12

Shit happens.

Human folk saying

Circa 1998

Aboard the Will of God and at The Place of Wandering Waters

While it was true that all of the computers, instruments, control boards, processors, wiring, and other equipment necessary to run the ship could have been crammed into a much smaller space, the Willie's control room was spacious. This stemmed not from the generosity of the ship's owners, or whim on the part of the ship's architects, but from years of hard-won experience. Most species are happier and more efficient when given some elbow room.

So, in spite of the fact that Natalie had the con, and shared the bridge with two members of the crew, neither was closer than ten feet away. They sat within individual cones of light and monitored the constellations of green, amber, and red indicator lights that floated in front of them. Some blinked like stars seen through an atmosphere, while others glowed like beacons in the night.

The command chair was located at the center of the U-shaped control room with a position to either side. Information regarding the ship's course and external environment was available on a huge wraparound screen. Not that it made much difference, because there wasn't much to see or do, which was fine with Natalie. The peace and quiet suited her.

She had chosen the merchant marine to impress her self-absorbed parents, to get out from under their influence, and because she liked the feel of it. Beyond the travel, and the challenge involved, there was something almost religious about the chanting of checklists, the chapellike calm of the control room, and the interaction with the cosmos.

Come to think of it, the atmosphere might explain how ships became screamers, although she thought there were other reasons too, including a need for belonging, especially when loved ones were far away and voyages lasted so long. Peter's voice cut through her thoughts. "Excuse me, Third Officer Voss, but I have what may or may not be a ship at extreme range."

Natalie frowned. A contact? Way the hell out here? Though far from impossible, such encounters were rare and not without danger. "Thank you, Peter. Is there anything more? Hull configuration? Drive type?"

"No, ma'am. Not yet. She's too far away."

"Course? Speed?"

"Same as ours, ma'am."

Natalie pondered the tech's words. The contact was traveling in the same direction and at the same rate of speed. Coincidence? Or something more? The officer spoke, and a wire-thin boom mike captured her words. "Bridge to engineering."

The voice belonged to the chief engineer, a cyborg named O'Tool. He was stationed at the other end of the ship. He wore a headset and answered from wherever he was. The voice was crisp and efficient. "Engineering, aye."

"Give me a five-percent increase in speed. One-percent increments, please."

There was silence for a moment, and when O'Tool spoke, his voice was doubtful. "Has the captain been notified? Fuel costs money, ya know."

"I'm aware of that," Natalie said coolly. "You heard my orders ... carry them out."

There was a pause, followed by a reluctant, "Aye, aye, ma'am," and a nearly imperceptible increase in speed. Natalie waited until the full five percent had been applied, then spoke into her mike. "Communications."

Peter, who sat only ten feet away, turned in Natalie's direction. "Communications, aye."

"Monitor the contact. Inform me if it picks up speed."

The com tech turned to his board. "Aye, aye, ma'am."

Natalie leaned back in her chair. She had planned to wake Captain Jord, but couldn't. Third officers don't have much authority to begin with, and even less if they cave to someone like O'Tool. All she could do was wait and hope the contact increased speed. Anything else would prove the cyborg's point. The minutes ticked by.

Both combatants were naked save for the straps that held the woman's breasts in place and the pouch that secured the man's genitals. A makeshift ring had been established at the center of hold number three. The antagonists circled from left to right and growled at each other.

The man, a wiry weapons tech from Holdar III, pranced this way and that, head down, hands weaving patterns in the air. The woman, a thickly built load master with the words "Kiss this" tattooed on her right buttock, grinned, waved to a person in the crowd, and then, as the man looked in that direction, kicked him under the chin. His head snapped back, he staggered, and his supporters groaned. The woman pursed her lips as if offering a kiss, grinned, and circled left. Friends shouted words of encouragement to the man, placed bets with the ship's purser, and hurled insults at the load master.

Tor Sanko, who had sponsored the fight in order to entertain the crew, sighed and tried to care. The load master was going to kick the weapons tech's ass, anyone could see that, and the whole concept was boring. Sanko sipped from a bottle of Mechnos spring water, sniffed the cologne sprayed on the back of his hand, and considered his surroundings.

