They ate a short time later. The food was simple but good. Not because of
what
they were eating, which consisted of noodles and vegetables, but because of the way in which the dishes were prepared. Spices, combined with quick turns in a hot skillet, worked wonders. They ate in silence, Traa style, and it wasn't until Dorn had consumed three full servings that he put his plate aside and wiped his mouth on what remained of a sleeve. "That was good. Thank you. May I ask your name?"
The alien offered the Traa equivalent of a smile. Dorn was amazed by the number of teeth that appeared. "My name is La-So. And what of you, boy? How are you called?"
"Dorn," the teenager answered, "Dom Voss."
If the name meant anything to La-So, he hid the fact well. "Pleased to meet you, Dorn. Help clean up and you can stay the night."
The surrounding slum was dark and more than a little foreboding. Dorn was quick to accept the offer. It took less than an hour to haul water from a public tap, do the dishes, extinguish the lanterns, and crawl into the makeshift bedroll. The floor was hard, but an Adams Line flag kept Dorn warm. It beat sleeping in the open. The alien chanted for a while, rolled over, and started to snore. Dorn was extremely tired, but thoughts of Myra kept him awake for a long time, and followed into his dreams.
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.