15

Scatter what you have to the winds. What you need will appear.

Insula Balloric

Du'Zaath mystic

Standard year 1916

The Planet New Hope

The Nebula Storm had taken up moorage toward the center of Oro's bay, where her crew would be safe from the latest plague variant and the intermittent labor riots that troubled the city. The bright blue water taxi pitched up and down as it passed through another boat's wake. Ari braced herself against the motion and marveled at the fact that the launch was made of wood rather than composites. She turned and saw the Storm wallow as waves rolled in off the ocean. She was an old beast, her hull scarred by countless reentries, patched where meteorites had hit. Her shape reminded Ari of the manta rays that roamed the oceans of old Earth. The boatman took exception to an unwieldy raft and passed as close as he could. The raft master's wife waved a frying pan and swore like the sailor she was.

It was hard to know what to feel. Should she be happy that the long, boring journey was over? Annoyed because the return voyage would start in just seven days? Assuming she found Voss, that is ... which shouldn't be hard. No, it would be a snap. Find the school and you find the boy. Take the brat aside, explain the situation, and pay his way home. Simple as that. Or, take his thumb and arrange for an accident.

The alternative, which involved waiting for the next ship to arrive, was nearly unthinkable. All her research had led to the same conclusion: New Hope was a godforsaken pus pit. Certainly not a place to spend much time in. Still, supposing she had to stay, a thick wad of credits would see her through.

It was shit work, Ari knew that, but the pay was good, and she never stopped hoping that the on-again, off-again relationship with Orr would deepen and evolve into a more permanent relationship. Not love, that was asking too much, but a partnership similar to the one Howard and Mary Voss enjoyed. It was too bad about the bomb ... she had admired their courage.

The waterman put the helm over, shifted into reverse, and brought her fantasy to an end as the boat bumped the wooden dock. "East landing, ma'am. Just like you said. Watch your step."

Ari paid the man less than she would have if her daydream had been allowed to run full course, hung the bag from her left shoulder, and mounted the water-slicked plank. It gave lightly, but cleats prevented her from slipping.

The embarcadero curved in both directions and served as a platform for warehouses, boats, nets, cargo modules, cranes, and makeshift shacks. The moment Ari reached the top of the stairs, she was mobbed by street vendors, most of whom were children who seemed intent on pushing, shoving, and yelling their way into her good graces.

Ari spotted a skinny youngster who looked a lot like she had ten years before, pointed a finger, and used her most authoritative voice. "You! Yes, you! I need ground transportation ... but I don't need a mob. Lose the crowd."

The children were masters of the hard sell and more than a little reluctant to abandon a rich prize. It took the better part of five minutes for the street girl to disperse the crowd.

Finally, with the off-worlder all to herself, the youngster motioned, and Ari followed. Horns honked as they crossed the street. Vehicles, some made more from wood than metal, chugged back and forth. Dense slums climbed the lower slopes of a cone-shaped hill. A blanket of warm, fetid air wrapped Ari in a damp embrace. Signs offered everything from food to acupuncture. The street waif, who continued to defend her client from a nonstop assault by vendors, beggars, and con artists, led the bodyguard into a narrow passageway.

Crude adobe walls rose to either side, bulged inward, and hung overhead. Strips of sunlight lit the way, and the smell of urine filled the air. Most people would have found the situation threatening, but Ari, who had been raised on the lowest sub-deck of an island-sized krill harvester, wasn't impressed. She did keep an eye on her back trail, however, and kept her gun hand free.

The juxtaposition of the spaceship in the harbor and the poverty around her spoke volumes. New Hope seemed like a strange place to send an only son, but, judging from her time spent with Carnaby Orr, rich people were weird. How else could you account for the fact that Orr, who was unimaginably wealthy, still wanted more?

A planter crowded with dead vegetation offered a rest for her boot. The tie didn't need tying but she tied it anyway. Ari checked behind her, and wondered why anyone would stop to admire a wall of graffiti. The tail was of medium height, slightly overweight, and too well dressed. She figured him for a thug, a freelancer employed by the Traa, or a pro repping Orr's enemies. The second seemed most likely.

The bodyguard finished her skit, nodded to her guide, and climbed a flight of terracelike steps. Children built dams, channeled the dirty water into quickly flowing streams, and launched scraps of wood. Some raced alongside while others yelled encouragement. Ari took comfort from the knowledge that while an empty passageway could signal an ambush, this one bustled with activity.

