Perhaps if there were gallenium to be had. That metal, essential to protecting ships from the ravages of darkspace, would make the mining profitable from the start, even after the expense of having to ship in all of the equipment, but there’d been no trace of it found by the survey ships.
“Lot 1724852!” the announcement came. “With his pick, Holder Carew selects lot 1724852 — one degree of arc at 279 degrees, from the Dalthus VI Lagrange 2 to Dalthus VII Lagrange 3. Next pick belongs to Holder Coalson — you have five minutes’ time, Holder Coalson!”
An inarticulate howl of rage sounded across the field, silencing the vast crowd as they looked around in astonishment.
“Oh, hell,” Denholm muttered in disgust.
“What is it, love?”
The brief silence was broken by another yell of outrage, this one closer, and the crowd began edging away from Denholm. Some of the bystanders looked uncomfortable while others were grinning openly, ready for another show.
“Rashae bloody Coalson,” he muttered to Lynelle, nodding in the direction of the shouts. “The man must be mad.”
“How?” Coalson was close now, almost running through the crowd. “How, damn you!”
Denholm remained silent. He wrapped an arm around Lynelle and tried to keep his face impassive, but could feel his lips curl in disgust.
I’ve had far and more enough of this.
“Who’ve you paid?” Coalson demanded. “How’d you know? How?”
“There’s little choice left and fewer of us choosing,” Denholm said, hoping beyond hope that anything would calm the man. “It’s bound to happen at this point. Damn it, man, I can’t be the only one who’s taken lots you’ve had your eye on!”
“In the belt?” Coalson’s eyes were almost bugging out of his head. Spittle flew from his mouth as he shouted. “There’re still lots left on the planet! Plenty! The belt’s useless in your lifetime!” Coalson ground his jaws and Denholm stared at him, perplexed. The man himself had chosen more than one lot in the belt already. A few others had, as well. Why was he so incensed at it?
“Unless you know,” Coalson said, voice quieter. “How’d you know, Carew?”
“Know what?” Denholm asked. “What the devil are you on about?”
“Liar!” Coalson yelled and there were gasps from the crowd of watchers.
Denholm’s blood chilled. He was almost bound to call the man out for that. Honor would be satisfied by nothing less, but he was loathe to do so. The factions he’d felt were forming earlier seemed to have solidified more, and that’d not do the colony well. For blood to be spilled on top of it, well, that was the sort of thing that started generations long feuds and tore colonies apart.
“There’re few of us, Mister Coalson,” he said instead, trying hard to project a calm he didn’t truly feel. “And hard, trying times ahead. I’ll not be the first to spill another’s blood when it’ll be all we can do to survive our first years together.” He showed Coalson open hands. “Good lord, man, are the trials of opening a new world not enough, that we should seek such strife amongst ourselves?”
“Coward! Liar!” Coalson stepped forward.
Crack!
The explosive sound of Lynelle’s palm striking Coalson’s face cut him off and silenced the murmuring crowd like a gunshot.
“No one’ll ever speak o’ me and mine so!” Lynelle yelled into Coalson’s face. Denholm made to draw her back, away from where she’d stepped to meet Coalson, but she shrugged him off. “Y’want blood? A feud? T’call the clans an’ sound the pipes? I’ll gie it ye hilt an’ all!” She had her hand resting on the hilt of the belt knife she wore and Denholm made ready to grab her if she drew it.
“How dare you!” Coalson yelled, hand to his cheek.
“Lynelle,” Denholm said, trying to call her back.
“There’s some cannae see sweet reason, love,” she said. “Some as use yer want fer it agin ye.” She stepped closer to Coalson who stumbled back. “The sort’ll see y’don’ want blood, an’ they’ll take it as leave t’do their will.” Another step closer, so that she had to look up to see Coalson’s face. “Me clan’s menfolk save their efforts fer a worthy foe, y’see, Mister Coalson. Babe in swaddlin’d do fer you, I think, but, as I’ve none t’hand … well, if it’s a meetin’ y’want, y’send ta me, hear?” She stepped back to stand beside Denholm. “But speak o’ me or mine so again, Mister Coalson, sir, an’ I’ll send t’ye meself.”
She smiled, and Denholm felt a chill at the sight. Fire … well, fire was one thing, but this …
“I’ll be right happy t’gut ya, if yer so sore tired a’living.”
Part Three
Dalthus
Planetfall plus three weeks
Seven
“Watch yer step, love.”
Denholm barely managed to stop his descending foot and move it to the side to avoid a large pile of horse droppings he’d almost stepped in. The other options for where to step weren’t much better, truth be told, what with the ever-present mud.
The survey of their landing site on Dalthus must have been done in a different season, one with considerably less ground water. Within two days of the first boat being unloaded, the “streets” they’d laid out for the encampment had become nothing but mud mixed with a variety of droppings.
They’d have to do something about drainage or find another part of the broad river plain they’d landed on to build the first town.
“Makes one wonder what else the surveys may have got wrong,” Denholm said, edging to the side.
“Surveys’re never all complete,” Lynelle reminded him. “Knew it afore we sailed, we did.”
