by Candy Rae
CHAPTER 13 (Southern Continent)
It was Colonel Bryan Brentwood who led the chase. Anxious to make a name for himself and as a means to ingratiate himself with Murdoch, he had volunteered to be the one to run them to earth and bring the female escapees back.
At Fort, it had not taken them long to find out that a small party had escaped and who they were. Careful questioning of the children had been enough.
Murdoch had given the task to Brentwood for one simple reason; Brentwood was the only one eager to go. To the colonel he promised his choice of one of the girls.
Brentwood had thirteen men with him, all armed with the stunner batons salvaged from Fort and whatever other weapons they felt most comfortable with. Most carried swords and knives. All were aware that there might be large predatory wolves in the vicinity so it was a wary group of men that had set out from Fort on their hunt for the fugitives. They made good time and due to the lack of recent rain, the tracks were comparatively easy to find and even easier to follow. Unlike those they were trailing, they travelled by day.
“They’re definitely heading for the coast Colonel,” his sergeant informed him. “Wonder where exactly they are making for or if they have a destination planned at all.”
Brentwood shrugged his shoulders. “Doesn’t matter Sergeant,” he said. “Probably not. All we have to do is catch them before they get to wherever they’re aiming for.” He looked around at the cooking area and frowned irritably. “Now, where’s that breakfast? I’m starving!”
“Just coming now, sir,” answered the man as one of the cooks approached, carrying a steaming beaker in one hand and a bowl in the other.
“More of these never-ending roots I suppose,” grumbled Brentwood, all but snatching the bowl out of the cook’s hand.
The cook shook his head. He looked pleased with himself.
“No sir!” he announced triumphantly. “Caught two of those bird things in me trap last night. Managed to cook them this morning. Be right tasty if prepared right, and I have prepared them right, I can assure you.”
Brentwood was slightly mollified by this and his face brightened. “Taste good?” he asked.
“Yes sir, try a wee taste, beautifully tender they are.”
Brentwood was not entirely convinced by this and smelled the steaming bowl gingerly.
“Sure smells good,” ventured the sergeant with a smile. “Any left in the pot for me?”
The cook nodded. A small wiry man in his late forties, the cook lived for his craft. The twelve years incarcerated in the Electra’s convict blocks had frustrated him almost to the point of madness. With the limited ingredients on offer, he had done his best and it was a good best; his fellow inmates had loved him. When they landed on the planet he had soon realised the potential. He could now cook freely. Always an innovator with taste and dishes he was perfectly suited to carve out a niche on this new world. The planet was a chef’s idyll.
He had volunteered to accompany Brentwood on this mission for two reasons. First of all, Brentwood liked good food and was prepared to reward those who pleased him. The chef had an idea that if Brentwood grew more appreciative of his talents he might keep him with him on a permanent basis. Secondly, the chef did not like Cocteau (from whose block he came) and certainly did not like living down in the encampment. Brentwood was his ticket up to the more salubrious kitchens of Fort.
Brentwood took a bite and his face lit up with a smile. “This is good,” he enthused. “You’re as good a cook as you say. Perhaps you should be thinking about what delicacies you might prepare for when we catch up with the girls.”
The cook nodded again, a happy smile on his face. He left his two superiors, lost in thought. Perhaps spicy white-root casserole, or baked roots with fruit?
“Good man that,” said Brentwood, munching through his meal. “Try and keep him with the regiment if you can.”
The sergeant looked at him and decided that his superior wanted a chat. He signalled to the cook to bring his own portion over to him.
“I’ll do my best sir, but I do believe his great ambition has always been to open a restaurant of all things. Seems he was a pretty top class chef back on Earth. He worked in the best places.”
“Bribe him if you have to, I want to keep him,” ordered Brentwood. “Let’s eat.”
The pair walked over to a convenient tree trunk and sat down.
“I have plans for the future,” began Brentwood, munching hungrily.
The sergeant looked over as if to say something but at Brentwood’s gesture, continued to eat.
“Yes, plans for the future and once they come to fruition, I will look after my friends.” Looking directly at the sergeant, he added, “And those who helped me.”
The sergeant took the point at once. “You can count on me, sir,” he said. “I’m your man.”
Brentwood smiled. “Good. I think we should have a long private talk before we are very much older about what we both want out of all this. I for one don’t intend to be a soldier forever. There are other ways in which one can gain power and wealth.”
“And women, sir?”
“You are perfectly correct, women too - I wonder.”
“Sir?”
“Women may well be the answer to all our prayers. Sergeant, have you ever considered a career in the brothel industry?”
“Never thought much about it, sir. You?”
“Not until now,” said Brentwood considering the point, “but there is a distinct shortage of women around. A shortage of certain commodities drives the price up. I think we need to examine the possibilities here. Do you agree?”
“Yes, sir.”
Their partnership was born.
It was just an idea at the moment, but as soon as the two arrived back at Fort they would develop this idea and carry it through. Incidentally, Brentwood was quite correct in his evaluation: the business became a very lucrative one.
The cook however, did not end up in Fort’s kitchens. Disgusted at the treatment of the captured women when they returned to Fort he would disassociate himself from Bryan Brentwood and strike out on his own.
* * * * *