps, and belly flop in. Spray flew upward, and she wished she were there. Someone said her name and she took a seat instead.

  Both parties knew what they wanted and were eager to begin. Mary seized the initiative. "You know why we came ... your holding company and its subsidiaries have been buying Voss Lines piecemeal for the last six months or so."

  Orr shrugged. "Properties came on the market and we liked them. It was business ... nothing personal."

  Mary Voss couldn't think of anything more personal, and knew Orr felt the same way, but understood his point. The industrialist hadn't done anything to destroy Voss Lines...she'd managed that all by herself. "Of course. We never thought otherwise. Which brings us to the present. Howard and I have a business proposition for you ... one that should be mutually beneficial."

  Orr knew what was coming, and didn't have any intention of agreeing to it, but forced a smile anyway. "I love mutually beneficial business propositions. Fire away."

  Natalie watched as her mother pitched the idea, explained how the loan would benefit Orr Enterprises, and minimized the extent to which she and her husband needed it. There were adders too, including language that would provide Orr's ships with a discount on tolls, and priority ratings that would shave days off shipping intervals. It was a masterful presentation, and might have worked, had Orr been interested. He waited for Mary to finish, nodded pleasantly, and said, "An excellent proposal, and tempting too, except that I have something different in mind."

  Orr's counterpresentation was short and to the point. He, along with certain unidentified partners, was prepared to buy the Mescalero Gap outright, and for a rather generous sum, provided that the Voss family would agree to a large down payment, with substantial bubble payments each year for twenty years.

  The figures were enormous, and Natalie felt her jaw drop as her mother not only refused, but took offense as well. Mary stood and looked at Orr through narrowed eyes. "The wormhole is worth twice what you offered, and you know it! Not that it makes a damned bit of difference. The gap is not now, nor will it ever be, for sale, especially to you. Good day, sir."

  The atmosphere in the elevator was thick with anger as the threesome made their way down and into the street. Natalie had intended to ask after Dorn, to check on his progress at school, but she was dismissed with a kiss. Her parents couldn't wait to enter the private place where she'd never been allowed, where they could discuss the meeting and plan their next move.

  Disappointed, and more than a little lonely, Natalie took a cab to Freeport. Once there she strapped herself into a loader. The exoskeleton stood twelve feet high. It had been orange once, but the abrasive effects of time, salt, and constant use had leached the pigment out of the bright paint, and left islands of unadorned steel. But the machine made for an excellent vantage point and provided Natalie with an unencumbered view of the harbor.

  She used the machine's optics to find her parents' freighter and watch it break free of the land. Clearances were given, drives were engaged, and repellors were fired. Water boiled and steam enveloped the ship as the hull broke free of the surface. Five or six seconds passed before the ship appeared over its self-generated shroud and rose toward the sky.

  The spacecraft was approximately a thousand feet in the air when the first explosion shook its hull. The second came seconds later and was followed by a third. A miniature sun appeared, overloaded Natalie's optics, and vanished. Thunder rolled and broke 246 of Orr's specially treated windows, damaged thousands more within the city of Fortuna, and was heard fifty miles away.

  The metal was still falling, still splashing into the water, when Natalie realized that her parents were dead, that she was alone, and that things would never be the same again.

  5

  Only by great risks can great results be achieved.

  Xerxes

  A comment made prior

  to the invasion of Greece (which failed)

  Standard year 480 B.C.

  The Planet New Hope

  Dorn was ready a full hour before the agreed-upon pickup time, but made the driver wait for an extra fifteen minutes. It was something he'd learned from his mother, who said it made her seem more important, in spite of the fact that she was important, and had been for a long time.

  Satisfied that the limo had been waiting for a sufficient length of time, and that the driver was impatient to leave, the young man checked the mirror and was pleased with what he saw. Dorn had dark hair, brown eyes, and a jaw that was firm like his father's. A pleasant, some said good-looking, face.

  The suit had been in the last care package received from his parents. It was tight through the shoulders but consistent wit
h the image he hoped to project. He wore a white shirt secured with a gold Voss Lines pin, a waist-length jacket, and a lot of gold braid. Black trousers and shiny half-boots completed the outfit.

  Dorn checked to make sure that his bankroll was zipped into an inside pocket, felt the fifty-credit note in his right boot, and surveyed the room. It was home now, which meant everything had its place, just like school.