The atmosphere was thick with smoke, the odor of unwashed bodies, and the smell of cooking, which, given the number of people crammed aboard the ship, never really abated. The conditions were enough to gag a ship's rat, much less a man of his sensibilities, but the additional bodies were necessary to take the Will of God, con her to the scrapyards on New Hope, and crew his own vessel as well. Especially if there were casualties, and there usually were.

Yes, the pirate decided, prize crews, and the problems associated with them, were as old as piracy itself, which was very old indeed. His thoughts were interrupted by a voice in his ear. "Captain? Cowles here."

Sanko sniffed the cologne. "Shoot."

Cowles, a renegade policeman, convicted organ-legger, and any number of other things, all of which were bad, had the eon. He was shorter than Sanko and smaller. The thronelike command chair was far too large for him, but he liked it. So much so that he hoped to possess it one day, an ambition he kept hidden from Sanko. The bridge crew, most of whom were watching the fight via a pair of security cameras, had their backs to him. He liked that too. "Our quarry increased speed ... orders?"

Sanko reached into a pocket, found the squeeze bottle, and tilted his head back. If he didn't administer the drops, his eyes would become painfully dry. The liquid was cold and ran down his cheeks. It was the closest thing to tears he ever experienced. There were various options. He could match the other ship's speed and, if the screamers were aware of his presence, confirm their worst fears. Or, he could ease the other crew's concerns by maintaining his present speed, remembering he'd have to use more fuel to catch them later on, a factor that would lower his profit margin. The pirate lifted his head and dabbed at his eyes.

The weapons tech hit the load master in the gut. She gave a grunt, seized his shoulders, and brought her forehead down on his nose. The man clutched his face, staggered backwards, and fell into the crowd. Arms caught the tech and shoved him forward. If he lost, his supporters did too. Then the woman kicked him in the balls, watched her opponent collapse, and struck a pose. Muscles rippled beneath tawny skin. Her fans roared their approval. Cowles, who had grown impatient by now, cleared his throat. "Captain?"

"Yes," Sanko replied irritably. "I'm thinking. Try it some time."

Cowles, who thought all the time, spoke through clenched teeth. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Yes, you are," Sanko answered serenely. "Very sorry indeed. But that's beside the point. The fact is that we should take them now, while they're scared, and a long way from planetfall. But Orr would throw a hissy fit, our crew is only half sober, and the screamers could get lucky. That's why I think it would be better to match their speed, keep the pressure on, and wait for a while. There's nothing like a little anticipation to wear the enemy down."

Cowles, who would have ignored Orr's preferences and to hell with the consequences, said "Aye, aye, sir," passed the word to engineering, and waited to see what would happen. The mouse had been warned. What would it do?

A V-shaped wave rolled toward the far end of the lake as nine large bodies propelled themselves toward the net. Rollo was the tenth. He nosed the ball forward, followed the team's center, and waited for the signal. It didn't take long. Torx, who had an excellent vantage point behind Rollo's neck, watched the defenders and sent a message with his knees.

An observer might have assumed that each nudge was identical .. . and would've been wrong. The duration of each contact varied slightly, as did the amount of pressure exerted, and the speed with which they were sent. Not only that, but specialized sections of a Dromo's epidermis served to facilitate communication. Rollo, his plate-sized feet touching bottom from time to time, surged forward, hooked the ball with his horn, and flipped it upward. Torx caught the ball, faked a forward pass, and dumped to Horlo, who rode a Dromo named Creed.

Creed, responding to Horlo's knee signals, went left, passed between two of the opposing team's guards, and pushed toward the net. Horlo eyed the distance to the goal, saw it was too far to throw, and dropped the ball in front of his still churning mount. Creed horn-hooked the globe into the air ... and head-butted it toward the goal.