Denholm motioned for her to move more to the edges where fewer animals had been driven through.
“It does make me wonder what else was missed, though.”
They passed the large, roped off space near the landing field where the Doakes family had set up the beginnings of their chandlery. Most of the tables were bare already, with settlers filling out their needs from the limited stock. Denholm paused, considering stopping in.
“Along w’ye,” Lynelle said, tugging on his arm. “We’ve enough.”
“Do you think so? Perhaps another box of nails …”
“We’ve far more nails than y’could hammer in the time a’fore the next ships arrive. He’ll have more stock at lower cost then, and our own supplies will be on them as well.”
Denholm allowed himself to be pulled away. Lynelle was right, he knew, but he couldn’t help but wonder if they’d need more of anything. Both wagons were full to bursting, but he’d hate to find himself lacking something essential in the coming weeks. Once they were at their homestead it would be a full day’s ride back to Landing, and that assumed Doakes had any stock left at all to sell by then. From the looks of the crowds around his tables, he might not.
“I suppose you’re right,” he said finally.
They moved on and the thick mud dragging at his boots made Denholm’s thoughts return to the survey reports.
“I could wish the surveyors had taken more time with the wildlife, as well,” he said.
In general, habitable planets had been found to have lifeforms which were either generally benign to humanity, in that they could be touched and even ingested without harm, though rarely with any real nutritional value, or those that humans reacted to violently, even to a simple touch. Dalthus was the former, which made it ideal for colonization, but that didn’t mean there couldn’t be some very nasty surprises lurking in the ecosystem.
Viruses were the worst of the lot, as they had a disagreeable tendency to mutate quickly enough to take advantage of newly arrived hosts. The colony’s doctor and his medical equipment were amongst the very first loads brought down from the ships. That equipment had proven quite effective on other colonies in identifying those viruses and producing vaccines.
Of more worry to Denholm, about to set out for a remote homestead, was the possibility of large predators who’d never see
n a human nor experienced any reason to fear them.
“Do you suppose a gun or two more might prove useful?” he asked, craning his neck to look back at the chandler’s tables to see what might be available.
“Laser and powder rifles, both, an’ the means to reload cartridges. I think we’ve enow, love.” She nodded toward Denholm’s hip. “An’ that flechette y’ve preened over since we landed.”
Denholm rested his hand on the butt of the flechette pistol at his hip.
“It was enough to do for that creature rooting about our baggage last night.”
“‘T’were a rat, love.”
Denholm scowled. “Could be native.”
“Not much left to tell, after y’were through with it,” Lynelle said, “but ‘t’were a rat.”
“Hmph.”
Denholm knew Lynelle was likely correct. What was left of the creature after a burst of flechettes had torn into it wasn’t really identifiable, but rats had traveled with humanity to every world they’d settled, no matter the precautions. Short of venting an entire ship to vacuum, there was no way to be rid of them completely and few merchant captains were willing to do so on a regular basis.
Something jarred Denholm’s arm, knocking him into Lynelle and they almost fell. There was a shout of outrage from behind them and they turned to find a man sprawled on his back in the mud, glaring at him. Denholm didn’t recognize him. That was no surprise, really, as the colonists would know best only those who’d traveled with them on a particular ship. There were three thousand and more families settling Dalthus and, though that number seemed small compared to the billions on their home worlds, there were still many who’d never met.
“What do you mean by that, sir!” the man yelled.
Denholm shared a perplexed look with Lynelle. She shrugged to say she had no idea what the man meant either. Other colonists making their way through the street stopped and watched with interest.
“What do you mean?” Denholm asked.
The man struggled to get up, dripping mud and worse, but slipped and landed prone again.
“To call me a cur and knock me from your path, sir!” the man shouted.
He was dressed in rough, common clothes, as all the colonists were, but his manner was one of an affronted gentleman. Most of the colonists were of the wealthier classes, of course, shares in a colony company didn’t come cheaply, but not all put on such airs.
“You must have misheard,” Denholm said. “I called you nothing … certainly didn’t knock you down.” He held out his hand to help the man up. “Come, sir, a misunderstanding, surely. Allow me to —”
The man slapped Denholm’s hand aside.
“No misunderstanding!”
“He did!” another voice called out. “I saw it. Shoved the gentleman roughly and called him ‘cur’! I saw it myself.”
The second man came out of the crowd and helped the first man stand.
Denholm didn’t recognize the second man either, but he frowned, suddenly suspicious. He knew he’d said nothing of the sort and that he hadn’t struck anyone. If anything, the fallen man had struck Denholm from behind before sprawling in the mud. He felt Lynelle squeeze his arm and he gave her a short nod, but didn’t take his attention from the two men.
“I’ll have an apology, sir!” the first man demanded.
Denholm sighed.
“Love —”
He shook his head to silence Lynelle. He saw what she’d warn him of as well as she did, but he wasn’t the ‘aggrieved’ party. Unless he was willing to apologize for something he hadn’t done, and he was not, there was really only one way this encounter could play out.
“You’ll not,” Denholm said. “I neither struck you nor said a word, sir, you are mistaken.”
“You were witnessed!”
