Alexis Carew: Books 1, 2, and 3

by J. A. Sutherland

  The pigs bred slower than the chickens, and Denholm, true to his word to the indentures, had restrained himself from indulging in anything he couldn’t offer to them as well. But the holding’s sounder of the animals had grown, and there were more than enough boars now, that he’d decided more than one of them would see the inside of a smokehouse come autumn. Then there’d be bacon and hams enough for the main house and barracks for the next year — and the autumn after might see enough for that and for a bit of profit in Landing, as well.

  “As you say, love.” Lynelle nodded to the boat, whose ramp was lowering. “Best see to the visitors.”

  Denholm nodded and started across the farmyard toward the boat.

  They’d had word via the satellite constellation that a ship had arrived in system, but nothing about its nature or purpose. Dalthus was still too new to be on the agenda of many merchants not specifically contracted to deliver to the colony. There were few exports to speak of so far, other than the varrenwood. But some independent merchantmen stopped by to ply their wares. Of those, two others had sent boats to the Carew holding, but they’d had the courtesy to contact him first and ask his permission to set down on his lands.

  This one had simply arrived, as though they had every right to set down in whichever farmyard they might choose. And it was a larger boat than he’d seen before, almost twenty meters in length, though ill-kept. One of the landing struts sagged, giving the boat a decided list to one side, and its flanks were oddly pocked and stained.

  The rear ramp lowered and a dozen men emerged, no more well-kept than the boat itself. While Denholm wasn’t expecting the well turned-out crew of a Naval vessel or a major shipper like the Marchant Company, he hadn’t expected such a motley sight as this either. No two of the men seemed to be wearing the same color, much less style, of ship’s jumpsuits, and one, Denholm assumed he was the ship’s captain as he strode out to meet Denholm with a wide smile on his face, wore what looked to be a Naval captain’s dress coat, somewhat torn and stained and with the gilt removed, over his.

  “Oy, there, then!” the man called. “Are you the holder here?”

  “I am,” Denholm said, taking the man’s hand once he was close enough.

  “Maximillian Saint, captain of the Vainglorious Rose.” He shook Denholm’s hand vigorously. “The one aptly named, for she’s a wallowing tub with no cause for pride, and the other not at all, for I’m bound to a warmer place, for certain, or so my suffering missus is prone to speechify upon.”

  Denholm blinked. “I see … Captain Saint. Or, rather, I believe I do.”

  “Hope it was all right for us to set down there. Didn’t see proper landing space, nor an unused field near.”

  “Here is quite all right for the number of visitors we get,” Denholm said, ignoring the muffled hmph from Lynelle, “but I’m afraid it’s a wasted landing for you if you’ve a mind to take on a cargo.” He nodded toward the outbuildings and piles of lumber being used for the new barracks. “All we have for export is the varrenwood and the bit we have milled or logged is either spoken for in our own buildings or already under contract in Landing.”

  “That is a lovely wood — I can see it’d be desired back in the Core. To be picked up soon, is it?” Saint raised his eyebrows.

  “Within a month or two. The wood is much in demand, so what we can mill is loaded quite regularly.”

  Saint looked around the farmstead, scanning things casually. “What ship’s due, if I might ask? It’s possible I know the man and would want to stay to meet him …” He grinned. “Or owe him a bit of coin and would want to be away.”

  Denholm laughed.

  “I don’t rightly know the ship itself that’s due next. One of the Marchant hulls, I suppose, as they’re who I’ve contracted with to carry the lumber.”

  Saint’s mouth twisted. “Marchant, yes. Well, they’re a safe bet for your cargo, of course. Better armed and manned than most other lines or us independents.” He frowned. “I do know a Marchant captain or two … due in a month, you said?”

  “Or more — it’s hard to say. Again, I’m sorry if you’ve wasted a landing, as I’ve no cargo for you. In a year or so I hope to have hams available, but we’ve none now.”

