Into the Green

by J. L. Curtis

  Fargo nodded, “Can I use the runabout for a few minutes? I want to run by the clinic and see if they still have the body or the clothes.”

  Mikhail flipped him the key fob, and Fargo slipped out the door as Mikhail and Luann talked quietly.

  Help Wanted

  Fargo’s e-tainment center beeped with an incoming Vidcall, and he said, “Accept.”

  The screen blinked on to show a bearded face, something Fargo didn’t remember ever seeing since he’d left Earth. Confused, he said, “Ethan Fargo Can I help you?”

  The bearded face said, “Mister Fargo, I’m Rick Remington, RRInc. I’m on my way down to Hunter, should be groundside tomorrow morning. I’d like to meet with you, as I’ve been told you might be able to help me out.”

  Figuring the time lag, Fargo estimated this call was at least being made from in system, rather than out. “Mister Remington I can be at Rushing River SP one by zero nine in the morning. Where would you like to meet? And can you give me some idea of what help you’re looking for?’

  Remington rubbed his face saying, “Your name was passed to me as a hunter. I’ve got a problem at one of my camps that needs a hunter to take care of it.” Fargo saw Remington look away and then back, “SP one, at zero nine. Got it, main conference room at the administration building. See you then.” With that, the screen went black, and the disconnected symbol popped up.

  Fargo commed his sister and asked if she had any idea what or who Remington was. She told him that Remington Inc. had the logging concession for Hunter, and was running a number of small camps with a main mill near the Evergreen jump port. He thanked her and brought up a search engine on the e-tainment system, finding a number of articles and features on Remington.

  Selecting one that seemed to have been produced by the company, he brought it up and watched it. He was amazed to find that there was money to be made in natural lumber. He’d never thought of that as a scarce product, or anything other than an interim building material until one could get plascrete in place.

  According to the video, there was a large galactic market in fine wood for boardrooms, homes, and government buildings. He had to look up the word veneer and confirm that it meant what he thought it did. He wondered how Remington got the wood off world, and how much it cost him to get out of the gravity well.

  After viewing more videos, he finally gave it a pass, since there didn’t seem to be anything on Remington himself. After feeding Cattus, Canis, and Urso, he dialed up what he now thought of as chef’s surprise and waited for the auto chef to spit out his dinner. At least this chef’s surprise was edible, proto meat, some kind of green something and a sweet cinamony bread.

  The next morning at zero seven, he hauled the liteflyer out of storage and configured it for cargo, since he needed to bring supplies back, and had more skins to take down to the spaceport. After securing the cabin, he sent Cattus and Canis to their packs, and launched for the spaceport. A warning of a new tight beam popped in on the navigation display, and he accepted it, remembering he needed to go see Mikhail about the next expansion of the tight beam links that TBT would be putting in.

  Fargo left his rifle and the skins in the liteflyer, locking it and walking across the ramp to the administration building. As he neared the building, one of the stranger craft he’d ever seen came in for a landing. Ungainly, not in the slightest aerodynamic, it looked like somebody had chopped off a freighter just below the bridge and first deck and put a flat plate on the bottom. That was accentuated by the lander legs that looked grafted onto the four corners of the ship? Shuttle? And what looked like two additional tractor modules grafted on behind the ship’s bridge. Shaking his head, he continued on into the building and was greeted by Sergeant Omar, who asked, “Ho, lieutenant of the retired, meeting today you have?”

  Fargo replied, “Ho Sergeant, meeting I have, people of importance come.” The sergeant waved him through and Fargo went to the snack bar, picking up a bulb of coffee to kill a few minutes. He arrived at the conference room to find a huge individual pacing the floor mumbling to himself. As the person turned, Fargo realized it was the same face he’d seen on the vid, and that it sat atop a body that was at least six and a half feet tall and weighed over three hundred pounds. He also sensed trepidation and a locked down set of thoughts. He said, “Mister Remington? I’m Ethan Fargo.”