The alley, if that's what it could properly be called, narrowed and crossed even darker corridors to either side. Seeing that, Ari hurried to close the gap with her guide, pushed the girl into a passageway, and staggered under the force of a reverse elbow strike.

The girl, certain that her client meant to kill her, pulled a dagger as she turned. It was made out of green glass. Similar weapons were available from street vendors everywhere. Though not especially durable, they were razor-sharp. Ari backed away, shook her head, and held a finger to her lips. Would the girl understand? Or insist on a dart? The bodyguard gestured toward the alleyway and the man who would soon appear. The teenager paused, watched warily, and kept the weapon ready.

Ari offered what she hoped was an agreeable smile, motioned for the girl to wait, and watched while a woman with an enormous load of firewood passed the entrance.

Worried that his subjects had given him slip, and eager to catch up, the tail hurried into the trap. He was only fifteen feet away when the bodyguard stepped into the light. Her body hid the handgun. The man stopped, and Ari crooked her finger.

The tail looked surprised, took three steps forward, and reached under his jacket. Ari frowned disapprovingly and shot him in the right knee. The airgun made very little noise. The man screamed, grabbed his knee, and fainted.

Such were the conditions on New Hope that people disappeared into their dwellings and passersby averted their eyes rather than inadvertently get involved in a mugging.

Ari dragged the man into the dark, took his weapon, and slapped his face. His eyes popped open and he looked frightened. His pockets produced little more than a small wad of currency, a backup magazine for his pistol, and a porno reader. Ari tossed the cube over her shoulder and slapped him again. “Who the hell are you? And who do you work for?"

The man, who had folded himself into the fetal position, wrapped his arms around his injured knee and groaned. "A doctor... I need a doctor."

"Yes, you do," Ari said sympathetically. "That hurts, doesn't it? Now answer my question. What's your name?"

The man winced, bit his lower lip, and confirmed what Ari had suspected. "I'm a freelancer. The name is Pardo. Sam Pardo. Please, I need a doctor now."

"In a minute," Ari promised. "As soon as you answer my questions. Who sent you?"

The answer both amazed and frightened her. The man grimaced. "I'm on a retainer from the Department of Commerce. They told me to watch for someone from Orr Enterprises."

Ari grabbed a handful of his jacket. "Why? What are they after?"

"I don't know," the man said, tears running down his cheeks. "They didn't tell me. I was supposed to tail you and report. That's all."

Ari believed him and was afraid that whatever passed for the local police would arrive soon. She stood, took aim, and put a dart through the man's temple. The girl was already in the process of backing away when the bodyguard turned and raised her pistol. It should have been easy to pull the trigger, and rid herself of a witness, but something stopped her. Pity? No. Well, yes, of a sort. The girl reminded Ari of herself, of who she'd been before she'd fought her way free of the harvester and left her home world behind. Or had she? How was this any different from the butchery of bilge city? Or the other hellholes she'd survived?

Ari holstered the weapon and left the next move to the teenager. Gradually, like a wild animal nibbling on a morsel of handheld food, the girl inched forward. The dagger slid into its sheath, and her steps became a swagger. Ari grinned, nodded approvingly, and gestured toward the sun-splashed passageway. "Come on. It's time to go."

The girl waited for the off-worlder to proceed her, slipped the man's gun into the waistband of her trousers, and followed along behind. The weapon was worth a lot of money. She could sell it or, better yet, model herself on the woman in front of her. The girl smiled and imitated the way Ari walked. Neither saw the glint of reflected light from a distant rooftop, the woman who had tears running down her cheeks, or the badge on her vest.

Though prepared for the worst, Myra found life in the Sharma household to be relatively pleasant, especially when compared with the obvious alternatives. She'd been assigned to the huge whitewashed kitchen, a bustling place full of spotless pots, pans, and utensils, all of which had their own special hooks, and were worth a considerable amount of money, a fact that hadn't escaped chef Ubi Fimbre, who imposed a rigid code of discipline and took inventory twice a day. That in spite of the fact that he had arrived in chains, established an open-air eatery down in the slums, and been recruited by the Sharmas.

Still, it wasn't long before Myra discovered that Fimbre's bark was a lot worse than his bite, and adjusted to her new surroundings. Fimbre was a small man with dark hair, a pencil-thin mustache, and quick brown eyes. Myra was headed for the storeroom when they fastened on her. He held a tray and shoved it in her direction. "Here, take this to Mr. Sharma and be snappy about it. He likes his coffee hot."

