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 with 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 player 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.

Cards hit the table, voices were raised in protest, and the teenager won again. The room felt warm and the chips wavered as he raked them in. Servos whirred as the droid dealt, and for reasons the teenager couldn't fathom, he felt lucky. And sure enough, after the others collected their cards, and were checking them over, he discovered he had three planets, a rocket, and an asteroid. The rocket morphed to a comet and the asteroid dissolved to a planet. Now he had clones... or four of a kind. The second highest hand there was.

The others must have held fairly good cards, though, because the pot grew and grew until half of Dorn's newfound wealth sat at the center of the table, and sweat soaked through his clothes. That's when disaster struck. The XT produced a pair, and Harlan had triplets, but Van Kirk blew them away. The older man had a star system consisting of a rocket, asteroid, planet, star, and comet. It was the equivalent of a straight flush—and beat the youngster's four of a kind.

Dorn felt fear gnaw his belly as Van Kirk pulled the chips toward his chest and built orderly stacks. The teenager considered dropping out of the game, but couldn't bring himself to do it. No, the older man had what amounted to his money, and he would win it back.

Hours passed, and while there were no further disasters on the scale of the first one, Dorn suffered a long series of minor losses, was forced to buy more chips, and wound up broke except for the fifty hidden in his boot.

But his luck had to change, or so it seemed to Dorn, so he stayed and waited for a break. It came at two in the morning. Dorn was looking at another so-so hand when the dealer droid slipped him a supernova, quickly followed by another, which was nothing less than remarkable, since the deck contained only two of them. Both cards were wild, meaning they could assume any value he gave them. Due to the fact that Dorn had three asteroids, he could claim the equivalent of a full house, the third highest hand possible.

Dorn struggled to hide his elation, bet, and bet again. The others, confident that they could beat the boy, went along. The pot grew larger and larger. Finally, certain of victory, and eager to capitalize on his hand, the teenager pushed the last of his chips toward the center of the table, pulled the fifty out of his boot, and tossed the gold Voss Lines pin on top of the pile. The stacks crumbled—giving way to a red, white, and blue chip avalanche.

There was a moment of silence while the others studied their hands. "I'm probably crazy," Harlan said slowly, "but I want to see what the boy's got. Or doesn't have. I'll see the last bet and call."

More chips were pushed toward the center of the table as cards went face up. Their eyes went to Dorn. He smiled, laid his hand out for all to see, and reached for the pot. He had just started to pull it in when Van Kirk grabbed his arm.' 'Wait a minute, son. A straight beats three of a kind, so what the hell are you doing?"

Dorn was still formulating a reply, still celebrating his win, while his eyes went to the cards. What he saw sent ice water through his veins. The asteroids remained as they were, but the supernovas were gone, replaced by a rocket and a planet. But that was impossible! That was ...

Dorn came to his feet and looked around the table. Blood pounded in his ears, faces wavered, and his hands shook. "All right... which one of you did it? Empty your pockets. Someone used a remote on my cards."

No one moved, and Miss Carmen materialized on the far side of the table. She wore a red evening gown and the arm serpent he'd seen earlier. Two men, both larger than Dorn, stood to either shoulder. She looked cold and disapproving. "Good evening. Do we have a problem of some sort?"

"Yes we do!" Dorn said emphatically. "I had three asteroids, plus two supernovas. Then, just as I went to collect the pot, the novas disappeared."

Miss Carmen raised a carefully drawn eyebrow. "Really? What are you suggesting? That you were cheated?"

"That's exactly what I'm suggesting," Dorn said grimly. "Search these beings ... one of them used an illegal device to alter my cards."

Harlan wore a smirk, Van Kirk shook his head sadly, and Pennuli glared from deeply set sockets. It was as if they'd seen the whole drama before and knew how it would go.

The proprietress frowned delicately. "That's a serious allegation, Citizen Voss, and one that I take seriously, especially in light of the fact that it reflects on my customers and the cantina itself. First, allow me to say that no one, absolutely no one, gives orders to me, especially the drunken sons of bankrupt space trash. That's correct, Citizen Voss, I checked on your has-been family, and you are broke.

"In addition, it might interest you to know that the Cantina Roja is equipped with some rather sophisticated detection systems, so sophisticated that devices like the one you describe are discovered instantly, and confiscated moments later. You lost fair and square. Rudy and Sal will see you to the door. Don't come back."

Dorn tried to move, tried to respond, but discovered that the alcohol had slowed his reflexes. The bouncers moved with practiced ease, lifted the youngster off the floor, and elbow-carried him toward the kitchen. Hot, steamy air parted in front of his face as people in white turned to stare. A door opened, and he saw lights on the far side of the river. He barely had time to shout "No!" before being lifted into the air and thrown over the railing.

Time seemed to slow. Dorn remembered his previous visit, the river, and the exposed mud flats. Was the tide out or in? Would he land in mud or in the water? And what about pilings?

The fall ended. Shockingly cold water enveloped him and filled his boots. The boots, plus the water that soaked the teenager's clothes, weighted him down. Precious moments passed while the current pulled Dorn along. Curiously enough it was his old nemesis, Coach Mahowski, who intervened to save him. The voice, clipped and gruff, sounded in his head.

"This is a swimming pool, Mr. Voss, the purpose of which is not to provide you with entertainment, or provide the skills necessary to impress members of the opposite sex, but to help you survive in the element from which your ancestors crawled millions of years ago. The first rule to remember is that similar to most forms of excrement, underclassmen float, and that being the case, are equipped to survive in the water. What they lack, during the earlier years anyway, is brains—those amazing organs of thought, which, if employed properly, enable young men them to think their way out of most emergencies, or better yet, prevent them from happening in the first place."

