Alexis Carew: Books 1, 2, and 3

by J. A. Sutherland

  The counting here was easier, at least, with the beasts all visible and no scrambling over a packed pallet of goods necessary. Denholm walked the aisle, checking the count and, as best he could, that they were the animals he’d selected from the farms. Four of the draft horses and a pair for riding, a round two dozen of chickens and geese, both, dairy cows and a pair of cows to pull the plows, and a lone cat for whatever native rodents Dalthus held or for the rats and mice that would surely make their way there, as they had to each of humanity’s new worlds.

  All of them female, as it was far less expensive to ship the essential means of breeding than a full stallion or bull.

  He’d considered sheep, if only just for the excuse of having a dog or two along, but there were other colonists better suited to that — he’d learned his first day reviewing a sheep farm that those beasts were bloody stupid and not nearly worth the effort they’d take of him.

  Pigs, though, he thought, moving on to the last pen, pigs’re …

  “Och, love!” Lynelle cried, holding both hands to her mouth. “Whatever were you thinking?”

  Well, pigs’re smart … but filthy as sin when penned.

  “Was thinking of ham, love,” Denholm said. “And bacon of a morning.”

  He eyed the pen and its filth-covered inhabitants a moment. He was standing near the trough, and the pigs, knowing full well what a human by the trough usually meant, were crowding and jostling each other to get a place. They climbed over each other, smearing the contents of their pen everywhere.

  “Bacon’s worth a bit of … well isn’t it?”

  Part Two

  Zariah System

  Four

  “Lot 13665!” the loudspeaker announced. “With his pick, Holder Mylin selects lot 13665 — four thousand hectares of prime hillside and varrenwood tracts! The next pick belongs to Holder Carew — you have five minutes’ time, Holder Carew!”

  Denholm grimaced and looked around the crowded field for Mylin. He’d wanted that lot — it stood between two other tracts of varrenwood he’d already selected, and getting the third would have allowed him lock up the prime sources of the soon-to-be valuable wood closest to the planned spaceport.

  The wide, empty plane outside of Zariah’s port city — town, really, as the three thousand colonists for Dalthus almost doubled the town’s population — was covered with tents, corrals, and temporary buildings. They’d have a full month here before continuing on to Dalthus, using the somewhat established colony of Zariah to recover from the first part of their passage, fatten their animals and let them regain some of the muscle they’d lost after so long aboard ship, and, as they were doing now, divide the Dalthus system between them. Most of the colonists, at least one from each family, filled the open space around a large vidscreen and loudspeakers for the selections. The vidscreen showed the selections and the order of the next picks, as the colonists milled about waiting their turn.

  They’d waited until Zariah to do this so as to meet the survey ships they’d sent to take a more thorough look at the system and have the most recent data to use in choosing their lots. Over four million lots. From tiny, thousand meter square lots in the planned port city to percentages of fishing rights that spanned all of Dalthus’ oceans to great swathes of the system’s asteroid belt that were measured in light-minutes. Selection of most lots had been simple. The colonists had indicated which of the four million they’d wished and if there were no conflicts then the assignments were made. Where two or more colonists wished a given lot, though, those had been placed into a lottery where they were picked one at a time.

  Most important, though, at least in the first generation or two after landing, were the lots that might hold something valuable enough to export — the colony would grow food, of course, for export back to the hungry Core Worlds, perhaps even as far as New London itself, but those were bulk goods and would buy them little more than subsistence.

  Varrenwood, though, the huge tree native to Dalthus, had a grain and hue that had already been talked about on New London when they’d gone aboard ship. It was the sort of thing — new, rare, and, most importantly, expensive — that the wealthy Coreward would pay well for. The rarity and expense would set the buyers apart as being at the height of fashion and society — something Denholm dearly wished to take advantage of.

  “Sorry about that, Carew!” A hand fell on his shoulder and Denholm turned to find Sewall Mylin at his side. Mylin was a man in his forties, with three sons to help him work the lands he’d claim on Dalthus. Despite being closer to the man’s sons in age, Denholm had come to regard Mylin as a friend. “I suspect you wanted that piece, but I felt the need to diversify my holdings nearest the port.”

