Drifter (2 page)

Lando swallowed as Critzer ignored the tool boxes, storage cabinets, and other paraphernalia that lined the bulkheads, and went straight for the freezer. It was large, with four different lids set into its top surface, and a deactivated power pallet underneath.

"So, here they are," Critzer said patting the module's smooth surface. "Those famous steaks. Open this baby up and let's have a look."

Lando managed to hide the fact that his hand was shaking, by inserting his entire body between the freezer module and the customs inspector. Lando placed his thumb on the print lock and heard a faint click. He stepped aside and waved towards the lid. "There ya go, sir… a load o' prime beef."

Critzer grabbed the lid, lifted, and felt a wave of cold air rush past his face. Vapor swirled and dribbled over the sides. A light came on and revealed rank after rank of closely packed plastic bags. Each contained a single piece of meat.

Lando held his breath. This was the critical moment. Could Critzer tell the difference between frozen steaks and lab-grown human kidneys? Not just
any
kidneys, but high-quality blanks? Each organ requiring only hours of chemical conditioning prior to use? The next few seconds would tell. The government of HiHo had placed heavy taxes on replacement organs, thereby creating a rather healthy black market for spares. A market that Lando hoped to exploit.

Critzer turned. There was a frown on his face. His eyes glittered from black caves. "So tell me something, Dever, how do I know this protein is what you say it is? This might be monster meat from the planet Swamp for all I know."

Lando found it easy to look concerned. "The proof is right on the cargo manifest, sir. Take a look and you'll see certification from the processor, the proper Terran exit codes, and a sign-off from my insurance company."

Critzer hooked the portacomp to his belt, leaned back on the freezer module, and folded his arms.

"So what? Every one of those things can be faked by someone who knows what they're doing. Nope, the answer's a full array of lab tests. You don't have a thing to worry about, assuming that the cargo's legit, and if it isn't, well, the government has rock quarries for the likes of you. It takes a lot of granite to build a brand new capitol, and we're going at it full bore."

Lando forced himself to stay calm. There was one last chance. He produced what he hoped was a noncommittal shrug. "If that's the way it has ta be, then that's the way it has ta be. Still, there might be a shorter, easier way ta get the job done."

Critzer raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Oh really? And what would that be?"

Lando grinned. "Well, I don't know about you, sir, but I'm kinda hungry, and that bein' the case, I wondered if you'd join me for dinner? I'm in the mood for some nice juicy steak."

Critzer's face lit up, but turned to a frown. "Dever, are you trying to bribe me? Because if you are, you'll be swinging a sledge by sundown tomorrow."

Lando held up a hand in protest. "Never, sir! It's just that you seem a reasonable sort, and one bite o' Terran beef's worth all the lab tests in the world."

Critzer allowed his expression to soften. The very thought of a juicy steak filled his mouth with saliva. He swallowed. "Well, since you put it that way, I accept. After all, why incur the expense of lab tests if we can settle the matter right here?"

"Exactly," Lando agreed. "Now, if you'll allow me ta select the best o' the best, we'll fire up the galley and get dinner under way!"

Lando stepped up to the freezer, reached inside, and grabbed two of the plastic bags. The cold stung his fingers. Unlike those which contained kidneys, these bags were marked with tiny pieces of black tape, and had Lando needed them, there were four more as well.

The freezer lid closed with a solid thump as Lando held the steaks up for Critzer's inspection. They weren't Terran, but they
were
from New Britain, and almost as good.

"Pick your steak, sir… I guarantee you'll be pleased."

Critzer pointed a blunt finger at the larger of the two pieces of meat and Lando nodded his agreement.

"An excellent choice, sir. If you'll follow me to the galley, we'll throw these on the broiler, and prepare the way with a beer."

Critzer grunted his approval, and Lando began to celebrate. Even after all his overhead, and the stiff duty he'd be forced to pay on the Terran "steaks," he'd be fifty thousand credits richer. Crime not only paid, it paid very well indeed.

2

Wendy Wendeen brought her fist down hard. She felt the old man's sternum give slightly. Wendy positioned her hands for cardiac compression and leaned forward.

She pushed down and released. One… Two… Three… Eighty compressions per minute—sixty if she got help with the mouth-to-mouth—and a short pause after every five compressions.

The man had been standing only ten feet away when he collapsed. A quick check had confirmed her first diagnosis. No pulse, no respiration, and bluish lips. A heart attack.

Wendy looked around. A crowd had gathered. Most just stared, but one, a boy in his teens, looked as if he wanted to help. All he needed was someone's permission. Wendy caught his eye.

"Hey, you! Yes, you! Can you perform mouth-to-mouth?"

The boy nodded silently and fell to his knees. Wendy watched the teenager check the old man's airway, pinch his nose shut, and blow air into his lungs. One breath for every five compressions. Good. The kid knew what he was doing.

… Four … Five … Pause. A woman was fanning air towards the old man as if that might help him breathe. She had sun-damaged skin, a beat-up electro-implant where her right eye had been, and the look of a rimmer. Wendy nodded in her direction.

"Ma'am? Would you do me a favor? There's an emergency comset mounted on the far bulkhead. Pick up the handset, and tell whoever answers that we've got a medical emergency on D deck. We need a crash cart, cardiac monitor, and resuscitator. Got that?"

The woman nodded and disappeared into the crowd. She was back moments later.

"They won't come." The woman said it levelly. A statement of fact, nothing more.

Wendy pushed. One… Two… Three… "What do you mean 'they won't come'? This man is dying! Did you tell them that?"

The woman nodded. "I told 'em, miss. They said I should read my ticket. Something about medical services being available on C deck or above."

