19

Courage has many faces ...

General Zeen-Nymore Dronk

On the civilian defense of Lake Hypont

Standard year 1613

The Planet New Hope

The sun had risen in the east and threw long black shadows down across the hillside. Thin plumes of smoke, each fed by the minimum amount of wood necessary to cook one family's breakfast, twisted toward the sky. Dogs barked, a door slammed, and the stamping mill thumped its eternal dirge.

Dorn, clad only in a towel with the name DataCom Freight embroidered across the bottom edge, left the relative warmth of the cargo module and headed for the makeshift shower. It consisted of a wooden framework covered with plastic. Water was stored in a fiberglass tank salvaged from a lifeboat. The girl once referred to as "Diddly" now answered to the name Dee Dee. She was fully recovered. That meant she loved to play, and like most children her age, especially those who live in squalor, had a talent for getting dirty. Very dirty.

Which was why Dorn, who had grown tired of organizing baths, constructed the shower. And, having done so, took advantage of it himself. The water was damned cold in the morning, though—something Dee Dee took immense pleasure in, since it was her job to fill the tank, and then, when Dorn gave the command—or a tiny bit before, if she felt mischievous— to dump the cold liquid on his semiwilling body. Her voice had a high, piping quality, and came from the ladder located at the rear of the enclosure. "Ready?"

Dorn gritted his teeth and nodded. "Ready."

Dee Dee grinned sadistically, pulled a lanyard, and laughed as the water splashed onto Dorn's head and shoulders. She wasn't supposed to peek—but did anyway. Dorn, whom she had come to regard as part friend and part brother, danced under the cold water and uttered a series of war whoops.

The shower ended two minutes later as Dorn rinsed, pleaded with Dee Dee to stop the water, and toweled himself dry. Breakfast was ready, and he followed the smell. Once they were inside, La-So ladled one of his delicious concoctions onto mismatched ship plates, ordered Dee Dee to wash her hands, and reminded Dorn to lather up.

The lotion, if that's what the thick, gooey mess could properly be called, was a neighbor's creation, and it worked surprisingly well. Smeared liberally over the user's body, the gunk was proof against sunburn, heat rash, and, if the substance's inventor was to be believed, attack from foraging needlefish, which was a rather dubious claim but comforting nonetheless. Careful to minimize contact with the cargo module's furnishings, Dorn slid into his salt-stiff work clothes, herded Dee Dee toward the table, and sat down to breakfast. It was his favorite moment of the day. The prayer, led by La-So, affirmed that each would be granted an opportunity to learn, help others, and harmonize with the universe.

Dorn and Dee Dee chanted the prayer in Traa, while the previously moody La-So smiled approvingly and guided them through the appropriate hand gestures. The change in La-So's personality seemed both miraculous and inexplicable until Dorn learned the importance of triads. When Dee Dee joined the household, she completed the necessary three-person unit and restored balance to La-So's life.

The prayer ended, and Dee Dee waited for La-So's nod. He gave it, and she started to eat. Not like an animal, as she had at the beginning, but with something approximating the manners Dorn had acquired from his sister, and been taught at the academy. Manners that had been intended to be of assistance as he made his way through the highways and byways of upper crust society. His present circumstances were somewhat different, and he smiled at the irony.

"So," La-So said sternly, ever ready to heap more food onto Dee Dee's already full plate, "what sort of mischief do you have planned for today?"

Dee Dee, who had dealt with the same question every morning for weeks now, and who regarded the alien as a sort of grandfather, tried to appear solemn. "Well, work comes first, so I'll do my chores, study the lessons Dorn prepared for me, and then, when you least expect it, I'll follow you around and get in your way. How does that sound?"

"Terrible, just terrible," the alien replied gruffly, "but I have no choice. It's penance for my many sins."

"Maybe," Dee Dee answered serenely, "or just bad luck. Like when Dorn's and my parents died. You never know."

"No, you don't," the Traa replied, "nor do you need to, since we must dwell in the ever present now. Eat some drift-weed ... it's good for you."

Dee Dee made a face, Dorn laughed, and the meal was soon over. When the table was cleared, and Dee Dee had started her chores, Dorn left for work.

