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God gives nothing to those who keep their arms crossed.

Bambara (West African) proverb

Date unknown

The Planet New Hope

Dorn Voss was expelled from the Milford Academy for Young Men exactly one month after meeting with Headmaster Tull. Each day felt like a week. One by one the hours crept by until the two o'clock mail call finally came. Some of the boys shouted with excitement as they tore into long-awaited packages, while those who received something nearly every single day yawned, and the less fortunate shrugged and wandered away. It was a painful process made even more so by the fact that Dorn had more than some stasis-packed cookies on the line. He was worried about his parents, and his concern deepened with each passing day. Nothing came, however, so Dorn stopped attending and made plans for the day when he'd be released.

The headmaster's office was as it had been during his previous visit except that rain pattered against the skylight, rain that would not only fill the city's cisterns but flood the slums as well. Tull was worried, and it showed. "Have a seat, son. The paperwork is ready."

In spite of the fact that the school boasted the latest in computer technology, a necessity if it was to attract students, the rest of the planet used old, frequently outmoded equipment. It was for that reason that Dorn's transcript, personal data, and release forms were issued on hardcopy as well as microdisk. The teenager signed his name in all the right places, pretended to hear Tull's well-intentioned advice, and wished the whole thing were over. The headmaster forced a smile. "It's no secret that whatever 'hope' the original survey team had for this planet was only partially realized. So, in spite of the fact that we have some serviceable hotels, there are many less reputable establishments as well. I took the liberty of reserving a room for you at the Starman's Rest. It's clean and reasonably priced. Here, take this," the headmaster said, handing Dorn some cash. "It'll tide you over."

The teenager knew the money belonged to Tull and felt even worse about the 250 credits he had liberated from his fellow students over the past few weeks. "Thank you, sir. My parents and I will repay the money as soon as we can."

The Confederacy was huge, which meant that all sorts of things could happen to people, even wealthy ones, so there was little chance that Tull would get his money back and they both knew it. The headmaster smiled, said, ' 'Of course you will," and got to his feet. Dorn did likewise.

"So," the older man said, holding out an enormous hand, "while I have no authority over you once you leave the compound, I strongly suggest that you conserve what money you have, obtain any employment that may be available, and stay in touch with my secretary. Word will arrive from your parents any day now—and we must know where you are."

Dorn wanted to believe but couldn't. He managed a smile, shook the headmaster's hand, and left the office. He ignored the rain and made one last visit to the garden. Mud squished beneath his shoes, and branches rubbed his shoulders as the young man made his way out onto the terrace. The city was invisible behind a veil of mist and rain.

Dorn stepped into the dilapidated hothouse, leaned on the doorjamb, and listened to the rain drum against the plexiglas. He knew he shouldn't cry, knew it wouldn't do any good. But he cried anyway. He watched the plants dance and sway to the rhythm of the rain and lit a stim stick.

The hotel was at least five miles away, a somewhat unpleasant march under the best of circumstances, and completely out of the question for someone burdened with two heavy bags. Besides, Dorn had never wanted for anything, not before today anyway, and the idea of walking to save money never even occurred to him.

A wave was sufficient to summon the least damaged of the three cabs waiting at the gate. The bags went into the trunk, and Dorn entered the worn but air-conditioned interior. Plastic, covered with official notices, separated the driver from the passenger compartment. It was difficult to see the cabbie, but the teenager had the impression of a small man with black hair and a nose stud.

Dorn looked out the back window as the hover car rose off the ground, swiveled to the left, and headed toward the flatland below. Rivulets of water divided the academy into mismatched chunks that were swallowed by the mist. He wondered if he would see it again. He hoped he would.

The rain slackened as the vehicle reached the bottom of the hill and vanished a few minutes later. A broad, four-lane boulevard had been established back in the early days of the planet's settlement, before the development grant ran out. By then it had become clear that two lanes would be sufficient. The road was awash in rainwater mixed with human waste. Children from the slums waved from an armada of crudely constructed ships. Dorn waved in return, knew his mother would disapprove, and did it again.

The children vanished behind a curve. An army of ragtag day workers appeared on the left. Two or three hundred of them lined the top of a levee, snuggling to make repairs that one or two pieces of heavy equipment could have finished in an hour. But they were happy to work.