  Saint smiled again. “Now a bit of ham would go well with the lads, I’ll say, so I’ll keep that in mind when next we’re through this system. Truth to tell, though, we’re not much for cargo, ourselves.” He gestured toward the group of men — and women, Denholm now saw, though it was hard to tell in their grubby gear — assembled at the boat’s ramp. “We’re more of an … independent band. I may be captain, but we’ve all a share in the ship and take our own cargoes. Small crafts and such, a bit of odds and ends and this and thats. Amusements, as well, if you’ve a mind.”

  “Amusements?”

  “Oh, yes,” Saint said, grinning. “Bit of a traveling fair … though we’re no great showmen. No huge tents and such, just a few booths to ply wares and display a talent or two. Crandall, there —” He pointed toward the group, though Denholm couldn’t tell to which man. “— has a crate of a peppered jam from Eidera. Some local fruit, perfectly edible and tasty.” He paused. “There is a lad or two likes to run a game of chance, if you’ve a mind to allow it?”

  Denholm looked around. He suspected those games of “chance” had more surety for the man running them than was strictly fair, but such was to be assumed with a group like this. Work on the new barracks had all but ceased and the crowd of men and women drew closer to the Vainglorious Rose’s boat, and he could see expectant looks on their faces. A bit of a fair day wouldn’t put the work off for any time that would be a harm, and life on the holding was so insular that new faces and news from out-system were always welcome.

  “Your amusements would be most welcome, I think, Captain Saint. There’s a field midway to the village we can cut for hay early. Would a clear space this afternoon give your crew time to set up their booths for a fair day tomorrow?”

  “It would,” Saint said. “It would indeed.”

  Fifteen

  The field was mowed, fresh hay piled high to dry at the edges, before the day was out, and the crew of Vainglorious Rose were busy at setting up their booths well into the evening. Some of those in the village had made booths of their own to sell their crafts and foodstuffs at regular market days, and so joined the visitors in the field. Both groups seemed to welcome the other’s presence and a bit of early trading and gaming went on well into the night.

  Denholm invited Captain Saint and his officers to dine in the farmhouse with him and Lynelle. Saint accepted, bringing his first mate and a young man of perhaps twenty who he introduced as his nephew.

  “Thank you, Mistress Carew,” Saint said as Lynelle cleared the plates after they’d eaten. “Many thanks. As fine a plate as I’ve had before me since we left Eidera, no question.”

  “Just a bit of chicken and potatoes, Captain Saint,” she said. “Simple fare.”

  “We’re simple men, we spacers, Mistress Carew,” Saint’s first mate, Crandall, said. “After weeks of beef grown in the Rose’s nutrient vats, a bit of home cooking sits quite right by us.”

  “Well, thank you for your kind words, Mister Crandall.” She nodded. “Captain Saint’s, as well.” She glanced at the third visitor, but the lad remained as quiet as he had throughout the meal.

  “Thank your hostess, lad,” Saint said, nudging the boy with his foot under the table.

  “Was good,” the lad muttered sullenly. “Thank’ee.”

  Saint scowled. “My sister’s boy,” he said to Denholm. “A surly lad, but he does his work.” He reached into a bag beside his chair and pulled out a bottle. “If you’ve no objection here, I’ve a bit of spirits from Eidera?”

  “No objection from us,” Denholm said. “My hands make a drink from the potatoes, but it’s harsh stuff. We haven’t had the time or resources to age a proper spirit.”

  Saint laughed. “I wouldn’t call this proper, myself.” He drain
ed his glass of water and poured from the bottle, then did the same for the others. “It’s a corn whiskey, and young, but it does the job.”

  “Is it a profitable trade, Captain Saint?” Lynelle asked, returning to the table and her own drink. “These small cargoes and amusements?”

  “Enough for me and my crew to live and put a bit by. It’s a free life we lead, though, and that’s what we want more than wealth. We —”

  He was interrupted by a loud, trumpeting sound from his nephew’s seat. The boy laughed loudly, exposing a mouthful of teeth in a condition almost as distressing as the sound and smell emanating from his place.