  Denholm waved that away. “No matter,” he said. “Bound to happen, even with so many to choose from.”

  Mylin held out his hand. “So no hard feelings, seeing as how we’re to be neighbors?”

  Denholm took the offered hand. “Of course not.” He considered a moment. “In fact, as we’ll need a road out of those hills and a mill to work the wood, shall we share the cost of those?”

  Mylin pursed his lips for a moment, then pulled out his tablet and showed a map of Dalthus. “How’s this … share the cost of the road, but you build the mill and I’ve a half share in it, while I’ll take this tract of marsh above the port with one of my picks. It’s worthless, near as I can see, but a causeway through it — at my expense — would let us connect both our homesteads and the hills to the port. Cut our travel time to near a third of what going around would be.”

  Denholm nodded. A causeway through that muck would take more effort than a mill, and it would be decades before he had the hands to keep a single mill fully utilized on his own.

  “Done,” he said, shaking Mylin’s hand again.

  “And what’s your next pick, then?”

  Denholm pulled out his own tablet and consulted his list. There were several that would do, but none he dearly wanted. That final tract of varrenwood had been the last of what he’d planned for development in his own lifetime. The rest of his choices would be left fallow until his children or grandchildren took over the holding.

  Or perhaps a bit of a lark? He looked over the options and smiled. Tracts on the nearest coast were going quickly, with several holders clearly planning to make a go of fishing and planetside shipping. It wasn’t something he’d planned for himself, but … A house by the sea, to spend a fortnight or two each year? Lynelle does love sailing, and a bit of time on a beach with some fresh caught fish grilling over a fire …

  He smiled and touched the lot to select it.

  “Lot 37481!” the loudspeakers declared almost immediately. “With his pick, Holder Carew selects lot 37481 — four thousand hectares of coastline, sea, and commensurate fishing rights! Next pick belongs to Holder Coalson — you have five minutes time, Holder Coalson!”

  “God damn your eyes to hell, Carew!”

  Mylin’s eyes widened at the shout from the crowd, but Denholm merely sighed.

  Again? Truly?

  There was a rustling of bodies as the crowd around them shuffled to make way for a man striding toward them. A clearly angry man, pinch-faced, hawk-nosed, and not made more attractive by the narrowed eyes and flush of anger that covered his face. He strode toward Mylin and Denholm, oblivious to the dark looks his jostling and demeanor garnered from the other colonists.

  “To bloody hell, I say!”

  Mylin leaned close, clasping a hand on Denholm’s shoulder, and said, “Do you have need of a second, I’ll stand for you.”

  Denholm raised an eyebrow. “I doubt it will come to a duel, but thank you.”

  “If ever a man needed a good sticking more than Rashae Coalson, I’ve not met him,” Mylin whispered, as the man was closing on them. “I suspect you’d save yourself, and no small host of others, a deal of heartache if you’d kill him now.”

  “Well?” Coalson stopped a bare two meters from them and stood, hands on hips, glaring.
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  “‘Well’, what, Rashae?” Denholm asked. He kept his voice calm, knowing from two times before this had happened that nothing would calm the man before he’d had his rant. Knowing, too, that use of his given name would enrage Coalson further, but unable to resist a bit of tweaking. Mylin was right about one thing … what Coalson had already said would be cause for a meeting on New London. One simply didn’t speak to another gentleman in that manner, and only a desire to not be the first colonist to shed another’s blood kept him from calling Coalson out.

  Coalson flushed even darker, his hand darting to his hip where the hilt would be were he wearing a sword. Denholm narrowed his eyes.

  Perhaps a bit less tweaking … but, damn me, if Mylin doesn’t have the way of it. Never met a man in more dire need of a puncturing than this one.

  “I’ll have my due respect from you, Carew. Your familiarity is as unwelcome as your plotting!”