The taxi paused to allow a heavily laden wagon to pass, took a series of turns, and flared to a stop. Sunlight forced its way down through the clouds and speared the hotel. It was a modest structure by most standards but stood high above those around it, a sure sign that steel had been used to reinforce the concrete walls.

Dorn opened the door and felt warm, humid air flood around him. He wrinkled his nose at the smell and looked out at ankle-deep water. The hotel's entry way was more than two steps away and he was preparing to wade when a half-naked street urchin plopped a homemade stool in front of the door. She had black hair, big eyes, and a slightly protruding stomach. A sure sign of malnutrition, a fact that Dorn would have missed had it not been for Halworthy and his lectures.

Dorn smiled at the child, gave her a one-credit coin, and stepped on the stool. The curb was an easy jump. He turned and watched the waif scamper away. The sun had emerged by then, and the city started to steam. The cabbie, a quick, energetic man with half-rotten teeth, smiled and placed the teenager's bags on the curb. "That will be ten credits, young sir."

Dorn paid the man, added a two-credit tip, and turned to find that a young boy had taken charge of his bags. The ten-year-old, for that's the age he appeared to be, wore a none too clean loincloth and bore a striking resemblance to the stool-girl. He left a trail of feces-contaminated water behind him as he half dragged, half carried the suitcases across the hotel's gray synthimarble floor.

The desk clerk was enraged by this violation of his private sanctum—and the theft of his gratuity. He uttered a long string of obscenities, circled the chest-high reception desk, and hit the child with a stick maintained for that very purpose. The boy, fearing the loss of a much-needed tip, put his head down and forged ahead. Dorn stepped between them, smiled indulgently as the stick hit his arm, and felt for a one-credit coin. He found one in his right-hand pants pocket and tossed it into the air. The youngster caught it, flashed a thankful grin, and skittered out the door.

The clerk apologized profusely, launched into a diatribe against the local street children, and asked Dorn for a thumbprint. The teenager rolled his thumb on the registration plate, allowed the clerk to collect his bags, and followed him upstairs. The room was on the second floor and looked out on an alley. The clerk opened drawers, mumbled something about room service, and held out his hand. Dorn tendered another tip, waited for the door to close, and scanned his surroundings. The furnishings were worn but clean. Not what he was used to ... but acceptable under the circumstances.

It took less than fifteen minutes to unpack his clothes, investigate the entertainment console, and flop on the bed. The springs squeaked, and a moldy spot decorated the ceiling. Viewed correctly it looked like a woman with her tongue stuck out. Though concerned about the situation he was in, the teenager had looked forward to being out on his own. But he felt none of the joy he had expected. Not with the continuing uncertainty about his parents. Where were they? What were they doing? Why had they deserted him?

Dorn was well on the way to feeling sorry for himself, but he pushed the emotion away. "If you want something done ... then go out and do it." That's what his sister said, and that's what he'd do. His first objective was to obtain sufficient funds to buy passage on a halfway decent ship, and the second was to reach Mechnos, the planet on which his parents and their company were headquartered.

That being the case, there were two ways in which to secure what he needed. He could work for the money, a long, tedious process, or win the sum at cards, an easier and more practical approach. Dorn had been ranked as the best or second best electrocard player at the Academy, depending on whether you counted Ms. Fromsby or not. Besides teaching math, and understanding the odds involved, she had a nearly photographic memory. Still, the Fromsbys of the world were rare, which meant that Dorn stood a fairly good chance. Or so he hoped.

So, where to start? The sort of game he envisioned would be a private affair, known only to a small group of well-heeled players. Dorn imagined walking up to the reception desk and asking for the location of the nearest high-stakes card game. Headmaster Tull had selected the rooming house for a reason. The clerk would rat on him for half a credit or less. No, he needed an alternative source of information, and the best way to obtain that was to scout around the neighborhood.

It took Dorn less than ten minutes to don his boots, insert the nose filters that most off-worlders kept handy, and make his way downstairs. He nodded to the desk clerk, left through the side door, and stepped into four inches of coffee-colored water.