  The door made a reassuring click as it closed. The teenager tested the knob, assured himself that the lock was engaged, and made for the stairs. Dorn descended to the lobby, waved to the desk clerk, and stepped through the main entrance. The air was warm and humid. Too humid for the clothes he wore. Dorn half expected to find Rali crouched by the stairs but saw no sign of the boy.

  The limo was an older model, but so well maintained that it looked new, and hummed like a much younger machine. The driver, a villainous-looking brute with long arms and an underthrust jaw, opened the door. Dorn nodded politely and slipped inside. The door closed, and he was enveloped by a cloud of perfume. The voice came from the shadows at the far end of the seat. It had a husky quality. "Hello, Dorn ... my name's Candy."

  A lighter flared as Candy lit a stim stick and offered the cylinder to Dorn. She was pretty, very pretty, and a few years older than he. "Smoke?"

  Dorn felt very grown-up as he accepted the cigarette and took a drag. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Candy ... thanks for the stim stick."

  "No," Candy replied as she moved closer, "the pleasure is mine." Slender fingers caressed Dorn's thigh and slid up toward his groin. The teenager blushed as an erection pushed its way up to meet her touch. "Oh, my," Candy said softly, "look what we have here."

  What happened next took Dorn by surprise. One moment he was sitting there, minding his own business, and the next thing he knew his fly was open, and Candy had taken him into her hot, wet mouth. The fragrance of her hair, combined with the delicious sensation, produced an almost instantaneous result. The pleasure was intense but brief.

  Dorn was mortified, didn't know what to say or do, and wondered if the driver knew. He was relieved when his companion sat up and straightened her hair. She smiled. If she thought poorly of him, there was no sign of it on her face. "You needed that."

  The teenager nodded gratefully, fed the cigarette to an ashtray, and dealt with his zipper. It was hard to be subtle. The limo had been in motion for a while now, and he had no idea where he was. Candy opened a bar. She offered him a glass. "Drink?"

  Dorn accepted. He didn't like alcohol, but knew his character would, and took a sip. The liquor was sweet and glided down his throat. He waited for a moment, felt fine, and drank the rest.

  "Another?"

  Dorn nodded, allowed Candy to refill his glass, and was careful to sip rather than drink it. Better safe than sorry, not to mention the fact that refreshments could cost money, and he needed the credits he had. Which raised an important question. What about Candy? Were her services free? Or was he supposed to pay? His character would know, but he didn't.

  The limo made a left-hand turn, entered the cantina's parking lot, and slid to a stop. A streetlight threw shadows across Candy's face. She looked older now and a little bit tired. Dora finished his drink and cleared his throat. "Do I...?"

  Candy understood perfectly and shook her head. "No, but a tip would be nice."

  Dorn fumbled for his roll, peeled a ten off the top, and handed it over. Candy seemed pleased, kissed his cheek in a sisterly fashion, and made the currency disappear. "Good luck, sweetie ... I hope you break the bank."

  Dorn thanked her, stepped out onto the pavement, and tipped the limo driver. The world swayed, then righted itself as the vehicle pulled away. The youth staggered, took his bearings from the cantina's brightly lit sign, and lurched in that direction. The air was cooler now and cleared his head. The sound of music reached up to the bank. He followed it onto the barge. Light streamed through the door and pooled on the deck.

  The doorman called Dorn "sir," and smiled engagingly. A man in evening clothes appeared, inquired as to his name, and snapped his ringers. A pretty young woman seized Dorn's arm and led him across the room. He used the trip to examine his surroundings. The room, which had been empty during his initial visit, was nearly full. There were locals out for a good time, spacers in from the black, and an assortment of other individuals who wore expressions of silent desperation and looked as though their entire futures rode on the next toss of their dice—a situation Dorn could empathize with.

  There were null gravity roulette wheels, 3-D holo tables, virtual reality scenarios, and a variety of more traditional offerings, including Dorn's choice, a poker-derived electrocard game called Rockets and Stars.

  The hostess led Dorn to a circular table and paused. It was occupied by a rather prosperous-looking middle-aged man, a woman dressed in a blue shipsuit with the name Galaxy Queen stitched over the left breast pocket, and an XT who, judging from the trade jewelry draped around his neck, owed his allegiance to an Alhanthian merchant clan. The alien had a pronounced supraorbital ridge, barely visible red eyes, and vertical nostril slits. He, she, or it looked around the table, gestured toward some upturned cards, and croaked, "Read 'em and defecate."

  "That's read 'em and weep," the middle-aged man said indulgently, "although you may decide to follow your own advice when you see my cards."