Wendy swore. Damn them! She'd known about the restrictions on a D-deck ticket but hadn't taken them seriously. Surely a fellow doctor would place more value on a passenger's life than the words printed on a ticket? Apparently not.

Wendy checked the man's pulse. Nothing. She looked at the boy. He shook his head. No pulse and no respiration.

Wendy considered the contents of her medical bag. She did have some epinephrine cartridges for her injector, but even if the drug worked, the old man would still need intensive care and she had no way to provide it. Not without use of the ship's medical facilities.

The boy caught her eye. Wendy shook her head. Both of them stood up. She looked around. The crowd had started to thin out. Death was nothing new to these people. Rimmers mostly, fresh from planets where life was hard, and death came young.

But the onlookers didn't go very far. D deck was too small for that. Being the globe ship's lowest passenger deck, "D" was located right above the hold, and was rather small in circumference.

That hadn't stopped the shipping company from packing them in, though, and Wendy was reasonably sure that there were more passengers on D deck than on A and B combined.

The result was a crowded maze of curtained-off double-tiered bunks, lights that burned around the clock, the smell of food cooked over portable burners, air so thick you could cut it with a knife, and noise that never stopped. Talking, laughing, yelling, and crying. It went on around the clock.

It made Wendy yearn for Angel's wide open spaces, for the clean wind that whipped across the open plain to chill her skin, and the privacy of her own room.

A newborn baby cried somewhere behind her and Wendy looked down. The old man's cheap blue ship suit seemed to billow up around him as if filled with air instead of flesh.
 

The old man's features were enlarged with age. He had a large beak of a nose, ears that stood almost straight out from the side of his head, and a long thin mouth which curved up at the corners as if amused by what had happened.

Wendy felt someone brush her arm, and turned. The woman with the electro-implant smiled hesitantly. "His name was Wilf. He had the bunk over mine."

Wendy smiled. "Did he have friends or relatives aboard?"

The rimmer shook her head. "No, miss, none that I know of."

Wendy nodded. "Well, we can't leave Wilf here. Let's carry him over to the lift tube. The crew will take it from there."

The woman made no move to help. "They won't say anything for him, will they?"

Wendy imagined a couple of bored crew members, laughing and joking as they loaded the body into an ejection tube.

"No, I don't suppose they will."

The rimmer pointed to the brooch pinned over the pocket of Wendy's jacket. It was a triangle surrounded by a circle of gold. "You're Chosen, aren't you?"

"I'm a member of the Church of Free Choice, yes. Only our enemies refer to us as The Chosen. They use those particular words to make us seem arrogant and self-centered."

The woman gave an apologetic shrug. Light reflected off her electro-implant. "I meant no offense."

"And none was taken."

"It's just that I'm not very good with words, not that kind anyway, and I wondered if you'd say something for Wilf. You know, something about God and so on."

Wendy nodded solemnly. "I'd be proud to say something for Wilf."

And so it was that three strangers said goodbye to a man none of them knew, while their fellow passengers looked on, and a costume ball took place two decks above.

Later, after they'd carried Wilf's body over to the lift tubes and notified the ship's crew, Wendy had retreated to the comparative privacy of her own bunk. The curtains were thin but better than nothing at all. A pair of newlyweds were busy making love right below her, but Wendy tuned them out.

She discarded the distractions around her one by one until she was all alone inside a cocoon of warmth and peace. It was there that she examined Wilf's death and the circumstances that surrounded it.

She felt no sorrow, for Wendy believed that Wilf's essence lived on, but the manner of his passing troubled her greatly. Why had the ship's medical personnel denied him treatment? How could the vast majority of her fellow passengers be so callous? What could she have done to make things better?

They were difficult questions, and Wendy failed to find any easy answers. But the episode did prove the elder's wisdom. There is little room for good where people are packed too closely together and machines hold sway. The sooner she reached HiHo and discharged her responsibility, the better.

Two more cycles passed before the liner reached the correct nav beacon and made the transition from hyper to normal space. Like most of the passengers on D deck, Wendy knew very little about the physics involved and was forced to trust the machinery around her.

Part of Wendy, the part that had grown up on a farm where even robo-tillers were regarded as necessary evils, was troubled by this dependency on technology.

Another part, the part that had attended and graduated from the Imperial School of Medicine on Avalon, trusted machines and what they could do.

Both parts felt the momentary nausea that goes with a hyperspace jump and gave thanks that the first half of the journey was nearly over.

But it still took the better part of a full cycle for the ship to work its way in from the nav beacon and enter orbit around HiHo.

After that it was semiorganized chaos as everyone pushed and shoved, hoping to get aboard the first shuttle dirtside. They were soon disappointed, however, as passengers from A, B, and C decks were taken off first.

Hours passed. Children cried, people argued, and the air grew thick with tension. The pressure of it, the feeling of being confined within such a small space, gave Wendy a splitting headache. She popped two pain tabs and washed them down with some of the ship's bitter water.

And then, when all the upper decks had been cleared, and the D-deck passengers were clumping their way aboard a pair of clapped-out contract shuttles, Wendy forced herself to go last. It was a form of self-discipline, a self-imposed penance, a punishment for her own lack of inner tranquility.

Finally, after she had passed through the liner's huge passenger lock, and boarded the reentry-scarred shuttle, she got to look out a viewport. This, and only this, was the part of spaceflight that she loved.

Wendy saw nothing of the spacecraft's bolt-down seats, the bare metal bulkheads, or the trash-littered decks beneath her feet. Her eyes were completely taken with the huge brownish-orange orb below, a one-in-a-billion miracle of physics, geology, biology, and chemistry that could support human life. A creation so wondrous, so perfect, that it could single-handedly prove the existence of God.