The goalies, a pair known for their miraculous saves, moved to intercept. The Treeth, using his mount's back as a springboard, leapt into the air, extended his paws, and swore as the ball passed between them. The visiting team came complete with its own pep squad. They were a rowdy group and bellowed their disappointment as the ball hit the net.

Rollo, being low in the water, had been unable to see the goal, and waited for Torx to pass the news. He did, and the Dromo roared his joy. The match, which had been broadcast all over the planet by means of tree-mounted vid cams, was an important step toward the regional playoffs.

The ensuing celebration, complete with a good deal of bragging, water churning, horn jousting, dra drinking, and weed feasting, went on for the better part of six standard intervals, and left Rollo unprepared for the summons.

It came as such messages usually did, not by means of the planet's perfectly good satellite system, but attached to the leg of a less than efficient courier bird, long forsworn by everyone but the council, and rightfully so, given the fact that the creatures took time out from their journeys to hunt, feed, and sleep, leaving the recipients of their questionable services only days, or in some cases hours, to make the long and somewhat arduous pilgrimage to the pool of contemplation, where the elders fed on prime bottom weed, wrangled over points of procedure, and occasionally made decisions. Or so it seemed to young and often impatient Dromos such as Rollo.

After having relieved the courier of its burden, and thumbing a print-sensitive receipt, Torx released the bird to the sky. The bird was low, and still beating toward the south, when the Treeth leaned forward and dangled the document before Rollo's eyes. The larger creature read the message, fought to clear his dra-addled mind, and read it again. ' 'Honorable blah, blah, blah, it is the council's pleasure to grant you an audience, and hereby orders you to appear pursuant to blah, blah, blah, at interval eight, day fifteen, of the second month... Torx! The elders granted our request for an audience! Come, we must leave immediately."

Torx, long accustomed to his companion's impatient ways, was quick to agree. He filed the document in a waterproof saddlebag and took his place on Rollo's neck. The other Treeth, disappointed to see Torx go, wished him a safe journey.

It was a short swim to the lagoon where both teams had left their motorized tugs. They were small machines, consisting of little more than a streamlined hull, rechargeable power cell, electric motor, sensor array, and onboard computer. The tugs served the same purpose ground cars did, pulling the Dromo over long distances and, thanks to a global positioning system, navigating the planet's complex waterways with ease.

Torx summoned Rollo's tug with a hand-held remote and guided his rotund friend into the harness without wetting his feet. Like all Treeth, Torx was descended from tree dwellers and regarded water as inherently dangerous. The tug surged forward, took up the slack, and pulled Rollo toward the south. A wave formed in front of the Dromo's chest, rippled along his flanks, and left a V-shaped wake. Torx, who had assumed a reclining position on his companion's mostly dry back, watched the scenery slide by. It was the only aspect of water-borne travel that he enjoyed.

Hours passed, the sun went down, and the sentients fell asleep. Hunters emerged from their daytime lairs, bodies slithered down through tall grass, and eyes peered into the darkness. The robotug sensed their presence, knew which ones to avoid, and ignored the rest. The motor hummed, the destination beckoned, and the tug bored through the night.

The Willie's mess had been designed to accommodate the crew in three shifts, which accounted for why it was so crowded. All the ship's officers were there, with the single exception of Russo, who had the con. Also present, and none too happy about it, were Ka-Di and Sa-Lo, who had been invited by the captain himself. The assemblage stirred as Jord, fully dressed for a change, entered the compartment. His eyes, black as space itself, flicked around the room.

"Everyone's here ... good. We have a ship on our tail, and, judging by the fact that it alters speed every time we do, it could be a pirate."

Jord surveyed the compartment and tested each individual with the intensity of his stare. "So," he continued, "the question is why. Why would a pirate ship take an interest in the Will of God? Especially in light of the fact that our cargo consists of hybrid water-weed seedlings, low-grade replacement parts, scientific data modules, and medical supplies. Yes, the cargo is worth money, but not the kind that would attract attention, not unless we have something else on board, something or someone of much greater value."

