“Make sure to spray the working and sleeping areas,” Mazzola said. “You really don’t want to wake up with a tunnel worm working its way under your skin.”
Shija walked over and called Mazzolla’s attention to the disturbed area near the stream. “What do you make of that, Nar?”
“Sonic mining.” Mazzolla pointed to the large hole in the flint. “See how round that is? That doesn’t happen in nature. Somebody used a sonic drill on that site. I would wager if we look around, we might find a few more impressions like that.”
“A sonic drill?”
“Yep. The sonic vibrations would turn the flint to dust and an industrial vacuum would suck up the dust and spit it out into the water. A filter would catch anything bigger than a marble, which is how the sunstones would be collected. Well, that and a lot of useless pebbles. It’s a smart way to work if you are trying to keep from being noticed.”
“Then why did you have us bring vibro-hammers?” demanded Shija.
“Money. Vibro-hammers are cheap. Sonic drills cost about five thousand sols each, and that’s without the vacuum attachment. Maybe after we make some progress we’ll be able to afford one, but we didn’t have anywhere near that kind of cash to spare when we were getting outfitted.”
Shija considered Mazzolla’s words, then nodded. If he had that kind of money, he could have paid off Raul Laporte, in which case he wouldn’t have needed to try his hand at illegal prospecting. “What do you think happened to the last guy who was here? Did he get busted or decide there wasn’t anything here and moved on?”
“No way of knowing. We’ll just have to see what we find and try to keep from getting spotted.” Mazzola looked out at the surrounding countryside. “A fibroid weave canopy would have been nice.”
“Those cost even more than that drill you were talking about,” said Shija. “Back in my army days I knew a supply sergeant who did a lot of scrounging and black market stuff. You name it, he could get it. For the right price. A fibroid canopy large enough to cover this operation would have run about eight thousand sols. He never got caught, either. Or if he did, he had enough generals on his customer list to make it go away.”
“Generals?”
“Yeah. Most of them were rock-solid soldiers out to do the job, but about one in ten was out for himself and liked to live it up. Rare wines, creature comforts, off-world foodstuffs, that sort of thing. A good scrounger was also good for morale as he could get things that helped keep the rank and file’s spirits high. One time he cadged a shipment of veldbeest steaks—a good trick on Yggdrasil—for a company party. Don’t know where he got them, don’t want to know.”
“Too bad your friend isn’t here,” observed Mazzola. “We could have used a few things.”
“For all I know he’s retired, or even stationed on Xerxes. Well, let’s get busy. The sooner we get the stones, the sooner we get the Nifflheim out of here.”
* * * * * * * * *
Deep in the brush several Fuzzies were startled by the sudden strange sounds coming from the sun’s left hand. After some discussion, Strong One decided to investigate. The Fuzzies who were hunting with him argued with him, but Strong One was the lead hunter so his orders were to be followed. Unfortunately, many of them now called him by the strange name the Big One used, and the more he demanded they stop, the more they used it. It would help if he knew what it meant, but the Big One used words that made no sense, even when he spoke in Jin-f’ke.
Having a lead hunter was one of the new things that Red Fur had established to keep the peace. Hunting parties were led by the best hunter, and everybody was expected to obey him when on a hunt. Strong One resisted the idea at first, believing that everybody should work with their own clans and follow their own leaders. Red Fur pointed out that a team of hunters would work better than a team of hunters, makers and caregivers. Strong One had to admit there was wisdom in that, and as one of the best hunters, he was delegated as leader of an eight Jin-f’ke hunting troop.
Strong One and the others quietly approached the source of the strange sounds. Peering through the tall grass, they could see a band of Big Ones using strange made-things to make a lot of dust. There was a new sound, like rocks smashing together, then the other strange sound that hurt his ears stopped.
A Big One bent down and pulled some chunks of black rock out of the hole they worked in. The Fuzzies murmured among themselves that the Big Ones were very strong to lift such big rocks from the ground. Strong One thought he could lift such a rock, but not as easily as the Big Ones did.