Well, it was way too late to prevent the situation that Dorn found himself in, but it wasn't too late to think, and that meant losing some weight.

It was pitch black beneath the surface of the river, the current spun Dorn in circles, and his lungs were about to burst. It took a true act of will to bend over, pull his boots off, rip the buttons from his water logged jacket, and work his way out of it. The results were nearly instantaneous.

The clothing fell away and Dorn rose, propelled by Mahowski's flutter kick and the strength of his arms. They broke the surface first followed by his head and shoulders. Dorn spit foul-tasting water out of his mouth, inhaled great draughts of air, and kicked to keep his head up. He fought to get his bearings while an eddy spun him around. A long line of lights wobbled downstream, but before he could speculate on what they were, the river, working in concert with the outgoing tide, pulled the teenager over a series of rock ledges and into the blackness below.

The water stung as it made its way into countless cuts and scratches. His shoulder hurt where a rock had banged into it. Dorn ignored the pain, headed for the eastern shore, but didn't make much headway. He went ten feet downstream for each foot of lateral progress. The lights grew brighter and were overhead when the youngster hit the fishing net.

Later he would learn that silvers, a species of ocean-dwelling eel, liked to ride the incoming tide upriver to feed on the tiny organisms that flourished where fresh water mixed with salt—until the flow reversed itself, and the silvers were carried downstream. It was a cycle the locals took full advantage of by stretching nets across the river and harvesting as many of the eels as they could. But that knowledge would come later. This was now ... and Dorn was in trouble.

Eels thumped into the boy's back, then pinned him against the net. Most of the silvers were one or two feet long and packed a wallop. He wondered what they ate and hoped it wasn't flesh. Dorn grabbed double handfuls of the net, looked upward, and saw a rickety bridge. The scrap lumber groaned under the force of the water and vibrated like a tuning fork. The teenager pushed his toes through the open mesh and tried to climb. He heard voices and shouted at the top of his lungs. "Help! I'm down here! Pull me up!"

There was a good deal of excited yelling followed by the appearance of a primitive fish-oil lantern and a pair of unshaven faces. One of them boasted a nose that had been flattened and reflattened in a long series of barroom brawls. "Well, look what we got here Packie, an extra big eel. I told you the sacrifice would work."

Packie, a man with high cheekbones and a gaunt face, remained unconvinced. "Sez you. Killin' a dog don't make no difference. It was dumb luck, that's all. The priests drink your money and laugh while you work. Come on, let's haul him out."

Strong, sinewy arms reached down to grab Dorn's wrists, pulled, and lifted him free of the eel-packed waters. The bridge was two planks wide, and it sagged under the combined weight of three people. The teenager looked down into water that churned with silvery life. He was about to thank the men when they grabbed his wrists. The cord went on with amazing speed. Dorn turned, tried to run, but was clubbed to his knees. He felt dizzy and allowed his forehead to rest against the water-slicked wood.

The first man shook his head disapprovingly and slapped the billy club against his left palm. It had dispatched a lot of eels and could easily break a skull. The lantern hung from a pole and cast long, hard shadows. "And where the hell do you think you're going, eel-boy? We caught you fair and square. Put the ropes on, Packie, the silvers are waitin', and we got work to do."

It took the better part of two hours for the fishermen to harvest their catch, remove the net, and load everything, Dorn included, onto a makeshift cart. The wheels were made of wood rimmed with steel. For a penny apiece, plus another when the work was done, an army of street urchins grabbed the vehicle's hand-hewn tongue and pulled the conveyance through the early morning streets.

The fishermen, tired from their night's labors, lounged above Dorn's head and shared the contents of a stoneware jug. He, along with hundreds of dead eels, were thrown from one side of the wagon to the other as the exuberant children pulled their burden through narrow, twisting passageways. Where were they going? And more important, why? Those questions were at the forefront of the young man's mind. At one time or another he had offered the fishermen money he didn't have, and threatened them with Headmaster Tull's wrath, all to no avail. All he could do was wait and hope for the best.

Slums, the likes of which Dorn hadn't seen since his outings with Mr. Halworthy, passed to either side. The smell of sewage was so powerful it overwhelmed the odor produced by the eels and caused the teenager to gag. The thought of what he must have swallowed, and the bacteria that had access to his body, made Dora thankful for the countless inoculations the school had given him.

The cart bounced into a turn, threw Dorn and the silvers sideways, and came to a grinding halt. By craning his neck and looking upward, the teenager saw a weatherbeaten sign. It read "The Keno Labor Exchange" and squeaked as the wind pushed against it.

What had been discomfort mixed with indignation quickly turned to fear. Though protected from most of the planet's less pleasant realities, and never allowed to venture out on their own, Dorn and his fellow students had heard of the so-called labor exchanges, places where sentients of every possible description signed their lives away in return for food and the bare necessities. It amounted to legally sanctioned slavery and had flourished for years.

Dorn struggled against his bonds, and was still struggling when his captors lifted him free of the cart, pushed their way through a crowd of goggle-eyed children, and carried him through a gate. The youth was suspended facedown. He saw mud squish out from under the men's homemade sandals, heard the babble of contentious voices, and the crack of what might have been a whip.

The next sound was the rasp of metal on metal, followed by a male voice. "Throw him in the holding cell and report to the office. Citizen Inwa will pay the finder's fee."

The fishermen took the voice literally, threw Dorn into a cell, and slammed the door behind him. Still tied, and unable to break his fall, the youngster hit hard and skidded across the muck-covered floor. He came to rest next to a man so emaciated he looked like a living skeleton. Sores covered his face, blood flecked his lips, and his eyes seemed dim. They blinked, blinked again, and closed. The words were so weak, so insubstantial, they seemed like ghosts. "Hello, son. Welcome to hell."