  Remington came around the table and stuck out a hand the size of a small ham, “Rick Remington. Do you go by Ethan?” Damn, he’s worried about something at one of his camps. Really worried, almost scared. What…

  Fargo surreptitiously checked his hand to make sure Remington hadn’t broken anything in it from the handshake as he replied, “Most of the time it’s just Fargo. Too many years of mil and GalScout. It drills a Pavlovian response to the last name. So, what can I do for you, sir?”

  “It’s Rick, please. Sit, sit. Can I offer you a libation?”

  Fargo said, “No thanks, I’ve got a coffee. What seems to be the problem?’

  Remington eased his bulk into one of the chairs, and put his forearms on the table, looking directly into Fargo’s eyes. “It’s Rick, and I’ve got some timber rats holed up in their modular out at one of our camps. They’ve been spooked by what they claim is a Silverback, or maybe two. They are refusing to leave the module, claiming they can hear it prowling around, and screaming at them. It apparently attacked one of the guys while he was in an Exoskel, and scared the shit out of him. He ran it back to the module, and now-”

  Fargo leaned back in the chair, “A Silverback? Are they sure?”

  Remington shrugged, “Well, they’re up at forty-seven north. That does seem to be within the known range of those beasts.”

  Fargo asked, “How long have they been stuck in the modular structure?”

  Remington replied, “Going on three local days. I got back in system yesterday, and got their ping then. Took me most of yesterday to figure out how to approach it, and find you.”

  Fargo said, “Just out of curiosity, how did you find me? And what makes you think I’d take something like this on?”

  Remington said, “Heard about you from one of the shuttle pilots. He was talking about how crazy you are, hunting Silverbacks and other shit down here. Guess he’s seen some of your skins, and commented that you must be good, as you’d sold a dozen or so of them. I also found out you’ve worked security for TBT on their services expansion here. I figured anybody that survived one Silverback, much less a dozen, and is a security guy would want a shot at another one. I’ll pay you ten thousand credits, and you can keep the skin. I just want my guys back working.”

  Fargo sensed Remington’s nervousness, mingled with hope, and steepled his fingers. Thinking for a minute, he finally said, “Okay. Let’s do this.”

  Remington dropped his head, then said, “Thank you. I was afraid that wouldn’t be enough. When can you be ready?”

  Fargo got up, “Give me fifteen minutes. How do I get there?”

  Remington replied, “I can take you in the beast outside. It’s not real comfortable, but it’ll get us there and back.”

  Fargo nodded, “Okay, let me get my rifle and pack. Meet you back here in fifteen.” He headed back to the liteflyer, got his gear and walked back to the admin building. Remington stood watching and said, “That’s all you’ve got?”

  Hefting the rifle, Fargo said, “All I need. How do we board that monstrosity?”

  Remington laughed in relief, “It’s got a bow ramp. Bottom is completely sealed, ten inches of battle steel.”

  Fargo whistled, “Ten inches? What kind of battles are you fighting with this thing?”

  Remington just glanced at Fargo and keyed a command and a ramp exuded from the first deck, sloping sharply to the ground. He led Fargo up the ramp and into the first deck, then up a short passage to the bridge. Settling in the pilot’s chair he adjusted his bead pistol to a more comfortable position as he indicated the nav chair for Fargo. “Put your stuff in the locker at the back of the bridg
e, it’ll be safe enough there. Then you might want to strap in. Ol’ Betsy here isn’t the best riding beast around.”

  Fargo stowed his gear, noting the magnetic holders and ensured his rifle was properly aligned with the rack, then dropped his backpack in the bottom of the locker. Returning he saw a small lustrous object sitting on top of the pilot’s console and glare shield. He looked at it, and saw Remington follow his view. Remington picked it off the glare shield, handing it to Fargo, “That’s Ol’ Betsy. She’s pretty much a fish out of water, so to speak.”

  Turning it over in his hands, Fargo saw a beautifully carved Earth Dolphin that looked almost alive in the wood. Marveling, he handed it back saying, “That is absolutely beautiful! It looks almost real! Who did that?”