  “Horsfall!” Saint said. “Take yourself to the privy, lad!”

  “It’s up the stairs between the bedrooms,” Lynelle said, wincing.

  Saint waited until Horsfall had left the room, then sighed.

  “My apologies, Mistress Carew. The lad was far from civilized when he came aboard and I’m afraid my crew has done little to tumble off the edges.”

  “Of course, Captain Saint.” She gave a rueful smile and glanced at Denholm. “It’s not the worst thing to be brought to my table.”

  Denholm grimaced. “Boots straight from the pigs one time, and it’s never forgotten.”

  Saint laughed and his first mate joined in.

  The fair day itself went well.

  While the crew of Vainglorious Rose and their entertainments were certainly weighted to separate fair-goers from whatever coin they might have in the most efficient way possible, Denholm saw nothing to indicate it might be more so than his indentures, a somewhat experienced group themselves in such things, might expect. In fact, a table in the gaming tent seemed to have been set aside for those who wished to place more on side bets on which player could most effectively cheat the others than in the pot itself.

  One of the Vainglorious Roses was a woodcarver of no little skill, and Denholm put him in touch with the youngsters of the village with an entrepreneurial bent, who then spent the day scavenging for knots, burls, and branches of varrenwood which would otherwise have become scrap.

  “I could’ve negotiated better terms, Mister Carew,” Denholm’s foreman said, “and got the coin direct to the holding.”

  “It’s a pittance, Harting,” Denholm said. He smiled as two girls hauled a heavy burl up to the woodcarver’s bench and began haggling. The wood would be lovely when carved and polished, but the piece was too small to be made into the veneers it would be profitable to ship back to the Core. “It keeps the children out of trouble in the other tents and gives them a taste of commerce.” He grinned widely as the two girls picked up the burl and began walking away, only to be called back by the woodcarver with a better offer and the addition of some carved toys. “I expect we’ll see consortiums forming before the day’s out. In fact, there may be a small market to other artists in those bits, and it wouldn’t hurt for the holding’s children to manage it.”

  “There’s weeding and picking in the fields for the little buggers to earn their keep,” Harting muttered. “Not picking through what’s not theirs to start with.”

  “We don’t indenture children on my lands, Harting,” Denholm said, letting his tone grow a little harsh. “I’ve told you that before and I’ll not have them set to work for the holding, no matter what you’re used to.”

  “You’re young, yourself, Mister Carew, perhaps the experience of others would —”

  “I’ve given them my permission to sell the scrap, Harting, and that’s the end of it. Leave them be.”

  “As you say, sir.”

  Harting tugged his forelock and scuttled away. It was a gesture the man had grown up with on his home planet, an archaic gesture of submission those settlers had brought back, and it irritated Denholm to no end — not so much due to the subservience it implied, but because he suspected Harting’s use of it held more insolence than anything else.

  “Tha’ mon was a poor choice o’ foreman, love.”

  Denholm turned and took the plate of fried dough covered in sugar Lynelle held out to him. He took a bite before responding, not minding that it was still so hot from the fryer that it burned his mouth and he had to suck air around the mouthful to cool it. He thought that Captain Saint and Vainglorious Rose might be onto something with their traveling fair, as having their own ship allowed them to carry luxuries a colony wouldn’t necessarily order for themselves. Sweets especially, as sugar was still dear and in short supply on Dalthus. There was cane sugar shipped up from holdings in the south and he and Mylin both planned to have a field or two of sugar beets for the next season, but the processing was a major investment when most of the colony was only just able to put enough fresh calories on every plate.

  Moreover, with so little produced on-planet as yet, the indentures had little to spend their wages on locally, so had plenty to spare for the Vainglorious Rose’s wares.

  “The best of the lot, unfortunately,” Denholm said, returning to Lynelle’s comment.

  “Oh, I ken, I do.” Lynelle took a bite of her own treat. “Old enow to command a bit o’ respect and offset our youth.”