  “You’ll get what you give, Rashae,” Denholm said, “and not a bit more from me. But I’ll thank you to take your delusions for a stroll … well away from me, if you please!”

  “Three times, Carew! Three times now you’ve taken the choice at the top of my list! How do you explain it? What are you about, sir?” For a moment, Denholm thought the man would actually stomp his feet like a petulant child. “I demand … an answer, sir! This very minute!”

  Was he about to call me out, but put it off? Denholm thought, eyes narrow and considering. Afraid or prudent, one — I wonder which.

  “Answer’s ‘chance’, sir,” Denholm said. “As it was yesterday and’ll still be tomorrow. Now you’ve but three minutes to make your own selection, and I’ll thank you to leave me be while you do!”

  Coalson ground his jaw and seemed to be about to say more, but spun on his heel and stalked off into the crowd.

  “You’ve not seen the end of trouble from him,” Mylin said. “Nor the worst of it.”

  Five

  Denholm made his way back through the lines of tents and domes that housed the Dalthus colonists. He and Lynelle had a plot against the wall that enclosed the port’s field. In the distance, from Zariah’s main town, came the odd ululating cry that seemed to characterize Zariah’s port city several times a day. That and the onion-topped towers the call came from.

  He’d like to get away from the colonists’ camp and explore a bit of the town, but it had been made very clear to the Dalthus colonists that such a thing wasn’t allowed.

  It was only a few years ago, in fact, that Zariah wouldn’t have allowed the colonists to land at all and they’d have had to stage from a different world entirely. Zariah was still one of the more insular religious colonies, but the system’s position made it a prime spot for both the staging of colonial ventures farther into the Fringe and a trading hub for goods moving to and from the Core Worlds.

  Zariah’s rulers had seen the profit to be had in such a happy accident, so they’d walled off a portion of the plain around this city and turned it into the system’s only open port. Foreign traders and colonists were limited to the space within those walls and not allowed out.

  Their money, on the other hand …

  The prices charged by Zariahn merchants for everything from a barrel of flour to a chicken made Denholm wince, and he wondered that those merchants didn’t run afoul of Zariah’s strict usury laws.

  Must not apply to the fleecing of off-worlders.

  He reached the bit of space allotted to him and Lynelle and did a quick check to see that the animals had food and water. They were recovering well from their time aboard ship and he’d lost not a one of them. He thought they’d be in fine shape still after the shorter trip from Zariah to Dalthus.

  Once all of the animals were cared for and set for the night, he entered their shelter.

  “Did the choosing go well, love?” Lynelle asked.

  Denholm eased himself into one of the canvas chairs set about their little, one-room hut. They’d had one pallet of goods prepared specially for the stop on Zariah, with a lightweight shelter, one they’d use again on Dalthus, as well, until they’d built a proper house, and simple furnishings. So many of the colonists had settled for canvas tents for the start, but Denholm felt the need for solider walls. Survey ships could never account for all of the native fauna, they simply didn’t spend enough time in a system, and he’d heard tales of the nasty surprises some colonies had encountered. He wanted walls that sealed around him and offered a bit of protection.

  “I missed that third tract of wood — the Mylins got it.” He accepted a mug of coffee from her and smiled as she busied herself at the portable stove they’d brought down from the ships. “But we made a bargain for roads and a mill that’ll do right by all of us.”

  “That’s nice. And then?”

  Denholm laughed. She’d clearly heard about his run-in with Coalson from someone. “Well, and if you’ve heard about it already, why do I need to tell it?”

  “So I’ll ken the truth o’the rumors runnin’ ‘round.”

  “Rumors?”

  “Aye. That Rashae Coalson’s a fool and fair hears voices — and a bitter coward, afraid to call y’out, to boot. Or that he called y’out and ye refused. Or y’ve a grudge agin him, and seek his ruin. Or yer a scoundrel and a rogue, an’ plan t’take everyone’s favorites. Depends on who’s the speaker.”

  Denholm grunted. So many different rumors might mean that the colonists were forming factions, with him and Coalson as the catalysts. That didn’t bode well for the colony’s start. “And what do you think?” he asked.