“And I suspect whose pocket your witness came from,” Denholm said. “May I have your name, at least?”
“You refuse to apologize?”
Denholm squared his shoulders and took a deep breath.
“I’ve done nothing to apologize for.”
“Then I must demand satisfaction, sir!”
“‘Course y’do,” Lynelle said. “It’s yer master’s voice says to, is it nae?”
“Lynelle,” Denholm warned. It was bad enough one of them was about to be called out, it needn’t be both. He turned back to the man. “You’ve given me no name, still.”
“Courtland Thawley,” the man said. “Who should my second speak to?”
Denholm didn’t have to consider long, there were few enough men amongst the colonists he’d consider friends.
“Sewall Mylin,” he said. “He’s a lot in the second quadrant next to my own.”
Thawley looked Denholm up and down, then turned and stalked off, the “witness” close behind.
Denholm watched them go silently. Once they were gone, the crowd began to disperse. Lynelle kept her grip on Denholm’s arm but said nothing.
Denholm remained silent too.
After a moment, they resumed walking, but remained silent and headed toward their campsite.
As they neared their lot, Mylin came from the back of his, wiping his hands on a rag. He waited for them at the post that marked the boundary between their two lots.
“Denholm,” he said, nodding as they drew near. “Lynelle.” He scratched his chin. “There a reason Rashae Coalson stopped by to ask about weapons and a meeting with some prat name of Thawley?”
Eight
“Gentlemen, may we not arrive at an understanding this morning?”
There was still mist covering Landing’s field. Off to Denholm’s left the hulking shapes of the ships’ boats were just barely visible. Their group had left the town and gone farther into the field, almost to the river itself, in order to achieve some privacy and isolation. Oddly, the footing was better here, near the water, than where they’d set up their camp — likely due to there being less foot and vehicle traffic to wear away the ground cover.
The distance hadn’t worked for privacy as they’d hoped, as several dozen colonists and crew from the ships had followed behind them to watch the show. He suspected Lynelle was in that group, though he’d asked her not to come.
Denholm eyed Thawley across the ten paces or so that separated them, but said nothing. It was Mylin’s place to speak for him as his second, just as it was Coalson’s place to speak for Thawley. Those two stood midway between them with Wickam Doakes, the Landing chandler. It was not so much that the parties trusted him, but, rather, that they distrusted him equally. As well, his ninety-nine year lease on the colony’s chandlery franchise made his family the registered Crown agent. He’d see that the proprieties were followed, at least.
“My principal will accept an apology and confirmation that he has been ill-used by the gentleman,” Coalson said. “Nothing less.”
Mylin looked to Denholm, who shook his head slightly. He’d had enough of Coalson and his coterie. All the jabs and slights on Zariah, more on the ships on their way to Dalthus, and finally Thawley’s thinly veiled excuse for a challenge.
Denholm had had enough.
“My principal will offer neither,” Mylin said.
Doakes shook his head sadly.
“Gentlemen, we’ve been on-planet barely a week. Is this how our world shall start?”
“Get on with it, Doakes,” Coalson said. “I’ve put off my breakfast for this.”
Denholm looked at Thawley, who seemed less sure of himself than Coalson. Thawley opened his mouth to speak, but Coalson went on.
“Struck down into the mud and scoffed at,” Coalson said, looking at Thawley. “Would any man’s honor stand that without an apology? What would a man’s peers think of him after?”
Thawley’s jaw clenched and he straightened his shoulders.
“An apology and admission,” Thawley said to Coalson. “Nothing else will satisfy.”
Denholm shrugged. There was nothing for it, then, for he’d provide neither. He could only wish t
hat it was Coalson he was taking the field against, instead of Thawley, for he was certain that Coalson was behind the entire thing.
“Gentlemen,” Doakes said, “if there can be no compromise reached, I must ask that you each withdraw so that your seconds may examine and choose weapons.”
Denholm eyed the temporary table that had been set up nearby, then moved off the required number of paces. Mylin knew his preference and would make the final decision after reviewing what had been assembled on the table. Normally, back in the Core, Denholm would have simply stated his weapon preference, but dueling sets hadn’t been high on anyone’s list of things to bring to Dalthus, it seemed. Most had viewed the mass on the transport ships more usefully used on chickens.
As a result, the table was filled with a hodgepodge of options collected from the other colonists. Blades, none of them matched unless by happenstance and all intended for some other, more mundane purpose, and a variety of firearms equally mismatched.
He’d had a difficult time telling Mylin what to choose for him, given that. All of the choices were far more utilitarian and deadly than would be used for a typical duel back in the Core. Finesse was difficult with a machete, after all, and firearms and lasers designed for dueling sets were less accurate by design than those the colonists had brought with them.
Most of the colonists. Denholm eyed the table again from his new place. There were two proper dueling cases on it, both supplied by the same man. And sure it would be Rashae Coalson who’s used his shipping space for those instead of something useful.
Denholm watched Mylin look the things over, then nod at one of Coalson’s cases. He frowned as Doakes picked up the case and walked toward him with Coalson and Mylin. He’d have thought they’d go to Thawley first.
Alexis Carew: Books 1, 2, and 3 Page 100