The teenager paused to make sure his boots wouldn't leak, decided everything was okay, and eyed his surroundings. The side street steamed as the sun pulled moisture up into the sky. A shadow flitted by and a ship rumbled overhead. It was huge, and Dora shaded his eyes as the vessel dropped towards the harbor. It had the stripped-down look of a free trader— which was perfect. The spacecraft dropped below the horizon, and Dorn resisted the temptation to chase it. Money first, transportation second.

The young man felt a hand touch his elbow. He turned. The boy had approached as quietly as a ghost. He was the same one who had carried his bags. "We meet again, sahib. It would seem the gods have plans for us."

"Or that you have plans for us," Dorn countered cynically.

"Not so," the boy answered easily, "for it is written that we are but instruments of the gods, acting parts for their amusement. Would you like a guide? I know the city like the palm of my hand."

Dorn looked down into a grubby little face and considered the lad's offer. Would the urchin lead him honestly? Or into an alley where relatives could rob him? The boy seemed to read his mind. "You have nothing to fear, sahib, for I am an honest guide, honor bound to see you home."

There was absolutely no reason to believe the boy even knew the meaning of "honor," or would feel bound by it if he did, but the words were expressed with such sincerity that Dorn nodded. "Good... you'd better be. What's your name?"

"Rali, sahib. It means 'sainted one' in my mother's native dialect."

"All right, Rali," Dorn said evenly, "I'm looking for a certain kind of establishment. A place where men and women go during the evening."

"Ah," Rali said with a knowing wink, "I know the perfect place. All the boys and girls are virgins. They wear makeup, perfume, and fancy clothes. My sister plans to work there when she grows up."

Dorn remembered the little girl with the footstool and shuddered. "No, that's not the kind of place I mean. I'm looking for a place where they play cards."

"Of course!" Rali said brightly. "I will take you there. Be warned, however, the sahib is young, and they might turn him away."

"That's my problem," Dorn said confidently. "You take me to the right sort of place and I'll take care of the rest."

"As you command, sahib," Rali answered cheerfully. "Shall I summon a cab? The sahib can travel in style."

Dorn considered his dwindling cash supply and the need to learn his way around. "No, I wish to walk."

"It shall be as you say," Rali said obediently. "Follow me and watch your step. There are holes beneath the water and you must be careful."

The journey began with a series of right- and left-hand turns. Dorn tried to memorize the route but couldn't keep track. A stratagem on Rali's part? Or the natural consequence of the route chosen? There was no way to know. They passed dozens upon dozens of closet-sized stores. Specialization was the order of the day. There were shops that offered baked goods, meats, clothing, jewelry, cutlery, spices, tools, and yes, even electronics, although the selection was limited, and guards hovered nearby.

Vendors addressed the teenager in a variety of tongues, music filtered from partially shuttered apartments, voices haggled over prices, and a rich amalgam of odors found their way past Dorn's nose filters. The effect was rather pleasant, so much so that the youth decided to remove the plugs, and reveled in the smell of roasting meat, exotic incense, and fresh baked bread.

Most of the slum dwellers had little or no refrigeration in their homes. Shopping was a daily routine. The rain had kept many of them indoors, but they were out in force now, shopping bags slung over their arms, heading for their favorite stalls.

In spite of the fact that Dorn shared their brown skin and black hair, his clothes, carriage, and manner set him apart. Some of the natives hurried to get out of the young man's way, even jumping into the street to avoid him, while others made a point of nudging his shoulders, forcing him to the side of the sidewalk, or splashing rainwater on his legs. Since Dora had accompanied Mr. Halworthy into the slums on two different occasions, the harassment came as no surprise ... but the sense of vulnerability did. He had never felt so helpless, and it bothered him.

Still, the teenager didn't want to give the locals any satisfaction, so he ignored their insults and adopted an air of serene superiority. It might have made them even more angry except for the fact that Rali chose that particular moment to turn a corner.

The shops grew shabbier, dwindled in number, and gave access to an endless labyrinth of one- and two-story concrete hovels. Wives shouted at husbands, children screamed insults at each other, and chickens squawked. The street sloped downward and took a steady flow of rainwater along with it. A man pushed a heavily laden bicycle against the current and scowled when Dorn said hello. Light gleamed off water and Dorn saw the Krishna twist below. He knew the river originated to the north, wound its way through some of the planet's most fertile farmland, divided itself into three main channels, split yet again, and emptied into the sea. The city of Oro had been built on the delta at the river's mouth.