  As soon as he said it, he felt a surge of emotion from Remington, “Well, I did. It’s a wood called Teak. Every one of my rigs has a name and a carving in it. Kind of a tradition for me.” Taking the carving back, he sat it back on the glare shield, and fired up the beast, as he called it. Whatever else Remington might be, Fargo knew he was riding with a master pilot, as he watched Remington almost unconsciously hold the ship level in ground effect as he retracted and rotated the lander legs. As soon as he got clearance, Remington popped the ship to altitude, and programmed in a course for the camp.

  Fargo waited until Remington had completed the programming and slumped back in his seat, then asked, “Just out of curiosity, what the hell is this thing?”

  Remington chuckled, “Well, it’s a homebuilt tractor. It was a fancy ships shuttle that got crashed. I bought it for salvage, gutted it, cut the bottom off, and welded a new bottom on. The lander legs and additional tractor power came from some other units that we salvaged, and voila, Betsy, the Beast.”

  “What do you do with it though? That’s the question.”

  Remington glanced over, “Well, we use it to haul trees from the camps to the mill at Evergreen. With the tractors, I can snuggle a load up against the belly, haul it to the mill, lather rinse, repeat for all four of the camps that Evergreen supports. I’ve got another one, Barbara, down at South Fork mill, supporting the camps down there. They’re both local space worthy, so I can and do use them to haul finished cuts up to the station. Once they’re out of atmosphere, they’re pretty quick. Down here, they’re limited to sub Mach. Just have to make sure the load is far enough forward that it doesn’t get singed.”

  Fargo asked, “How big a load are we talking about? This thing, er, beast is what hundred twenty-hundred fifty feet?”

  Remington nodded, “Yep, right at a hundred fifty feet long, and with the mods, ninety feet wide. She’ll tractor a hundred twenty-five tons, and we’ve hauled trimmed trunks over two hundred feet long.”

  Fargo whistled, “What grows that big? I mean, I’m originally from Earth, and the only thing I ever heard of that even came close was a tree called, um, I think it was a Redwood.”

  Remington replied, “Yep, that’s what we’re into at the Forty-Seven North camp. Some old growth Redwoods. They’re giving us about a twenty to one ratio of weight to board feet of lumber.”

  During the next four hours, Fargo got most of Remington’s story: from his start as a genie machinist, which accounted for his size, through his transfer to a pilot and ship captain. The irony of the story was the fact that as a ship captain, he’d seen the fancy boardrooms and high end buildings and the real wood paneling and trim they contained. While he was bringing the first colony ship to Hunter, he’d lost his wife to an undiagnosed brain tumor back on Earth. Not wanting to go back to an empty home, he’d taken a cash out in-system after his second trip, starting with a small mill that he ran himself. Remington admitted he’d stolen plans from the history books on how to cut big trees, and had mostly built his own systems, just like he’d built this ship and its sister basically out of spare parts. Hiring a few disaffected spacers and a few settlers, he’d branched out slowly over the last ten years. Now he spent most of his time, as he said, fighting the bureaucracy and the thieves at Star Center. He didn’t have his own ships to haul the lumber back to Earth or the major planets, so he sold it to brokers at Star Center, if he couldn’t get the wood all the way back to his brother on Earth. He told Fargo he was making a bit of money, but not a lot.

  That was one of the reasons for very small, clear cuts in specific areas. He’d also told Fargo that he estimated the total amount of wood he could take out in the next thirty years would exceed one trillion credits. Fargo had laughed at that, until Remington explained that one single one meter wide forty meter long Redwood, Teak, Mahogany, Oak, Maple or Chestnut plank, with good grain and no knots, could fetch thirty thousand credits by itself. Fargo had mumbled to himself he was in the wrong line of work when he heard that.

  A little over four hours later, Remington took control of Betsy, descending into what looked to Fargo like a mountainous area covered by a solid forest. As they spiraled down, a small clearing emerged from the forest, and Fargo saw clouds touching the peaks, and fog shrouding the valleys.

  Fargo allowed his empath sense to expand, picking up a pair of what he’d come to know as Silverback attitudes, for lack of a better word. They seemed to be the only ones on the mountain, and they were both below the ship and near the camp. Fargo sensed the Silverbacks either saw or heard the ship as it descended, and felt them start moving closer to the camp as Betsy touched down.