He knew the trails by heart, which left his eyes free to roam. They went to the Mary Voss like magnets to metal. Approximately two weeks had passed since the beaching party, and, thanks to other ships already aground, the data liner was relatively intact. Dorn still found it difficult to believe that she would be cut into pieces, fed to the mills, and rolled, stamped, and extruded. Into what? Screwdrivers? Soup ladles? Axe heads? It made no difference. No matter what they made from her flesh and bones, it wouldn't add up to a spaceship.

Suddenly the memory that had been eluding Dorn came flooding back. He was transported back in time, to one of the rare occasions when his father had taken him to the best of places, a spaceship. The liner was to be christened that day, and in response to the boy's whining, or on a personal whim, the senior Voss took his son on a tour. The ship smelled new, and to a child the odor of plastic and ozone seemed like a ticket to the places his parents talked about, distant planets that teemed with aliens. He remembered the engineering spaces, followed by vast multilayered memory banks, and long, empty corridors. Most of all, he remembered the U-shaped bridge, control boards, and wraparound view screens. And—the best—the captain's chair, a powered affair with rows of touch-sensitive controls built into both arms, and a swing-out com monitor.

Dorn had been allowed to sit in the chair for only the briefest of moments, and had just begun to explore its many wonders, when a hand pulled him away. The next place they saw held little interest for the boy but seemed important to his father. The captain's cabin was small but nicely finished. Howard Voss dropped to his knees, took a small hand in his, and pressed it against the smoothly finished metal. "Forget the captain's chair, son, the real power is here. Do you feel it boy? Vibrating under your hand? It'll be yours someday."

Dorn had felt nothing other than a certain coolness and the urgency in his father's voice. He nodded. "Yes, Daddy."

Howard Voss nodded. "Good. Now, look at the plate. See anything different about it?"

Dorn shook his head. "No, they all look the same."

"Darned right they do," his father replied, "but they aren't. Make a fist and thump three times. Quickly now."

The child did as instructed. Nothing happened in response to the first two thumps, but the third produced a surprising result. A mechanism whirred, and the panel opened. The recess was shallow and lined with foam padding. The ball bearing, for that's what it looked like, was nestled at the center of the space. It gleamed with reflected light. "There it is," Howard Voss said proudly, "the jewel of our empire. We keep a copy aboard every ship we own. The crews don't know about it, not even the captains. It's a way to safeguard our most important secret. But you must tell no one, not even your sister. Promise?"

Dorn had given his word and kept it too. And now he was glad, because he knew, or thought he knew, what the shiny metal ball contained: the coordinates for the Mescalero Gap. What was it his father had said? "... Our most important secret"? What else would qualify? Yes, Natalie might have the coordinates, or know where to find them, but what if she didn't? What if his parents had died without passing the secret along? Would that explain why the money stopped?

His thoughts practically tripped over each other as they moved through his mind. The voice that interrupted them was gruff and accompanied by a shove. "Hey, buster, what the hell's wrong with you? Move or get off the path."

Dorn realized that he'd been standing there, staring at the ship for what? Five minutes? Ten? He mumbled an apology and followed the other workers down toward the beach. He felt different somehow. It was as if everything had changed. The memory was an elusive thing. It had surfaced at the party, or tried to, and been buried by emotion. Not any more. Now it was at the very center of his being. Burning like a star. He had to find the correct plate, open the secret compartment, and retrieve the sphere. Nothing else mattered.

A crowd had formed, and Jana was there. She smiled broadly and waited for him to join her. "Hey, Dorn, I memorized those times tables ... you wanna hear them?"

"Yeah," Dorn lied, "but not right now. There's something I have to do ... and I need your help."

Jana frowned. “I don't like the sound of this, Dorn... What's happening?"

"I need to go aboard the Mary Voss, and that means joining the wreckers. And I might need to stay all night, so if I don't show up, tell La-So I'm okay. Got it?"

Jana opened her mouth to object, but the siren overrode her words, and Dorn disappeared. The nearest members of the wrecking crew glanced at him as he joined their ranks. They had seen him around and weren't especially surprised. Most haulers tried for the next step eventually and he looked sturdy enough, especially after weeks of hauling.

Jana's coaching, plus lots of hard physical exercise, had packed muscle onto his previously slender frame. Now, with long, sun-bleached hair and a heavy tan, Dorn looked the part of a barbarian. All muscle and very little brain. But he had brains, and used them as the group shuffled toward the entry gate.