Like the rest of the servants, Myra knew that Sharma was either the most or second most powerful person in the house, depending on whether one subscribed to the theory that Mrs. Sharma was little more than an extension of her husband's will, or the theory that she was a clever manipulator who made him dance like a puppet.

In any case, Mr. Sharma was important, as was the errand, since only the most trusted members of the staff were allowed to serve the family. Myra sought such a position not because of the status involved, or the privileges attendant thereto, but because of the information that could be gleaned. Information she could use to free Dora and herself from what amounted to slavery. There had to be a way out, and Myra was determined to find it.

The china, which had been made on one of the southern islands, was white with hand-painted blue fish that chased each other all around the rims. It probably cost more than her father made in a year. It rattled slightly as she carried the service into the formal dining hall, and from there to the day room, which was large and sunny, with lots of white furniture and enormous windows that looked out on the water. Water that was dotted here and there by the remains of gigantic starships. She wondered if Dorn was out there, cutting steel by hand, or dodging the pieces that fell from above.

Some said that Mrs. Sharma had a sharp tongue, but Myra had seen none of that in her contacts with the woman, and liked her in spite of the fact that she shouldn't. She was forty or so and had just started to thicken around the middle, a fact made less obvious by the colorful saris she wore and the quickness with which she moved. She had black hair, braided into waist-long ropes, and pretty eyes. They twinkled as Myra approached. "The table will be fine, dear... thank you."

Mr. Sharma, an intense-looking man with a slightly hooked nose, hardly noticed. He accepted a cup of coffee from his wife without taking his eyes off his hand comp. The liquid must have been sufficiently hot, because he made no comment to the contrary.

Myra had backed away as she'd been taught to do and was about to turn when Seleen, the Sharmas's daughter, entered the room from the main hallway. She was fresh from a shower and was drying her hair with a towel. In spite of the fact that Seleen was Myra's age, she looked older, and reminded the servant girl of the vid stars she'd watched in the village theater. Their eyes met, and Seleen tossed the towel in her direction. "Here ... take care of that, would you? And tell Fimbre I want some tea."

In spite of the fact that their village was poor, the residents had treated each other with respect, and Myra felt blood color her cheeks. Words fought to be spoken, but she held them back. Myra had a plan, or the beginnings of one, and sacrifices must be made. She caught the towel, dropped a curtsy, and left the room.

Seleen, who had seen the conflict on the other girl's face, smiled and flopped into a chair. Life was boring on the peninsula, and fun was where you found it.

Jana was right. The shift boss did like to pick on the same people over and over, and, judging from the last eight hours, Dorn was indeed elected. No matter how hard he worked, or how much metal he moved, it wasn't good enough. How many times had he heard servos whine as the exoskeleton approached? How many times had the whip fallen across his shoulders? How many times had Castor laughed, then stalked away? Ten? Fifteen? Twenty? It had been a long, miserable day, and, if it hadn't been for the leather armor that Jana had sewn for him, and secured beneath what remained of his shirt, Dorn might have been permanently injured.

As it was, he just wanted to die as the siren blew and the haulers waded ashore. He was tired, sore, and frightened. Would this be one of the days when the guards searched them? Plucking little bits of wire and metal from their rags and laughing while they tucked them away? And why didn't they search every day?

Jana said it was because the company benefited from the black market economy, and she was right. By allowing workers to steal small quantities of metal, the Sharma family enabled them to provide their own food and shelter. Still, the penalties for getting caught were quite severe, up to and including crucifixion. Dorn felt his pulse quicken, felt the beam brush across his forehead, and stepped through the arch.

Would a voice call? Tell him to stop? Order him to disrobe? He counted the seconds off and breathed a sigh of relief at ten. The others turned, grinned happily, and went their separate ways, Jana to her shanty, the twins to their hut, and Dorn to whatever shelter he could find.

A number of weeks, he wasn't sure how many, had passed since Sa-Lo had kicked him out. And, in spite of the fact that Dorn had spent a good deal of time and energy searching for quarters, he hadn't found any. Nights, many of them cold and miserable, had been spent out in the open. Tonight, though, thanks to some slivers of metal that Jana and he had surreptitiously worked free from a hull plate, he could count on a vendor-supplied meal and some floor space in one of the cleaner flophouses.

By working every day, and refusing to go there for anything more than a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a bar of soap, Dorn had managed to rack up a few credits at the company store. But he was saving those to buy some hand tools with which he could start a part-time business or, god forbid, secure medical attention if he were injured. Plus he had Myra to think about, and her needs. He was still determined to make contact with her.