  “And not transported for some crime or with so much debt as to show he’s irresponsible, as so many of those after the first arrivals have been.” He sighed. “We’ll keep an eye out and replace him when we can. Until then —”

  “It’s make do,” Lynelle nodded. “Aye.”

  Sixteen

  “So it’s settled then?” Denholm asked.

  He had the images of six other settlers on his tablet, Sewall Mylin one of them, as well as the latest transport schedule for colony’s lone antigrav hauler. The five other than he and Mylin also had large tracts of varrenwood and the group was discussing the use of the Carew-Mylin mill for cutting their raw lumber before export.

  They’d built the mill with capacity to spare, anticipating the growth of varrenwood exports from his and the Mylins’ lands. Mylin’s contribution of one of his own motors to complement Denholm’s made the mill even more efficient, and there was no way that their own hands could keep it supplied with raw lumber at this early stage. None of the others had been able to put up a mill with similar capabilities, and the addition of two of Mylin’s sons running wagons from the mill to Landing with the finished product made it an even better opportunity for the others to have their raw logs milled there.

  They could make use of the antigrav hauler to move their logs directly from the logging site to Denholm’s mill, then the wagons saved them the cost of having the hauler bring them to Landing for storage. Since the logs weren’t perishable, they were also able to fit into the hauler’s regular schedule as space was available and save on those transport costs.

  “I believe so,” one of the other men said, “so long as there’s a bit of flexibility in the schedule of wh —”

  His image stuttered, then froze, bright blocks of pixelization covering it. At the same time a status indicator at the top of the tablet began flashing. Denholm frowned and tapped it, as he could see others doing before several of their images also froze. His frown deepened as he saw that the alert was that one of the satellites in the constellation had dropped offline. The others would reroute the video feed in a moment, but it was unusual for the hearty, heavily protected satellites they’d brought with them to fail.

  The number of failed satellites quickly changed to two, then three.

  “What in the hell’s going on —”

  “Was there debris we mis —”

  The settlers still in the conference were talking over each other in surprise.

  Another alert drew Denholm’s attention, this one deemed less important than the failed satellites by his tablet. A ship had transitioned from darkspace at the Dalthus IV lunar L1 point — the Lagrangian point midway between the planet and its moon — at nearly the same time as the first failure, only seconds before. A fourth satellite failed and the system finally noted that all of those which had failed were those which could scan the local space around Dalthus.
The satellites which were strictly for communications or positioning on the planet itself were all intact.

  Denholm’s blood chilled and he leaned toward his tablet, keying it to send those alerts to everyone in the conference.

  “Gentlemen! I believe we are under some sort of attack.”

  Denholm’s tablet screen was more crowded with images than before. Most of the colonists were viewing this discussion, some six days after the ship had first arrived and attacked their satellites, but only the most vocal two dozen or so were represented on screen. The majority were content to watch and listen — and form sides in the ongoing debate about what to do.

  “The Brogdons and Tooleys, now the Pennings,” Heallstede Kinder said. “I say give them what they’ve asked for and send them on their way.”

  The attacking ship — pirates, Denholm allowed, though it shook him to admit they were really having to deal with pirates — had destroyed all of the satellites capable of telling the colonists what was happening in space around the planet, leaving them only with communications and location capabilities, and those rather limited. Then had come the first attack on a settlement.

  The Brogdons were a mid-sized holder, with perhaps a dozen indentures. The attackers left one alive to confirm what had happened, the twelve-year old son of an indenture.

  The message the pirates broadcast after was simple and direct. Video of the attack and destruction, followed by a shadowy figure and a distorted voice.

  Give us what we want in a lump sum, or we’ll take it piecemeal.

  The destruction of the Tooley holding confirmed what piecemeal would look like.

  “It’s not so much they want, when it’s all of us providing it,” Kinder went on. “It’s wool, not mutton, these men are after. We’ll be able to survive and rebuild with what we have left.”

  He looked down at his tablet as it pinged, indicating that someone else wanted to respond to him. Kinder winced, but tapped his screen.