Natalie was still processing what the captain had said, still trying to understand what he meant, when Jord looked her way. "A couple of possibilities come to mind. The first has to do with Third Officer Voss. Her family owns a shipping line, or did, and the pirates might have ransom on their minds." Jord turned to die Traa. "Then there's our passengers to consider. Perhaps the pirates want them."

The Traa stiffened but were otherwise motionless.

Natalie thought about Orr, the lawyers he'd sent after her, and the explosion that had taken her parents' lives. Would the industrialist destroy an entire ship? Just to take her life? Maybe ... but what good would that do unless ... Suddenly it came to her, the fact that Dorn would be eighteen soon, and old enough to affix his print to legal documents. With her out of the way, and the right amount of pressure on Dora, the industrialist could acquire the gap for a song.

Jord's voice brought her back. "I think we need look no farther than our third officer's face to confirm my theory."

Natalie scanned the mess and, with the possible exception of the XTs, who wore what she interpreted as neutral expressions, saw nothing but dislike on the faces that surrounded her. She tried to explain. "Yes, the people on the other ship could be after me, but it's far from certain, and I had no idea..."

"Please," Jord said holding a hand palm outward, "save the self-justification for someone else. Your family's tendency to put their interests above all others is well known. I should have known better, should have waited for a more reliable officer, but succumbed to my own impatience and greed. I hereby apologize to the ship's company and, assuming that we manage to survive, will give blood to the altar of life."

Natalie wanted to respond, wanted to explain, but knew their minds were closed. There were other nonbelievers aboard, but none held officer rank or were at the meeting. Only the Traa had what might have been sympathetic expressions.

"So what's the plan?" O'Tool asked, light glinting off the right side of his face. "Do we run or fight?"

"We run and prepare to fight," Jord said grimly, "assuming they stay on our tail. I propose to reach The Place of Wandering Waters before our pursuers do and deliver our cargo. Once down, we can wait or fight our way out. The choice will be ours."

There was discussion after that, but most of it was pointless, and the captain's plan was approved. The crowd dispersed, O'Tool brought the drives to max, and the Willie hurtled through space.

The pool of contemplation was a lake-sized body of water, fed by no less than two separate rivers and open to numerous waterways, each of which was guarded by a pair of ancient stone towers. Rollo knew that there were other, more modern means of defense hidden all around, but couldn't see them as the tug pulled him through "fool's" gate, where the rebels of 1810 had made their final stand.

Lagoons passed to either side. Some were empty, or thick with weed, but most teemed with life. Torx saw hundreds of Treeth and Dromos laboring in front of waterborne holo screens as announcements blared, flags snapped in the breeze, and robotugs churned this way and that. It was quite colorful, and very much what government should look like, or so it seemed to Torx.

Tugs were not permitted within the pool of contemplation itself, so Rollo surrendered his machine to an attendant and proceeded under his own power. Once he was within the ancient gathering place, formally sanctified by the great King Halory, time seemed to slow. A long series of attendants, each more solemn than his or her predecessor, greeted visitors, checked their credentials, offered ritual advice, and passed them on. Finally, after an hour of such nonsense, the summons that had brought Rollo from hundreds of miles away was read with the same agonizing deliberation given to changes in the tax code. Then, just when it seemed as if some progress had been made, and the co-marshals would be ushered into the pool, they were ordered to wait. Government officials came and went so slowly that their movements left no wake. The calendar slipped, then slipped again, as emergencies arose and were dealt with. Finally, as the sun started to set and the moon rose over the eastern horizon, a Dromo surfaced at the center of the lagoon. Her Treeth, a bedraggled-looking creature, much abused by all appearances, shook itself, and water flew in every direction. "Citizen Rollo? Citizen Torx? This way, please."

The Dromo found it difficult to swim as slowly as his guide did, and felt a growing sense of excitement as he was led out to the area where a ring of floating lights signaled which part of the pool was in use that day, surrounding as it did the seventeen elders, not to mention their various aides, assistants, advisors, and hangers-on.