  "Cut the posturing and let's get on with it," the woman said curtly. "You gonna raise or not?"

  The XT threw its cards on the table and leaned back. "Not."

  "That's what I thought," the spacer replied contemptuously. "How 'bout you, Pops? You got the balls?"

  "All my organs are intact, thank you," the man said urbanely. "But I choose to fold."

  "Of course you do," the ship's officer said, raking the chips in, " 'cause you're a ground-pounding wimp."

  The woman who had accompanied Dorn to the table cleared her throat. "Excuse me, gentlebeings, but I have the fourth player you requested. Citizen Voss, allow me to introduce Citizen Van Kirk, First Officer Harlan, and Citizen Pennuli. Five hundred credits are required to enter the game, the house takes five percent of each pot, and there are no limits. The dealer is using standard decks plus two supernovas. Questions? No? I'll buy your chips and bring them to the table."

  Dorn felt the other player's eyes on him, wondered if they recognized the name, and hoped they didn't. He fumbled the bankroll out of its hiding place, wished he'd thought to do so earlier, and selected the correct number of bills. The hostess accepted the money, nodded pleasantly, and walked away. Van Kirk smiled and gestured toward a chair. "Take a load off, son. Welcome to the game."

  Dorn nodded, took his seat, and tried to look impassive as the woman reappeared, placed three stacks of chips in front of him, and signaled a waiter. The drink was complimentary and warmed his throat. The dealer, a house-owned android, and one of the few that Dorn had seen on New Hope, was mounted at the center of the table. It could rotate 360 degrees and came equipped with a head, torso, and four arms. Each arm bore a finely articulated hand. Two shuffled a deck of cards while the others prepared to deal. The robot had a dour, nearly funereal expression, as if gambling were a serious business, which it undoubtedly was. A layer of dust frosted the upper surfaces of its black tuxedo.

  "So," Pennuli croaked, "what the hell are we waiting for? Deal."

  The machine bowed at the waist and servos whirred as it turned and dealt at the same time. Cards sailed out, skidded over green felt, and accumulated in front of the players. Dorn waited until his entire hand had been dealt before picking it up. The XT did likewise, while Van Kirk and Harlan examined each card as it arrived. Dorn fought the desire to arrange the rectangles in order of value.

  Although the cards were as thin as their cardboard predecessors, they came equipped with high-definition video screens. Since each card had thirteen potential values, one for each card in a suit, a hand consisted of whatever symbol happened to be on-screen, plus the next image in queue. That meant each p
layer could retain what they'd been dealt, trigger a new image, or fold. Dorn had two rockets, a planet, a star, and an asteroid. Not bad, but not good, not yet anyway. While he was not as experienced as those around him, the teenager had an excellent memory, and knew that the odds against making two pair were only 5 to 1, and that the odds against three of a kind were a quite reasonable 8 to 1, based on a three-card draw. The supernovas changed the odds, however—and the math made him squint.

  Dorn glanced around the table, saw that the others were examining their cards, and made the obvious decision. A pair was better than nothing, so he'd keep the rockets and try for three, or even four of a kind.

  The first round of betting took place before the players— those who wanted to—morphed their cards. Dorn felt his heart beat a little faster as he pushed the equivalent of twenty-five credits towards the center of the table. Then, holding his breath against what he might see, the teenager made the necessary decisions. The asteroid had the lowest value, so he pressed the card's lower right hand corner, and watched it morph to a comet. Damn! The planet came next. The teenager held his breath, triggered the card, and watched the image change. Planet to planet. Damn! The star, then... it had to be the star. Dorn tried again and felt a tremendous sense of excitement as the sun transformed itself into a rocket. He had triplets ... and a chance of winning.

  "So," Pennuli said, as he pushed a small stack of chips out onto the table, "twenty credits says homo saps are losers."

  "Dream on," Harlan said tightly. "I'll see your twenty and raise you five."

  "I'll pass," Van Kirk said easily. "How 'bout you, son? Are you in or out?"

  Another drink had appeared next to Dorn's elbow, and the youngster took a sip. "I'm in."

  The XT had a pair, Harlan had two pair, and Dorn took the pot. It, along with the alcohol that had found its way into his bloodstream, boosted his confidence. Time passed. Everybody took pots, but Dorn was most consistent. His chips doubled. He remembered Tull’s advice. Assuming he had located a job, and saved every credit he made, it would have taken months to accumulate the chips in front of him. Dorn laughed, upped the ante, and finished the latest drink.