Free Where the Ships Die by William C. Dietz Page A

followed by the appearance of a primitive fish-oil lantern and a pair of unshaven faces. One of them boasted a nose that had been flattened and reflattened in a long series of barroom brawls. "Well, look what we got here Packie, an extra big eel. I told you the sacrifice would work."
    Packie, a man with high cheekbones and a gaunt face, remained unconvinced. "Sez you. Killin' a dog don't make no difference. It was dumb luck, that's all. The priests drink your money and laugh while you work. Come on, let's haul him out."
    Strong, sinewy arms reached down to grab Dorn's wrists, pulled, and lifted him free of the eel-packed waters. The bridge was two planks wide, and it sagged under the combined weight of three people. The teenager looked down into water that churned with silvery life. He was about to thank the men when they grabbed his wrists. The cord went on with amazing speed. Dorn turned, tried to run, but was clubbed to his knees. He felt dizzy and allowed his forehead to rest against the water-slicked wood.
    The first man shook his head disapprovingly and slapped the billy club against his left palm. It had dispatched a lot of eels and could easily break a skull. The lantern hung from a pole and cast long, hard shadows. "And where the hell do you think you're going, eel-boy? We caught you fair and square. Put the ropes on, Packie, the silvers are waitin', and we got work to do."
    It took the better part of two hours for the fishermen to harvest their catch, remove the net, and load everything, Dorn included, onto a makeshift cart. The wheels were made of wood rimmed with steel. For a penny apiece, plus another when the work was done, an army of street urchins grabbed the vehicle's hand-hewn tongue and pulled the conveyance through the early morning streets.
    The fishermen, tired from their night's labors, lounged above Dorn's head and shared the contents of a stoneware jug. He, along with hundreds of dead eels, were thrown from one side of the wagon to the other as the exuberant children pulled their burden through narrow, twisting passageways. Where were they going? And more important, why? Those questions were at the forefront of the young man's mind. At one time or another he had offered the fishermen money he didn't have, and threatened them with Headmaster Tull's wrath, all to no avail. All he could do was wait and hope for the best.
    Slums, the likes of which Dorn hadn't seen since his outings with Mr. Halworthy, passed to either side. The smell of sewage was so powerful it overwhelmed the odor produced by the eels and caused the teenager to gag. The thought of what he must have swallowed, and the bacteria that had access to his body, made Dora thankful for the countless inoculations the school had given him.
    The cart bounced into a turn, threw Dorn and the silvers sideways, and came to a grinding halt. By craning his neck and looking upward, the teenager saw a weatherbeaten sign. It read "The Keno Labor Exchange" and squeaked as the wind pushed against it.
    What had been discomfort mixed with indignation quickly turned to fear. Though protected from most of the planet's less pleasant realities, and never allowed to venture out on their own, Dorn and his fellow students had heard of the so-called labor exchanges, places where sentients of every possible description signed their lives away in return for food and the bare necessities. It amounted to legally sanctioned slavery and had flourished for years.
    Dorn struggled against his bonds, and was still struggling when his captors lifted him free of the cart, pushed their way through a crowd of goggle-eyed children, and carried him through a gate. The youth was suspended facedown. He saw mud squish out from under the men's homemade sandals, heard the babble of contentious voices, and the crack of what might have been a whip.
    The next sound was the rasp of metal on metal, followed by a male voice. "Throw him in the holding cell and report to the office. Citizen Inwa