“We offer you more than a woman,” I said. “We offer you a family. Give us what we need, and we will give you what you need. It seems a fair exchange.”
“I’ll take it,” he said.
And so we got our S-2 officer. I won’t say Lieutenant Mondy was easy to get along with. He did, indeed, wake screaming in the night, and on occasion I had to come and help Emerald restrain him from hurting himself or her. It was not that he was vicious, but that he suffered hallucinatory episodes of horror that caused him to flail uncontrollably. It was not feasible to put him in restraints; his reaction to that could have killed him. But he did like young flesh, and it did have a pacifying effect on him, and at age twenty-four Emerald was young enough. As he came to know and trust her, this became more effective, even during his worst spells. She had to be with him constantly, at first, day and night, holding his hand, speaking softly to him, sometimes literally seducing him into relaxation. She was tough, and she was showing more compassion now than I had realized she possessed, but this was a strain on her; she lost weight and sleep. But gradually she got on top of it and recovered much of her former animation. “I never knew when I was well off,” she muttered once to me, and I was deeply flattered. She was making a real sacrifice for the unit, and I wished there was more I could do for her, but our code forbade it now.
Mondy did produce for us, and we all came to respect his mind. He had an intimate understanding of the vulnerabilities of the military system, and he knew where the bodies were buried. He came up with information about the migrant leaders that amazed me. We used that information to formulate a daring strategy.
We got the mission, of course; it was ours for the asking. And Lieutenant Mondy had no trouble transferring in immediately; the Navy didn’t value trauma-ridden officers any more than it did ambitious Hispanics or blacks or addicts or whistle blowers. And, after a week’s bureaucratic delay, we got our deadline exactly as Mondy had predicted: seventy two hours from our scheduled arrival at the Agricultural Ring. That wasn’t much time.
I briefed my company. Most of the top men had a pretty good notion already what was up, and they were for it. I stressed that we intended to get the migrants back to work without violence, and that we would do our best to relate to them, speaking in Spanish or whatever language made them most receptive. “But these are tough and desperate people,” I concluded. “For two weeks they have held out against the owners and the government itself. So first we shall show them our power.”
Then I turned it over to my staff for implementation. We were preparing for a battle, but not for bloodshed; we intended to convert the migrants to our side by means of a finely orchestrated campaign.
According to Lieutenant Mondy’s information, rioting had gutted three bubbles, and these had already been evacuated. They were scheduled for demolition and replacement; it was easier to bring in new bubbles from Jupiter, paid for by calamity insurance, than to repair the old ones in space. We requested and received permission to use them for target practice during our mission; Mondy had known what channel to use to get immediate affirmation. But the missiles Lieutenant Commander Phist arranged for us to stock were not standard ones; they were heavy-duty planetoid busters, seldom used in the Juclip. Emerald had specified that kind, and I concurred. We were ready to show our power.
We selected our first bubble carefully. The leader of the workers here was Hispanic and had a checkered history that we could exploit psychologically. Lieutenant Mondy had briefed me thoroughly on this; that information, plus my talent, should put the migrant in the palm of my hand. We hoped.
We closed on the bubble, landed, and hooked on well away from the migrant bus; no sense inviting early trouble. A picked squad charged in, armed with stunners and ready for action. The way was clear, and I followed with a picked squad of my own. We carried no visible arms, but my sergeant had a pacifier: an electronic device that could deprive people in the area of their free will, unless they were protected by small personal interrupters as my own troops were. I didn’t want to use the pacifier, as it would not solve the long-term problem; it was merely a backup in case things went wrong.
This was a pepper bubble. The sight of its rows of green plants stirred me to nostalgia, for I had first worked as a migrant picker in a pepper bubble. This was one reason we had selected this one to start. Still, I felt the impact. Nine years—how brief it seemed, suddenly! The subjective impression sometimes bypasses objective reality.
The workers were spread out around their ship exit, looking bedraggled and hungry. This strike was hard on them, because the bubble-owner normally provided most of the food, selling it to the local foreman. Naturally the food was the first thing cut off when the workers balked. They did have some supplies of their own but not enough for comfort. They had to have been subsisting largely on peppers for several days, which was no joy. We had brought extra food, but we said nothing of this now.
“We represent the Jupiter Navy Order-Restoring Force,” my sergeant announced in English as we approached. “We want to talk to your leader.”
A large, swarthy man in his thirties stepped out. “I’m Joshua. I’m the foreman, and I’ll speak for the workers here.”
Now I spoke. “I am Lieutenant Commander Hope Hubris, in charge of this expedition. I speak for the Jupiter Navy. I have no politics; I am here only to see that you return to work before any more of the crop spoils.”
“You going to arrest us all, officer? That won’t pick these peppers.”
“I don’t want to arrest anyone. I just want to see this thing amicably settled.”
“Easy enough,” he said. “Just give us decent conditions and better pay and our union, and we’ll be glad to work.”