Finally, after passing through a series of identity checks, detector screenings, and a rather insulting pat-down, Rollo and Torx were admitted to the center of the ring, where presenters traditionally floated, their audience arrayed before them. The Master at Arms, a huge bull who had been around so long no one could remember when he hadn't been, announced their presence. His voice rolled like thunder and brought an elder to the surface. He looked annoyed and had a giant wad of weed in his mouth. "The council has the privilege of greeting Commerce Marshal Rollo Drekno-Hypont III, and Co-Marshal Pilo Horlon-Torx."

An elder, barely visible in the quickly gathering darkness, blew water out through his nostrils. It spattered in front of him. "Thank you for coming. The council reviewed your summary and is ready to hear the entire presentation. Please proceed."

Rollo, who had been working toward this moment for months, remembered his mother's admonition to be careful what you ask for, and took a deep breath. "Thank you. It's an honor to be here. Our thesis is as follows: First, in the absence of faster-than-ship communication, transportation and interstellar communication amount to the same thing.

"Second, that the steady consolidation of shipping lines through bankruptcy, mergers, and secret partnerships threatens to leave transportation and communications in the hands of an ever dwindling number of individuals and races.

"Third, that the use of wormholes, or gaps as they are more popularly known, serves to exacerbate the situation, especially in light of the fact that at least one and maybe two of these discontinuities have fallen under Traa control."

"Implying what?" a voice growled from Rollo's right. "That the Traa are attempting to undermine the Confederacy? Or that they are extraordinarily successful? Which, to the best of my knowledge, continues to be legal."

Rollo chin-splashed his respect. Like all of his kind, the Dromo had excellent night vision that grew even better after the sun had set. That's why he was able to see the elder and the injury that earned him the nickname "Half-horn." He chose his words with care. "You are correct. Any analysis by members of one race that reaches potentially negative conclusions about the motives, actions, and outcomes of another should be regarded with the utmost skepticism. And the evidence supporting such claims should be of the highest caliber."

"And you have such evidence?" an octogenarian named Grodley inquired, his equally elderly Treeth asleep on his back.

"Yes," Rollo replied calmly. "I think we do."

"Then let's see it," a third voice called. "It's late, and I tire of governmental babble."

Rollo, who didn't appreciate having his carefully rehearsed presentation characterized as "governmental babble," swallowed his ire. "Yes, ma'am. Torx?"

Torx, who had provided the council's staff with the appropriate data cube earlier in the afternoon, touched a button on his hand-held remote. The entire north end of the lake was replaced by a volcano, and no sooner had the elders identified the object for what it was than the mountain exploded, hurled rock hundreds of feet into the air, and released clouds of superheated gas. The lava, which hissed realistically where it flowed into the lake, was reddish orange.

Rollo checked his audience to make sure that he had their complete and undivided attention, saw that he did, and continued the presentation. "The Mountain of the Moons is located in the northern hemisphere of the planet La-Tri.

"The eruption took place about three local months ago, and, due to the fact that approximately one-third of the Traa population was gathered below, killed more than eight hundred thousand members of that race."

"Which implies a rather small population," Half-horn said thoughtfully. "Especially when compared to the humans."

"Exactly," Rollo said, pleased that at least one elder understood the importance of what he'd said. "And, since the Dromo and the Treeth are even less numerous than the Traa, we are uniquely qualified to grasp the enormity of what occurred.

"Of equal and perhaps more importance, however, is who died during that eruption. Traa psychology is significantly different from our own, in that it stems from a highly stratified society in which each individual belongs to one of three highly specialized septs. Generally speaking, these groups could be said to consist of commercial beings, warriors, and priests."

"So?" Council Member Grodley inquired. "What's your point?"

"Simply this," Rollo answered patiently. "Nearly all of those killed by the volcanic eruption were members of the religious sept, and, because they represented a sort of racial conscience, the overall society is out of balance. That being the case, the commercial and warrior septs are doing what comes naturally, which is to control everything they can."

There was silence as the elders took it in. Council Member Dor-Zander, his eyes glowing with reflected moonlight, was first to speak. "Let me see if I understand ... You're saying that the Traa evolved a group, rather than an individualized, conscience, and lacking that, are mentally unbalanced. So much so that they are a threat to us, the Confederacy, and themselves. I find that rather hard to believe."

