Where the Ships Die by William C. Dietz Page B

failing that, from Natalie? Assuming she was aware of what had occurred. And even more important, why was he thinking of himself when he should be thinking about them?
    Guilt, grief, and self-loathing combined to pull Dorn down. He thought about how foolish he'd been to gamble his money away, about the undeliverable letters that had arrived by now, and the likelihood that he'd never get to read them.
    But something, the memory of his parents perhaps, or the knowledge that they never gave up, no matter what the odds, lifted him back up. Slowly, bit by bit, the sobs died away. Still, even as the teenager blinked the tears away and regained control of his breathing, he knew the empty feeling was there to stay.
    A voice boomed across the gravel pit. "On your feet, scum. You have ten miles to walk before nightfall... so get those shackles on ... and keep the line straight."
    Dorn suspected that minute advantages could be realized depending on where one was located along the chain's length, but didn't know what they were, or how to harvest them. He remembered the chafing problem, removed the scarf from his arm, and tied it around his left ankle. The shackle was a tight fit, but there was no pain when the guard snapped it closed.
    The prisoners were forced to wait for the better part of an hour as Judge Tal put her thumbprint on a four-inch stack of hardcopies, reviewed a transcript of the proceedings, and thumbed that as well. Then a man in a dirty gray turban appeared, transferred the correct number of credits to the Labor Exchange's account, and shouted orders to his guards.
    Dorn felt hopeful when a rather plump doctor appeared and, accompanied by two assistants, walked the length of the line. He examined feet, listened through a stethoscope, and dispensed medications. Dorn realized the doctor was little more than a glorified maintenance technician, hired to minimize the wear and tear on recently purchased assets.
    Still, Dorn welcomed the disinfectant that was sprayed on his many cuts and scratches, the antibiotics that were pumped into his arm, and the vitamins they insisted he swallow. Of even more value, to him at least, were the sturdy sandals issued to those who didn't have shoes. They were ugly as sin, but far better than bare feet. They would help during the march ahead.
    The march, once it began, was almost pleasant at first. Dorn was rested and, thanks to the resiliency of youth, felt pretty good. At first the line went more slowly than he would have liked, but it picked up speed as it moved out onto the road, and a good steady rhythm was established. People, children mostly, swarmed out of the surrounding slums to witness the spectacle. Like the guards, most of the onlookers were only a residency permit and a few credits away from joining the procession themselves, and reveled in their brief moment of social superiority.
    But there were others, kinder souls perhaps, who offered scraps of bread to some of the more pitiful prisoners, or bent their heads in prayer.
    Dorn felt humiliated at first, and hated them with all his heart, until the first of many ground cars roared by and peppered the prisoners with debris. He tried to remember the outings he'd been on, and whether he'd seen a long line of prisoners marching beside the road, but nothing came to mind. Was that because he hadn't seen them? Or because such lowly creatures had no reality for well-fed schoolboys on their way to picnics? Dorn hoped for the first but feared the second.
    They entered an area where the old road had been torn up and a new one was being laid. Hundreds of bare backs glistened in the sun as picks rose into the air, fell in a wave, and hit one after another. Though the workers were not linked at the ankles, it occurred to Dorn that they were slaves nonetheless. Economic slaves who had taken what they could get. Why else would they do such work? And if they suffered, what could he look forward to?
    An hour passed, then two. The drag chain