“I can’t promise any of that, especially not the union,” I said. “But I can help negotiate something, if you will return to work first.”
Joshua spat on the ground and turned his back. It was his typical reaction to affront, as Mondy had informed me.
I was ready. “Don’t turn your back on me, gringo!” I snapped in Spanish.
The man whirled, his face abruptly charged with fury, a knife appearing in his hand. But I was already moving, and a knife was in my hand, too.
He paused, surprise tempering his anger. “You’re bluffing, Navy man. You don’t know how to use that thing.”
“Take my word, picker: I know how.”
“Watch it, Josh,” one of the migrants said. “Either way, you’re dead. They’ve got power weapons.”
“There is another way,” I said. “Sergeant.”
The sergeant stepped forward smartly. “Sir.”
“The rubber knives.”
“Yes, sir.” He lifted a case and opened it. Inside were two handsome knives. He removed first one and then the other, flexing them to show their nature clearly. They looked real, but they were toys.
Joshua stared. “A joke?”
I smiled. “You have doubted me twice,” I said in Spanish. “I don’t want to stop your doubt by killing you. Try it with these, and doubt no more.”
He shook his head. “What the hell.” He put away his real knife and took one of the rubber ones. I did the same.
He came at me suddenly, but I was already moving aside. Few amateurs can match the proficiency of one who has trained seriously with such weapons. In a moment I had his knife arm in a standing armlock, and my own knife poised at his throat. I had him.
Joshua froze, then relaxed, as Lieutenant Mondy had predicted he would. He was a man of bluff and give, as my own talent had confirmed, seldom pursuing an unprofitable course too far. He laughed, converting his defeat to a joke. “Okay, Navy man; you can use a rubber knife. You say you can negotiate a better deal for us?”
I let him go, and we returned the rubber knives to the case, and the sergeant put the case away exactly as if a genuine duel had been fought. “I can negotiate—if I have your help. Not for the union; the farmers will blow up their own bubbles before they give on that. But the rest, yes
. I need to get the top leaders of the striking migrants together with the most intransigent farmers’ representatives and have them bargain together in good faith. The only way I can get them together is if one of their own endorses my effort. The farmers say they’ll meet if I can get the migrant leaders to come. So I am asking you to come with me and help persuade the other leaders to board my ship. I promise to treat them with respect and return them all safely to their locations, regardless how the negotiation works out.”
He squinted at me. “Do I doubt you a third time?” He gestured with his hands. “I guess I’ve got to believe you. You could have mowed us all down with lasers instead of talking. You could have taken me on with a real knife and killed me if you’d wanted to. In fact, you could have killed me with the fake knife! Sure, I’ll do it. What I want is a fair settlement, not a lot of fighting.” He glanced at his workers. “But maybe—”
“To show my good faith to your people while you are gone, I will leave some of my personnel with you, unarmed.” I turned to the sergeant. “Send out Corporal Allen with some food.”
“Food?” one of the migrants asked involuntarily. Yes, they were hungry!
The sergeant spoke into his mike. In a few minutes Corporal Allen arrived with three privates, hauling a chest on wheels. “Corporal Allen reporting as directed, sir,” she said, saluting smartly. She spoke in Spanish.
The migrant workers stared. Corporal Allen was not only of mixed Hispanic descent, she was stunningly pretty—and so were the three female soldiers with her. Their uniforms had been tailored to enhance rather than diminish their qualities.
“Remain here and serve these good men a good meal,” I told her. “We’ll pick you up when we return with Don Joshua.” At that, Joshua gave a start; I had referred to him with respect, Spanish-style. Such little signals can carry powerful freighting.
As we departed with Joshua, the girls were opening up the chest to reveal a relatively sumptuous array of hot meats and vegetables and cold fruits and wine, with spices on the side. They smiled winningly at the hungry workers, who were covertly wiping the dirt off their faces and combing their hair. There would be no quarreling with the Navy in this dome!
Joshua paused to look back, half-longingly. “By the time I get back, my men’ll vote to take anything you offer,” he muttered.
“That’s better than bloodshed, isn’t it?” I inquired innocently.
Food and attention were awaiting Joshua on the ship. He was treated with deference by our personnel, as if he were an honored dignitary. He well understood the psychological ploy, but he enjoyed it. The fact that we were making the effort was as impressive as the effort itself. The bubble-farmers had spurned him and his cause; we were doing him the signal honor of taking him seriously. Dignity and respect—these can be magic.
We detached and jetted to the next bubble on our list, as carefully targeted as the first had been. Lieutenant Mondy and Lieutenant Sheller had choreographed this precisely; I was merely the officer implementing their strategy.
The second leader was a straight Saxon original-stock illiterate leader type, stupid but strong. He was not about to fight the Navy but also not about to be moved. His name was Laredo, and I remembered the song that was from. I left Joshua Jericho in Juana’s care, feasting on Spanish-style food, and took my squad out into the bubble. The preliminaries were similar to those of the prior session, but this time I spoke no Spanish and made no challenge with the knife. Instead I glanced at the acreage filled with tomato plants. “That certainly doesn’t look like such hard work to me,” I remarked.