His hands, which had failed the first test, were more callused now, and the surreptitious addition of grease from the outer surface of his arms, and reddish-brown clay, gathered while adjusting one of his sandals, made them appear more rugged than they actually were.

The line jerked forward, the man directly in front of him stepped through the gate, and a guard looked Dorn over. "You a hauler, ain't you? The one that works with the black woman. She's somethun' else, that one is. Well, let's see them hands. Maybe you ready, and maybe you ain't."

Dorn held his hands out for inspection. The guard took hold of them, examined the backs, and flipped them over. "Not too bad ... reckon you ready. Welcome to the wreckin' crew."

The scanner read the bar code imprinted on his forehead, sent the new classification to a computer, and logged him in.

Dorn thanked the guard and stepped out onto the sand. He hadn't gone more than fifty feet toward the tool bins when an amplified voice boomed across the beach. "Hey, boy! Yeah, you! Where ya going? You ain't no wrecker, not till we run out of men anyway."

Dorn didn't even need to look around to know who it was. The shift boss named Nick Castor had been after him since day one. Why would today be any different? He stopped and turned toward his tormentor.

Castor, clad as always in a rusty yellow exoskeleton, strode across the sand. Servos whined as the landward leg shortened itself to deal with the slope. Dorn steeled himself against the inevitable abuse. The exoskeleton towered over him. Castor, his features nearly hidden by a thick growth of beard, smiled sadistically. "Get your ass over to where the haulers is workin'. You ain't got no business workin' with real men and women."

Castor was intimidating, and Dorn was sorely tempted to obey, but the compartment beckoned. Was the sphere really there? Tucked inside its bed of foam? He had to know. "I'm here because the guards approved me."

Castor nudged a chin switch. His voice, amplified till now, still sounded loud. "Listen to me, you little shit, the guards work for the beach master, and if it wasn't for the fact that I need a favor from her every once in a while, I'd override their decision and send your ass back to where it came from. But that might piss her off, so I'm gonna let you play your little game, remembering that the wrecks belong to me. Which means that you belong to me. Unless you get killed, that is, when the fish take over. Now grab a wrecking bar and hit the water."

Dorn did as instructed and followed the other wreckers into the surf. Demolition had begun three days previously, but because the workers ripped the interior fittings first, and worked their way out, the vessel looked intact.

Long accustomed to the impact of waves hitting the front of his legs, followed by the backward pull of the water as it went in the other direction, Dorn was free to examine the hull that loomed above him. It was black as space itself and bore scars caused by micrometeorites, an encounter with a concrete pier, and who knew what else. And there, just below the point where the metal curved up and in, he could see the heat-resistant white letters, badly faded by now, but still readable: Mary Voss.

It was an emotional moment, but not one that Dorn could afford to indulge in. The entire wrecking crew was waist-deep in water by now, chest-deep when the waves rushed by, and burdened with their steel tools. A cargo net hung against the ship's side, and Dora watched a man and woman scramble upward. They climbed with one hand instead of two, reserving the second for whatever tool they'd been issued, the loss of which was worth ten years of forced labor.

The ascent involved a rhythmic grab, pull, release, grab, pull, release pattern that continued till they reached the deck. They made it look easy, but Dorn knew it wasn't. The fact that the others were watching, waiting to see if he'd make it, confirmed his suspicions.

Dorn allowed the veterans to precede him, jumped for a cross rope, and grabbed with his right hand. It took a moment to find the right foothold, push his body upward, and position for the next grab. He went for it, missed, and fell backwards into the sea. Water roared around his head. The bar pulled him down, but he held on and eventually found his feet.

Just as he was ready to rise, a wall of outgoing water threw him forward. He floundered, reestablished his footing, and struggled to stand. A voice hollered words of encouragement, and he waved. Faces lined the deck and peered downward.

The net, unburdened since the others had gained the main deck, flapped in the breeze. Dorn, determined not to fall in front of so many witnesses, jumped again. He felt the cross rope hit the palm of his hand, pulled, found a foothold, and pushed. The second grab was timed correctly, and so was the next. He moved steadily upward. Finally, with the L-shaped wrecking bar triumphantly clutched in his left hand, he reached the main deck. The jokes, grins, and friendly insults all said the same thing. The others had been there and knew how it felt. The initiation was over.