“Thor,” Fruitfinder said, using the annoying name the Big One had taught her, “this bad place. Runner come here and find bad Big One with noisy made-thing. He say to Big One ‘stop make noise and leave.’ Big One used other noisy thing that make his ears and head hurt.”
Strong One remembered that story. Runner had told it at big-big gathering of Jin-f’ke. The Big One tried to attack them, so Runner and his hunting band killed the Big One and took the pretty rocks that made light when hold-in-hand. Now new Big Ones come. Maybe looking for pretty bright things. Strong One wondered if the Big Ones would go away if they gave them the pretty bright things. No, they might want more and keep digging with the noisy made-things.
Strong One hefted his stone hammer and stepped out to face the Big Ones. One of the Big Ones saw him and pointed, making the strange words. Strong One knew a few of the words from the Big One called Joe. Not a lot, but some. He decided to use the Big Ones’ words, and the name Joe called him, since it had meaning for his people.
“You go,” Strong One said. “I Thor. You go. Now.”
* * * * * * * * *
Shija watched with interest as Tekestah Sabahatu employed the vibro-hammer. Every time he would hand up a chunk of flint, Shija would turn it over to Mazzola who would use the micro-ray scanner on it. If there was something inside, Mazzola would crack it open with his specialized tools. If not, it was tossed into the stream. So far they had found three stones; two duds and one small sunstone worth maybe 600 sols.
Mazzola received a positive reading on the next piece of flint when he noticed the largest Fuzzy he had ever seen step out of the tall grass. The average Fuzzy stood at two feet in height and fifteen to twenty pounds in weight. This one looked about two and a half feet tall and a good thirty pounds if he was any judge. Mazzola tapped Shija’s arm and pointed.
“You go,” the Fuzzy said. “I Thor. You go. Now.”
“Oh, shit,” Shija said. “This must be one of those Reservation Fuzzies. He could identify us to the NPF.”
“What do we do?” Mazzola eyed the Fuzzy and wondered if there were more in the brush. He read that Fuzzies typically traveled in groups of four to eight.
“No witnesses.” Shija drew his sidearm, screwed on the silencer and aimed at the Fuzzy. “Sorry, Thor. Nothing personal.”
Shija’s shot grazed Strong One in the shoulder and spun him around. Before Shija could take another shot, a small spear sailed through the air and caught him in the throat. The spear was followed by more spears. A lot more spears.
Mazzola swore and picked up Shija’s fallen pistol and fired blindly into the foliage. By this time the others noticed what was happening and joined in the battle. That was when arrows started flying in.
Though small compared to anything used on Old Terra or Freya, the arrows were very sharp and penetrated deep into human flesh. With enough time and sufficient ammunition, the arrow barrage could have killed the humans. This wasn’t necessary. Each arrowhead had been treated with the venom of a net-zeetha, a poisonous lizard endemic to Northern Beta. The toxin worked in much the same way as curare on Terra. First the infected humans became paralyzed, then their breathing became labored until they were unable to breathe at all and quietly expired.
* * * * * * * * *
When the shooting was over, the humans lay dead or dying, as were several Fuzzies. Strong One stood up holding a hand to his shoulder. He noticed that the one who had hurt him with the s
trange made-thing was still alive, though bleeding badly from his neck wound. He walked over and saw that the Big One would not survive such a wound. Out of mercy rather than malice, he raised his stone hammer and brought it down on Roger Shijabuyenzikumligwanagwashi’s head.
“We tell Red Fur what happened here,” Strong One said. He looked over the dead and injured among the Jin-f’ke. Some were not from his hunting party. They had to have heard the sounds of fighting and came to help. He turned to Runner. “Bring healers, too. I stay here while you make run fast.”
* * * * * * * * *
Red Fur was shocked, angry, and worried. He was shocked that his people were forced to defend themselves from more Big Ones, angry that more than a hand of his hunters were dead, and worried about what he would have to do. There were so many new things since the Big Ones first arrived: the strange food that some of the people loved, the need to gather more of the People than had ever been in one place before, the sharing of knowledge and new made-things. Now there was a terrible new-thing he would have to bring to his people, and he did not want to, but saw no other choice.