Now Laredo was an excellent tomato picker. He didn’t know that I had developed a good technique myself, in my year as a picker. I could move tomatoes about as fast as anyone, without bruising them. He assumed I had always been a Navy officer.
“Shipman, you couldn’t do no work like this,” he asserted. “It takes speed, stamina, and a sure touch. This ain’t soldiering; this is real work.”
I shook my head, disbelieving him. “It seems to me anybody could do this sort of work.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, soldier boy, why don’t you just try it yourself? Then maybe you’ll see what we’re striking about.”
I pondered. “I’ll tell you what. If I show you I can pick as well as you can, will you come on my ship and negotiate with the farmers to end the strike?”
He laughed, and so did the other workers, who well knew the pitfalls of the simple-seeming job of tomato picking. Too fast or hard, and they bruised and were rejected. There were many migrants who couldn’t pick tomatoes, because their touch was too heavy. This was a chance to put a snobbish Navy officer in his place without getting into further trouble. “You’re on, mister!”
We set it up. The deal was to pick ten buckets of tomatoes and deliver them to two migrant inspectors for checking. The winner would be the one who completed the job first with fewer than ten tomatoes rejected for bruising. Each of us had a row. My men became my cheering section, while the migrants favored Laredo. We took our buckets, and started picking at the “go” signal.
It had been eight years since I had picked, but a skill once mastered is never forgotten, and I had had considerable training in the interim. I had muscle and stamina, and I could handle explosives rapidly without a slip. Also, I had rehearsed during the trip to the Agricultural Ring, with tomatoes on the ship, recalling and sharpening my technique. I was ready for this.
Laredo, on the other hand, was a foreman. He had not actually done much picking in the past two years, so was rusty.
My hands moved rapidly, plucking the fruits, twisting them expertly from their attachments without damaging the plants, and setting them gently in the bucket. The migrants gaped, then frowned, realizing that they had been suckered. I delivered the first bucket before Laredo did, and started on the second.
Laredo now realized that he was in a serious contest. He was a good picker. He buckled down with increasing speed and skill, getting back into the familiar routine. I had a slight lead but could not improve on it. No doubt he thought I would fade, but I was too fit for that; I continued without slacking. He began sweating, for he was heavyset; his eyes flicked often to my bucket.
I brought in my tenth just ahead of his. My troops cheered.
But there was a hitch. “Too many rejects,” the man who checked my total announced. Sure enough, there were a number of badly bruised fruits.
I knew I had not bruised them. The migrant checker had done it himself, to disqualify me. That was one thing we hadn’t counted on: cheating.
Laredo went over to inspect my tomatoes, frowning. “Them’s all recent bruises,” he said. This was the premium variety, very delicate, that discolored almost immediately.
I shrugged, knowing complaint would only seem like an excuse. “I guess I wasn’t as good as I thought I was.”
“Man, I saw you setting ‘em in! You never—” Then he paused. He was an honest man, but he didn’t want to accuse his own worker of cheating. “It don’t matter. You proved you could pick. I’ll go on your ship.”
So I had won what counted. We brought out the food, as before, this time served by petite Saxon privates, and Laredo boarded the ship. “You was a picker,” he said to me challengingly. “You never learned to pick like that in the Navy!”
“Before I joined the Navy,” I admitted. “We rioted, too.” Then I proffered my hand, and he took it. I had another man with me in more than body, which was the point of the exercise.
The third bubble was the toughest. The strike leader was an old-timer, as tough as they came, named John Henry. Neither physical force nor picking expertise would move him, we knew; he would settle for nothing less than victory. His workers were expecting us, too; they had a barricade set up, and they were armed with knives and clubs. Any attempt to roust them out would result in bloodshed, and that could set off the remaining crews. The migrants had set up their own minor radio network, so they were current on our activities.
This was an apple b
ubble. Small apple trees covered its inner surface, hardly more than bushes, loaded with ripe fruit. I saw that dry brush had been piled in one section, glistening with oil; the flick of a lighter would set it blazing, and the fire would be hard to stop because the brush extended to the trees; flame-dousing chemicals would damage the trees.
But if I could get John Henry to negotiate, I could get the rest. This was a crucial encounter.
This time I brought Joshua and Laredo with me. Both of them stood before the barricade and pleaded my case: I was Hispanic, I had been a picker, and I just wanted to help them get a fair settlement without violence.
“Yeah?” John Henry demanded. “We heard how those Navy dolls’ve been turning your heads, but I’m too old for that. If he was a picker, where’s his song? You schnooks ever think of that?”
Joshua and Laredo fell back, dismayed. Of course a Navy man could arrange to fight or pick; that didn’t make him one of them. Had they been taken in?
Now I stepped out alone. I took off my hat and jacket and rolled back my sleeves as if preparing for a heroic effort. Then I sang:
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