The courtyard bustled with activity as lower-ranking members of the house staff carried supplies into the house. In addition to the high-quality foodstuffs ordered by chef Fimbre, there were luxuries including an airtight canister of Mr. Sharma's hand-rolled cigars, a three-pound box of Mrs. Sharma's chocolates, and cosmetics for Seleen. All of it had to be inspected and signed for.

Myra had initialed the final item when she felt someone approach from behind. The truck driver, who had been raised in a village not far from her own, pretended to inspect the list while actually peeking down her neckline. Myra, who wore a scooped-neck peasant blouse, allowed him to look. His breath was terrible. "So, sweet stuff, was everything there?"

"Yup," Myra answered lightly, "thanks to you."

The truck driver, who would have cheerfully stolen the entire load had there been any chance of getting away with it, nodded soberly. "A man ain't got nothin' if he ain't got his integrity. That's what Momma said, and she was right. So, honey, how 'bout it? You ready to shake this place or not?"

Myra took a quick look around, assured herself that no one was looking, and kissed his cheek. "You know I am, Jake, but not without my brother. I could hide in the back of the truck, but what about him? He works on the wrecks and has no way to enter the courtyard."

Jake wasn't too thrilled about the brother aspect of things, but had resigned himself to giving the poor sod a lift. Assuming he didn't get in the way, that is. He spat on a sun-warmed cobblestone. "I'll slow down in front of the mill, you open the door, and he jumps inside. Whaddya think?"

Myra shook her head as if amazed. "It's brilliant, Jake, just brilliant. When's your next run?"

"Four weeks from today," the driver answered eagerly. "You'll be ready?"

"I sure will," Myra whispered suggestively. "Will you!"

"You can count on it," Jake answered thickly, taking her hand and pressing it against his groin. "I'll be ready and waiting. Hell, I'm ready now!"

"And so you are," Myra said sweetly, removing her hand as quickly as she could.

"Is everything off the truck?" The voice belonged to Fimbre, and originated from the other side of the courtyard.

"Yes, it is!" Myra answered loudly. "Jake's about to leave!"

Fimbre waved and disappeared into the house. Jake eyed Myra's shapely little body, licked his lips, and shook his head. "It's gonna be a long four weeks ... you take care."

"You too," Myra said sincerely. "Drive carefully."

Jake winked, aimed some spit toward the mansion, and entered his cab. Life was good, or would be in four weeks, brother or no brother. The turbine whined, air filled the chamber, and the truck wobbled off the ground. Myra waved, watched the rig pass through the security gate, and made her way to the kitchen. Fimbre, who was touching, sniffing, and tasting some of the just delivered off-world spices, heard her enter. "Seleen requested some lemonade ... would you take it up?"

Myra wanted to say, "Tell the spoiled little so-and-so to get her own lemonade," but knew that Fimbre would force her to do it anyway. Even worse was the fact that the chef would observe her movements more carefully, making it that much more difficult to leave the compound, and tell Dorn about her plan. She smiled sweetly. "Sure ... I'd be happy to."

Fimbre, who was well aware of Myra's feelings toward the Sharmas, looked up from his spice canisters. Sarcasm, like other manifestations of defiance, couldn't be tolerated. Not if he wanted to retain his position of privilege. The chef was pleased to see that the servant girl's features were empty of resentment as she prepared the tray and carried it up the stairs. He nodded knowingly. Some took longer than others, but the smart ones, people like himself, accepted their fate and made the best of it. The fact that Myra had made the necessary adjustment raised his estimate of her intelligence.

Myra, unaware of the chef's thoughts, knew as everyone did that Seleen preferred to sunbathe before the sun grew too hot. Her favorite place to do that was on the balcony that ran along the mansion's west side. Knowing that, Myra padded the length of the upstairs hall, nodded to one of the housemaids, and made her way out onto the breezeway that circled the house.

A black anodized railing, salvaged from the engineering spaces on a Morgan High Hauler, ran along the right-hand side, potted plants filled the niches between windows, and the sea glittered beyond. A breeze, the same one that ruffled the surface of the ocean, touched Myra's face and moved her hair.