  Remington quickly shut down the ship, pulling what had to be a 20mm bead rifle from another cabinet. Picking up Remington’s fear and determination, Fargo quickly said, “No! You aren’t going out there. This is just going to be me. I’m not taking a chance on your getting hurt or killed. I’m going to do this my way. Now either stay here, or run for the module. But whatever you do, do it quickly!”

  Remington started to bridle at the tone of voice, until he realized Fargo was already in the hunter/killer mode and he was nothing more than an impediment. He extended the ramp as Fargo pushed out of the compartment, rifle in hand. Activating the cameras he followed Fargo as he exited Betsy, watching him calmly walk toward the module. He retracted the ramp, sealed the entry, and watched as Fargo walked away. Two thirds of the way to the module, Fargo stopped and turned around, facing into the broadest part of the clearing. And just stood there.

  Hunter or Hunted

  Fargo sensed the pair of Silverbacks as they came down to the edge of the clearing, and then split. One stayed at the far side of the clearing, as the other of the pair was slipping around to his left. The far one yowled, so Fargo honored the threat posed there, while letting his mind track the second Silverback. For the first time, he also sensed some low level communication between them, wondering if they were a long-time mated pair.

  Dropping into an almost trance like state, he merely stood still, waiting. Suddenly, the first Silverback appeared at the edge of the clearing. It dodged in and out of the trees, moving to his right as it closed the distance. Fargo hoped it didn’t decide to do that dance all the way to his right, as that would put his back fully to the second Silverback, now approaching the back of the module. Higher order empath channels up in the human band suddenly broke through in fear, and he clamped them off. Now, he knew the second Silverback was almost in place. He marveled at their ability to work as a team, knowing that if he hadn’t had the empathic capability, he’d be dead. Hell, he still might be if he was too slow.

  The first Silverback yowled again, drawing Fargo’s attention back to him, and it stepped fully into the clearing about thirty yards away. Fargo took a deep breath, knowing the attack was coming momentarily, settling himself. As the first Silverback screamed, the second charged around the side of the module. Fargo wheeled, fired seven rounds into that one as it leaped, and sidestepped. He spun back the other way, firing seven more rounds into the first Silverback that was now charging him. With the seventh round he sidestepped once again, and the Silverback landed where he’d been standing. He stepped around and fired into the aft pelvis of both Silverbacks with
his four remaining rounds.

  Quickly slapping a new magazine into the rifle, he rotated in a complete circle, his sense extended as far as it would go. He didn’t sense any further predators within range, and he relaxed slightly. Looking up at the ship he waved, turned, and walked to the module. Stepping around the Exoskel that was sitting open at the module door, he entering asking, “Y’all got any coffee? I could use a bulb.”

  Remington came in moments later, asking, “Are you okay? I still can’t believe…”

  Fargo sensed Remington’s actual thought that Fargo was freaking crazy, and replied, “Y’all are going to be good for a while. Normally, Silverbacks have a range of about a thousand square miles. I’m not going to backtrack these two, but you should be okay.”

  Remington asked, “How many times did you shoot? It was so fast I couldn’t count them!”

  “Seven for each, and two more to make sure.”

  Remington said incredulously, “Seven? Why? How?”

  Fargo said, “Come on, I’ll show you, and anybody else that’s interested.” Walking out to where the Silverbacks lay almost nose to nose, he levered one of them over, and began skinning it out. After he’d finished he cut further into the flesh, laying the Silverback open. “See this bone structure here?” Pointing to the front shoulder girdle, he said, “It’s two shots, one on each side to get through that.” Stepping back to the second shoulder girdle, he continued, “And another two to get through this set. Now, notice right behind the second set of shoulders? See this?” Fargo pointed to two large yellow masses, “These are the two hearts a Silverback has. If you don’t get ‘em both, it can keep coming. So it’s four to get through the two shoulder girdles, and three to hopefully hit both hearts and the lungs.” Pointing to two green masses, he said, “The first one I ever killed was pure luck. It’d turned and I thought I’d just hit it in the rear haunches, but luckily that one shot went through both hearts. After I skinned it out, I test fired to see what it would take to actually kill one in a frontal charge.”