Red Fur stomped over to the Big One called ‘Joe.’ He stared at him for many-many heartbeats before he could speak, then he had to remember to talk in the strange way that would allow the Big One to hear him. It had been hard to learn, but when Joe’s made-thing in ear stopped working, it was the only way they could communicate.
“Big Ones killed more Jin-f’ke,” he stated in the strange language Joe had taught him. “Why? Why do Big Ones kill people?”
“Not all Big Ones kill, Red Fur.”
“Not so!” Red Fur yelled. “You make Sun Fur dead. Big One come many days ago and tried to use noise thing to hurt more of my people. Big One in yellow not-fur attacked two of my people. Now more of my people dead while hunting!”
The Big One looked sad, but said nothing. What could he say?
“We not let Big Ones hurt any more Jin-f’ke!” Red Fur shouted. “Now we make dead all Big Ones we find.”
“Red Fur, if you kill any more humans, Big Ones that don’t attack you first, more Big Ones will come to stop you,” Joe warned.
“Then we make dead!” Red Fur cried out. “We make dead all Big Ones who come here!”
Joe shook his head. “My people have weapons that could destroy… kill you without even getting close to you. You would all die and never even see who killed you.”
“Jin-f’ke small, yes, and not as wise with made-things, but Jinf’ke know the forest and animals and places to hide. We know that you think we are like young ones. That make Big Ones slow to see we can kill them, as we killed the other bad Big Ones who come here. Tomorrow, we show you.”
Joe started to protest as Red Fur turned and stomped away.
XXII
Penrosa P. Penrosa, a particularly large and strong man, worked the vibro-hammer with an ease other cons couldn’t help but envy. Penrosa, or Pen as the others called him, was one of the exceedingly rare specimens of humanity that still had a pure bloodline. Born and raised on Terran Samoa, he could trace his ancestry back almost seven hundred years, all native Samoan. Like the majority of his people, he was large, strong and didn’t mind hard work. Unfortunately, Pen suffered from a very bad temper, which resulted in his being convicted of manslaughter and receiving an eight-year sentence.
In Prison House, Pen was a model prisoner. He was attacked only once by three other cons, resulting in three beds being filled in the infirmary. Even Leo Thaxter didn’t push too hard where Pen was concerned. Thaxter had tried to recruit Pen, but the big Samoan wasn’t really criminally inclined. He intended to finish his time and get back to his life, hopefully with a better control of his temperament. Thaxter accepted that and left Pen alone.
When the opportunity to work in the open air came up, Penrosa P. Penrosa was first in line, at least after he shoved three other men out of his way. Once on the dig site, Pen was put to work loading rocks and debris onto contra-gravity platforms. The platforms would carry the load to an area outside of the perimeter where it would be inspected by CZC professionals. Once the blast crater and surrounding area were cleared, Pen was put to work with the vibro-hammer to break small sections of rock loose from the crater walls. The sonics were adjusted to shatter flint while leaving any fossils or other substances undamaged. Pen had only nine months left to his sentence so he was trusted with the heavy equipment that could otherwise be used as a weapon. One guard objected and it was pointed out that Pen didn’t need any weapons to be dangerous.
Pen shut off the hammer and set it down. There was something poking out of the side of the crater where he had been working. It looked like a bone. Pen took out a small archaeologist’s sonic hammer and carefully subjected the wall to a series of harmonics designed to loosen dirt around fossils. After several minutes he managed to work the bone free. While he knew very little about fossils or anatomy he knew a humanoid femur when he saw one. It was one of the biological curiosities of the universe that almost every sapient species, save for the Ullerans, had similar upper leg construction. Knees, shins, feet and even pelvises could differ significantly from species to species while the femur seemed to be nearly universal. Only size truly differed.
Penrosa smiled as he wiped the bone with a rag. This might be worth an extra ration at dinner, he thought. While the prison system met the normal dietary needs of the inmates, large, powerful men like Penrosa tended to be hungry most of the time. He was the only person in Prison House who missed Small Eyes, if only because he often took most of the molester’s food.