  Lynelle grinned and came to sit on his lap, straddling his legs and facing him. Denholm wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. Yet another reason he’d had a more solid shelter brought down — weeks aboard ship with little space and less privacy.

  “Well, and ye are a scoundrel,” she whispered, leaning close to kiss him on the neck. “And a rogue.” She kissed the other side. “An’ a right beast.” Denholm groaned as her lips brushed his ear and her hands ran over his chest. “An’ got me something pretty, did you?”

  Denholm had to laugh. It seemed all of his lot choices had been told back to her before he’d even left the field. He supposed he’d have to get used to neighbors gossiping so, in such a small group. Innocent enough, except for those rumors about him and Coalson.

  “A bit of coast, I did,” he said.

  “With a bluff high enow for a house t’catch the winds?”

  Denholm nodded, not trusting himself to speak as Lynelle nuzzled his neck again.

  “An’ a bit o’beach?”

  Denholm’s vision blurred, but he managed another nod.

  “Secluded beach, is it?” Lynelle fairly purred. “Enow t’take the sun in me altogethers?”

  Denholm’s mind went blank, save for the image of Lynelle and her altogethers on sun-drenched sands.

  Lynelle straightened, palms against his chest and clearly pleased at the effect she’d had on him. He slid his hands to her waist and swallowed, though his mouth was quite dry.

  “And a bargain with Deakin Honeywell,” he managed to say, though his voice was hoarse.

  Lynelle’s brow furrowed. “Bargain?”

  Denholm smiled, apparently not everything he’d managed today had been repeated to her already. Honeywell was a craftsman, come along with only a single share in the colony — enough for a bit of land in what was planned to become a seaport to practice his trade.

  “The shipwright,” Denholm said.

  “Denholm, love?”

  “Thinks varrenwood’ll make a proper ship, while we’re reliant on wind for shipping, that is. Enough trees for him to experiment with and the first success is to be ours.”

  “A ship? But, love, we’ve been plannin’ for exports, not local trade —”

  “Boat, really, he says … enough that two may handle it.”

  Lynelle’s eyes widened and Denholm saw them glisten.

  “Yer mad,” she whispered. “The expense, the time �
� so early on.”

  “We’ll have a foreman and hands within the year,” he assured her. “And it’ll be that long, at least, before Honeywell has the way of working the varrenwood, he says. Time enough for us to settle our lands and take a week or a fortnight. That lot is in the southern hemisphere, so we can go when the home farms are idle for winter and spend some time aboard it.”

  “‘Her’, love,” Lynelle said, leaning toward him. “Boats’re always a ‘she’ — fickle and temperamental as the sea herself.” She kissed him deeply. “Lo! But they’ll steal yer soul, all the same.”

  They kissed again, Denholm relishing the taste of her lips, the feel of her body against him, the scent of …

  “Och! Me biscuits!” Lynelle leapt from his lap and rushed to the stove where smoke was starting to seep from the oven. A string of Gaelic curses flowed from her, making Denholm grin. The fiery spirit that had first attracted him, so much brighter than her peers on New London, seemed to be but the merest banked embers compared to her now. And every new flare made him love her more.

  Six

  “Are you certain?” Denholm asked. The field was even more crowded than usual on this, what would probably be the last day of choosing lots. With fewer choices and the fatigue of several days of decision making, tempers were high and most just wanted the exercise done with and behind them.

  Lynelle shrugged. “We’ve more than enow planetside,” she said. “The belt’s fer the future, an’ they’ll thank us fer preparin’ proper.”

  Denholm nodded agreement and keyed the selection on his tablet. The lot, a slice of the asteroid belt one degree wide as measured by the system’s ecliptic plane and zero degrees matching the course to galactic north. It would run from the planetary-solar Lagrange point 2 on the far side of Dalthus VI, second out from the habitable Dalthus IV, through the asteroid belt to the nearer L3 of Dalthus VII. It was, indeed, an investment for the far future, as it would be decades, if not generations, before mining the belt became worthwhile.