Dorn followed one of the now familiar trails up from the beach and was headed for his favorite food vendor when he heard a commotion to his right. Sparks flew up as a crowd gathered around a fire. Curious, and eager for free entertainment, Dorn worked his way in. The sun had started to set, and the fire's warmth felt good against his skin.

A coarse-looking man, with eyes that seemed a little too bright, dragged a box in front of the fire and stepped on top of it. Then, reaching out like a minister to his congregation, the man addressed his audience. "Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! The merchandise is waiting and the time is now. Are you tired of fetching water? Hauling firewood from the beach? Battling the mud that cakes your floor?"

"You bet your ass I am!" one woman shouted. "Come on over, I'll put you to work!"

The crowd laughed and the man laughed with them. "Thanks for the offer, kind lady, and if it weren't for my love-mate here, I'd take you up on that. Besides, seeing as how there ain't enough of me to go around, the rest of the crowd would be disappointed. No, I have a better answer, and one that don't eat as much as I do neither. Come on, darlin', bring them little cherubs out here, and give these folks a look-see."

Dorn felt something catch in his throat as a woman stepped out of a cargo module, tugged on a rope, and pulled five children after her. They were a sad-looking bunch, with pinched little faces, eyes that seemed too big, and rags for clothes. None was more than ten years old, and Dorn was shocked. How could anyone sell another human being? Then he remembered where he was, checked the faces around him, and saw curiosity, interest, and yes, a little bit of greed. His fellows, being little more than slaves themselves, saw nothing wrong with the proceedings.

"So," the man said importantly, "who wants to make the first bid? Ten? Do I hear ten ounces of metal for this fine young specimen? Look at him, a good body, good bones, and as willing as they come. You'll never fetch water again."

"Three!" someone said. "I bid three!" and the auction had started. Dorn eyed the boy, a pathetic-looking creature with an open sore on his left leg, and fingered the metal in his pocket. He could buy the boy, and free him from his slavery, but what then? He had no food, no shelter to offer, and might be doing the child a disservice.

It was a moot question, however, since the bidding soon outstripped his ability to pay, and the boy went to a hard-looking woman who wore her hair in a bun. The rest of the children followed, some taking longer than others, until the last was sold. The crowd eddied, and was about to disperse, when the man waved his arms in the air. "Hold, friends and neighbors, we have one last offering. A bargain, if you will, a small but tasty morsel, who, though under the weather at the moment, will be of considerable value when she recovers. Bring that bundle of joy out here, honeybun, and show the people what a bargain looks like."

Dorn turned and watched as the woman entered the cargo module and reappeared with something draped across her arms. It was a little girl, perhaps seven or eight, so ill that she appeared to be unconscious. Her head hung over the woman's arm and bobbed loosely as she walked.

The crowd groaned. A man said, "Why, she ain't worth diddly squat," and a woman shook her head in disgust. "Geez, you call that merchandise? Give me a break."

The auctioneer, concerned lest the crowd desert him, held up his hands. "Wait! She's a bargain, I tell you! Heaven waiting to happen. How 'bout it, gentlemen? You like 'em young? Well, here's your chance."

Dorn, sick at what he'd heard, took a step forward. A second man did likewise. His tongue flicked over chapped lips. His eyes had a hungry look. "I'll take her... give ya an inch o' wire."

Dorn felt the metal in his pocket and guessed that he had three or four ounces. "Three ounces of metal... and that's my final offer."

The slave owner looked at the other bidder, saw the shake of his head, and beamed broadly. "Sold to the boy for three ounces of metal! And don't forget, folks, we buy as well as sell 'em, so if you need a little extra cash, don't hesitate to stop by. See you next week."

Dorn handed the metal over to the woman, who transferred the girl to his arms and turned away. The girl moaned, said something incoherent, and lapsed into unconsciousness. The crowd began to disperse. A man said something obscene. People laughed. Dorn blushed and hurried away.

It wasn't until five minutes later, when Dorn found himself wandering down a path with nowhere to go, that he realized what he'd done. He had no place to take the girl, no medical skills, and, after paying for her, no means to purchase food. What would he do?

It seemed as if his feet had known the answer all along, because Dorn was halfway to La-So's cargo module before he made a conscious decision to go there. The trail was pretty much as it had been weeks before, less muddy if anything, but more treacherous with the girl in his arms. Night had fallen, and the Traa's door was closed, but light gleamed through the window.

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.