Penrosa yelled for the platform operator to give him a lift up. The operator, an inmate trustee, lowered the platform and Pen stepped on. The lift started up, passed the lip of the crater and kept going up. Pen, worried about going above the safe altitude at which point his collar would explode, yelled down to the trustee to quit fooling around. When the trustee failed to respond, Pen looked over the edge of the platform and saw that the man was slumped over in his seat.
“Oh, Nifflheim,” Penrosa said under his breath. The lift was ten feet above ground and still rising up. For lack of a better alternative, Pen jumped to the ground where he landed on something that yeeked once and went silent. Bruised, but not broken, Penrosa rolled over and saw that he had crushed a Fuzzy as he’d landed. Penrosa liked Fuzzies, at least in the abstract as he had never adopted one, and felt bad about it. Then he became worried that he could be charged for manslaughter, again.
As Pen stood up, he noticed that the Fuzzy had been armed with a bow instead of the usual killing club they favored. Then he noticed the arrow sticking out of the lift operator’s neck. Penrosa, while not the sharpest pencil in the drawer, quickly put two and two together. Looking around, he noticed other Fuzzies, similarly armed, firing arrows in every direction.
The guards, armed with sono-stunners and zap-sticks, fired at random at the attackers while trying to herd the inmates towards the Quonset huts that acted as their barracks. Penrosa made a snap decision and dived back into the crater. There were too many Fuzzies between himself and the barracks and he knew that he presented a very large target.
Scrambling as fast as his considerable bulk would allow, he made for the far end of the crater and hid behind the laser drill machine. The drill was powered down and could only be activated with the magnetic key held by one of the guards. This was a security measure in case one of the inmates wanted to try something cute. That was fine with Penrosa as he was looking for a place to hide, not a weapon to use.
Peeking around the side of the drill housing Pen could see three Fuzzies at the far edge of the crater’s rim. One was pointing at him. Well, Pen thought, this is it. The three Fuzzies notched arrows and let fly, all of which missed and either bounced off the drill housing or skewered the ground. Before they could try again, the trio was downed by sono-stunners.
It was several minutes before Pen felt safe enough to leave the protection of the laser drill. By the time he climbed out of the crater,
the fighting was over. Bodies in yellow jumpsuits with arrows protruding from them littered the ground side-by-side next to Fuzzy bodies with blood coming from their ears. Penrosa took a moment to be glad he was alive before he lost his lunch.
* * * * * * * * *
Anthony Nicholovich Anderson and Duncan “Ripper” Rippolone sat down at the table across from Leslie Coombes and Douglas Toyoshi, the defense attorney of record. Toyoshi, who had been appointed to defend Leo Thaxter, Conrad and Rose Evins and Phil Novaes two years earlier, had been tapped again to defend Anderson and Rippolone.
“Gentlemen, I strongly urge you to cooperate,” Coombes said. He had been singing the same tune over and over for the last two months. “Mr. Toyoshi has offered a plea bargain that would keep you from facing the death penalty. Given that you were caught red-handed with your victim you will not do well at trial.”
“I can get you twenty years, no hard labor and a ticket off-planet when your time is up. There is simply no better deal to be had, here or on any other planet,” Toyoshi explained. “But you will have to name names.”
“We name anybody we’ll be dead in a year, tops,” Rippolone growled.
“That is a year longer than you will have if this goes to trial,” Coombes said calmly. “Personally, I would like to go to court, win the conviction and add your executions to my resume. It gives me a strong bargaining position the next time I request a raise. Still, getting your higher-ups would look almost as good for me. We can put you in protective lock-down during your stay at Prison House, if you like.”
“That would be little better than solitary confinement for twenty years, Mr. Coombes,” Anderson said.
“I believe it was Leo Thaxter who once said, ‘you’re dead a whole lot longer.’” Coombes leaned back and shook his head. “Gentleman, from your own point of view, you are damned if you do and damned if you don’t. Why not take the route that preserves your life for the longest amount of time?”
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