Of all the hulks, the Mary Voss was closest. Myra could see wreckers moving around on her decks, carrying pieces of metal to the side and throwing them to the haulers below. She could imagine Dorn standing waist-deep in the water, squinting upward as the salvage started to fall, then fighting to get out of the way. What if he didn't make it? What if he was killed before she even got to know him? There would be none other like him, she felt sure of that, and prayed he would survive the next few weeks.

The sun was warm, but Myra shivered as she stepped out onto the balcony. Seleen was there, beautifully brown and glistening with oil. She wore a white two-piece swimsuit and looked breathtaking. Myra wondered how she would look in a similar suit but assumed she'd never find out. Seleen gestured toward a glass-topped side table. Her eyes were unreadable behind dark sunglasses. "Put it over there."

Myra did as she was bid, poured some lemonade into a prechilled glass, and turned to go. The voice was flat and unemotional. "How's your boyfriend?'

Myra felt an ice-cold hand grab her stomach. The turn was slow and deliberate. "Boyfriend? I have no idea what you mean."

Seleen took a sip from the condensation-covered glass. A bead of sweat from high on her temple paused, as if deciding what to do, and then ran down the side of her face. "Oh, but I think you do. A rather handsome young man who wouldn't give you the time of day under normal circumstances."

Myra's heart tried to beat its way out of her chest. Seleen knew! She couldn't know but she did!

"That's right," the girl said lazily. "I checked Daddy's records, made a few calls, and put the story together. His name is Dorn Voss, his parents were killed in some sort of explosion, and he owns a wormhole. Or will, if he lives long enough to claim it."

Myra, too shocked to pretend ignorance any longer, became angry. "You know this? And you allow it to continue?"

"Maybe," Seleen said indifferently, "and maybe not. His future depends on you."

"Me?" Myra asked in disbelief. "What do I have to do with it?"

"He likes you," Seleen said calmly, "and, even though his reduced circumstances would account for most of that, your somewhat grubby charms may have caught his eye as well. It's a problem—but not an insurmountable one."

Myra was amazed. "I can't believe it... You want him for yourself! That's what this is about, isn't it?"

Seleen dabbed at her forehead with a towel. "Yes, I do. Unless something better comes along. And why not? How many wealthy young men do you think I meet on this godforsaken planet? Not very damned many. And, all things being equal, neither do you. What were you going to do, anyway? Find a way to escape? Live happily ever after? Not while I'm around."

"So," Myra asked shakily, "what will you do? Tell your father?"

"Why?" Seleen asked sarcastically. "So Dorn could go free? And take you with him? I don't think so. No, I plan to leave our wealthy young friend right where he is. Unless you break off the relationship, that is ... which would create a host of possibilities. Hmm, let's see now, how should the rescue go? I just stumbled over his name in the computer? And remembered the news story? No, too unlikely. Oh, well. I'll think of something. I always do."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dorn chinned the voice off, ordered his body to roll over, and felt something fall away from his back. It clanged against the floor. The wrecking bar! He'd fallen on his L-shaped wrecking bar, and the end-piece had punched a hole through the suit. It would’ve been funny if it wasn't so stupid.

Dorn stood, fought the dizziness that threatened to push him off his feet, deactivated the safety, and hit the release switch. The much-abused suit made a horrible grinding noise as it clamshelled open. Dorn half stepped, half stumbled out and fell to his knees. The pain was so intense it made him retch. Nothing came up. He couldn't see the wound and wasn't sure that he wanted to. He had to reach help.

Dorn pushed the deck away, made it to his feet, and simply stood there. The vertigo seemed to lessen after a minute or two. The trip to the main deck took forever. The bulkheads, the gratings, the lights seemed to crawl by.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of pain, he stumbled into the lift. It made the trip upward relatively painless, and the cool night air smelled wonderful. Weaving like a drunken spacer, Dorn made his way to the port side and sat on the deck. It took an enormous amount of effort to turn, lower himself to the point where his feet rested on a cross rope, and start the laborious trip downward.

Dorn had made it a third of the way down the netting when a wave of dizziness overcame him, the strength left his hands, and he fell backwards into the sea. He was aware of the impact, felt the pain as salt water entered his wound, and wondered if what they said about needlefish was true. Did they really know when something was dying? And home on it? He knew he should care, but couldn't muster the energy. Darkness beckoned, and Dorn followed as the sea carried him toward the shore.