"Really?" Rollo asked, peering through the dark. "Judging from appearances, I'd say that your Treeth companion is a good deal younger than you are. What happened to her predecessor? And how did you feel at the time?"

The bond between Dromo and Treeth was so ancient that neither race could be sure of its origins. But there was absolutely no doubt that they had coevolved, with the Dromo providing the protection needed on a hostile planet, while the Treeth contributed their hands and their subsequent ability to make and use tools, along with the capacity to go where Dromos couldn't—an absolute necessity where activities such as mining were concerned.

Later, as communication became more important to their joint destinies, the fact that the Dromos evolved spoken language, while the Treeth relied on various forms of nonverbal expression, had served to further bind the races together. All of which was known to the elders, as was the fact that the relationship between a Dromo and his or her Treeth, normally established during the first five years of life, was of much more importance than bonds with family, friends, or an eventual mate. Which was why Rollo had asked the question and Dor-Zander had been slow to respond. "Fabra died in an accident and I felt as if half of me went with her. I stand corrected. Comment withdrawn."

"So," Half-horn said slowly, "let's assume that you're correct regarding Traa psychology. What sort of data has been gathered to support your thesis?"

"An, excellent question," Rollo answered respectfully. "Torx?"

The Treeth touched a button, and the first of twenty-five documents appeared over the lake. It took the better part of a standard interval to review all the data that Rollo and Torx had collected. Traa holdings had increased enormously during the last quarter, and, based on a combination of public records, reports of secret transactions, and a certain amount of educated guesswork, there was little doubt that the aliens were up to no good.

However, suspicions are one thing, and facts are another, as an elder named Horla Dormire-Proxley made clear. "You offer an impressive case, Marshal, very impressive indeed, but where's the proof? Most of the activities you documented are entirely legal, and the rest of your evidence is highly speculative."

Rollo knew she was correct, and was searching for the right reply, when Torx tapped one into his shoulder. He passed it along. "Yes, it is highly speculative, which is why we haven't charged anyone with a crime."

"Which brings us to the next logical question," Half-horn added. "Given the fact that you represent the Confederacy itself, and have its resources at your disposal, why call upon us?"

Rollo and Torx found themselves in a delicate position. They were planetary citizens, and as such had every right to appear before the council and ask for support, but as law enforcement officers, sworn to put the interests of the Confederacy above all else, they were expected to steer clear of politics. Which was a nearly impossible task, given the fact that the Confederacy was by its very nature a highly political organization. The Dromo chose his words with care.

"In order to implement their plans, and seize control of the Confederacy's economic infrastructure, the Traa seek control of a wormhole called the Mescalero Gap. The owners died under questionable circumstances, and their daughter, a human named Natalie Voss, will arrive here soon. Once that occurs, and the female comes under our protection, we will proceed with our investigation.

"At that point, or as soon as their agents learn of our activities, the Traa diplomatic corps will swing into action and do everything they can to block our efforts. They support a powerful lobby backed by a network of secret alliances, partnerships, and agreements. High-level officials will be persuaded to put pressure on our superiors at the Commerce Department, and, after a certain amount of squirming, they will attempt to limit our investigation."

"And you want our diplomats to counter such efforts and build support for your activities," Half-horn said thoughtfully.

"Yes, sir."

"Have you any idea of how difficult that will be?" the old bull demanded. "We'll be accused of everything from racism to public nudity. All of our initiatives will come under fire."

"Yes, sir."

"All right," Half-horn said wearily. "You heard him. All in favor of taking on a really difficult, thankless, and execrable job, say 'Aye.' "

Rollo heard a basso chorus of "Ayes," and not a single nay.

"So, it's agreed," Half-horn said. "We'll do what we can. Now leave us. The council has another two intervals' worth of work to do."

Rollo chin-splashed, made for an exit, and thought about what they'd accomplished. The first battle had been won. The second would be a lot more difficult.