Rali took a right-hand turn and followed a narrow path down toward the cluster of buildings that marked the city's central business district. Dorn followed, careful of his footing and nervous about the ragtag collection of dogs that rooted in a nearby trash heap.

They reached an arterial minutes later, waited while a heavily laden hover truck roared past, and waded out through the still swirling water. Safely across, they followed the street for a while and turned into a parking lot. It was empty except for the homeless people camped along the back edge. Their clothes, still wet from the rain, were draped on a chain link fence, and flapped like multicolored flags. Vacant eyes watched the youth as he crossed the lot and passed beneath the dilapidated sign. It read "Cantina Roja" and was festooned with strings of lights. They might have been festive at night but looked junky during the day. Rali paused and gestured toward a gangplank. It sagged as if tired from its labors. "There she is, sahib. You must proceed alone. I'll wait here."

Dorn eyed the vessel at the other end of the gangway. It had been a river barge once, and like most of its kind, had been constructed from hand-planed hardwood. Pilings held it up, and had for some time, judging from their ragged condition.

The tide was low, leaving vast mud flats to await the ocean's return. They were dry now except for channels where ribbons of water continued to flow, stronger than normal because of the rainstorm, but too shallow for boats. Dorn watched the water surge through the ribs of a long-abandoned boat, spin around an old rubber tire, and splash a concrete block. The ground cars, oil barrels, and other metallic debris common to most planets were nowhere to be seen. They had been salvaged long ago or, more likely still, never discarded in the first place.

A great deal of the city's sewage had found its way down onto the mud flat, and the stench was appalling. Dorn fumbled for his nose filters, found them, and slipped them into place. He nodded to Rali. "I'll return in a minute."

The gangplank sagged wearily but held. The wood was slick, and cross cleats provided traction. The teenager looked over the side. Fish, eyes bulging, wiggled through the mud, encountered crablike things, and flopped end over end to escape. Most succeeded.

The cantina was clad in red paint, hence the name. The deck was weathered and splattered with white bird droppings. A large door barred the young man's way. Dorn pushed, and it gave under his hand. The interior was dim and relatively cool. He walked past an empty reception desk and out into an open area. It contained fifteen to twenty pedestal-style tables. Chairs had been stacked on them, and a woman mopped the floor. She didn't look up.

A female voice came from the shadowed area on the far side of the room. "Yes? Can I help you?"

Dorn cleared his throat and tried to make his own voice sound deeper. "Yes, you can. A friend of mine suggested I drop by."

"You're from off-planet?"

"That's correct."

He heard footsteps and watched as a woman entered the light. Her face was beautiful, or had been years before. She still had a figure, though... a fact not lost on a seventeen-year-old male. The woman noticed and smiled. "What's your name?"

Dorn decided on the truth. The decision paid off. "Voss ... Dorn Voss."

The woman raised a well-plucked eyebrow. "Really? Of the same family that owns Voss Lines?"

Dorn nodded modestly. "I'm their son."

The woman extended her hand. A serpent had wrapped itself around her forearm. It had gold skin and ruby red fangs. They were only inches away as her hand entered his. "Welcome to the Cantina Roja. My name's Carmen. I own the place."

"Pleased to meet you," Dorn replied politely, forcing his eyes up and away from her breasts. "When does the cantina open? I enjoy the occasional game of cards."

Miss Carmen noted the expensive clothes, the chroncomp on the boy's wrist, and arrived at the logical conclusion. The young man was a playboy, the son of shipowning parents, who fancied himself a player but lost vast quantities of money wherever he landed. Money she could use. A ship had arrived earlier, and he'd been on it. Her tongue slid across her lips. "We open at nine. Where are you staying? I'll send my car."

Dorn felt his spirits rise. This was more like it! "The Starman's Rest."

Miss Carmen nodded. "Excellent. My car will arrive at eight forty-five. I can't promise—but there's a chance that my regulars will allow you to play."

Dorn thanked the woman, left the cantina, and started the long walk back. A nap might be in order once he arrived. A long, profitable night lay ahead.