The Price of Peace

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The Price of Peace Page 4

by Mike Moscoe


  Not the trusting type, the driver still drove over to them. A thin, white-haired man studied them through thick glasses. “Navy types, huh?”

  “At your service,” Izzy smiled, and got a gunned motor for her trouble. The truck narrowly missed the arriving car.

  A young man, short and thin, greeted Izzy with a wide smile and a handshake. “Mikhail Shezgo, city manager. We’ve never had a Navy ship drop by, but what can I do for you?”

  Izzy gave the official line by heart. “We’re here on a routine visit. To show Hurtford Corner it’s a part of a bigger universe. Maybe recruit a few new hands, buy fresh fruits and vegetables, paint a hospital or community center. Think of us as ambassadors from the Society of Humanity.” Done with the basics, she went on. “With no station to give us gravity, I’ll want to give my people liberty for a good part of each day.”

  “That may be a problem.” Mr. Shezgo answered quickly. Izzy had been expecting a brush-off, but not this soon. She raised a questioning eyebrow. “I suspect,” he went on, “your young folks want what any youngsters want at the end of a long day. A couple of cool ones. Well, our local brewmasters make just enough for one day, two at the most. You drop three, four hundred thirsty sailors on us and some folks, yours or mine, are gonna go wanting tonight. Think you could hold your folks aboard for a day? Tomorrow, I can promise you a real cotillion.”

  Which had to be about the nicest way Izzy had ever been told to bugger off and let us have some time to get ready for you. Before she could answer, a siren went off in town, drawing her eyes to a rising cloud of gray smoke.

  “Looks like a building’s afire.” Trouble broke the quiet as they all turned to watch. A moment later, another siren joined the first, though from the sound of it, this one was moving.

  “That was a fast response.” Mr. Shezgo grinned. “Volunteer fire department is right on this one. Probably just a kitchen fire,” he concluded.

  “Or someone who didn’t pay up,” Mr. Withwaterson shot back. “You don’t pay bribes and strange things start happening.”

  Mr. Shezgo turned on him. “Trader, you are not a part of our community. You haven’t volunteered to spend any time with the local patrol, the fire department, or any of the other community service sections. If you’re not going to work with us, you really ought to pay something back to the community.”

  The businessman’s ears showed red. “So a ‘gratuity’ here, a ‘donation’ there, a warehouse broken into yesterday, a fire tomorrow and a ‘tip’ to the boys who turn out so quickly to put it out. This is no way to do business,” he roared.

  “The founders of Hurtford Corner never intended business to be done your way. And no, our people don’t do business that way either. We’re different.”

  “Different! You’re not different. You’re downright daft. Captain, there is no global network. No stock exchange. Nothing needed to do business.”

  Mr. Shezgo laughed. “You bet. We don’t need them. We don’t want them. We get along fine without them.”

  Izzy suspected she was walking into the middle of a long-running argument, and the source of the call for help she’d intercepted. This planet wasn’t doing business the Harvard Business School way, and Mr. Withwaterson had problems adjusting. Well, it wasn’t the Navy’s job to educate him. “Ah, gentlemen, if you don’t mind, I’ll leave you to your discussions’. Mr. Shezgo, I’ll bring down the first liberty party tomorrow, about noon. If you could let my ship know what time you are keeping, the portmaster’s message says he’s out to lunch until one.”

  The city manager snorted. “We don’t have a portmaster. That’s a leftover from the Unity thing.”

  “Yeah. They went out to lunch about the time they lost the war and haven’t come back,” Mr. Withwaterson added. “Personally, I think this whole planet is out to lunch.”

  Shezgo shook his head. “You just bring your crew down tomorrow. Captain, we’ll show your people a good time.”

  Izzy boarded her gig, while the other two returned to their previously scheduled argument.

  • • •

  “How’d it go dirtside?” was the XO’s first question when Izzy and Trouble sailed onto the bridge.

  “About like I expected,” Izzy said as she bounced off the ceiling and dove for her station chair. “The locals and visitors speak the same standard English and can’t understand a word. Trouble, turn out your marines in dress red-and-blues to impress tomorrow. I’ll also want extra shore patrol detachments. I still don’t know what’s down there. Probably nothing. But until I’m sure, let’s be careful while we have fun.”

  “Yes, ma’am”s answered her from around the bridge.

  • • •

  “I do not like problems,” Big Al growled.

  “Well, if you’d just used some of that pull you’re all the time bragging about to handle Withwaterson, we wouldn’t have a problem,” Zef Davis shot back.

  Zylon Plovdic kept her mouth shut. Big Al’s problems, whether people, places, or things, tended to disappear. The more Zef talked, the more Big Al growled about problems. Pretty soon, Zef was going to disappear. Which was no skin off Zylon’s nose. She, like Zef, had been born on Hurtford Corner. She also, like Zef, wanted out of the sameness Hurtford Corner prided itself on. When Zef disappeared, Zylon would be another step closer to where she wanted to be.

  Conversation paused as the Hurtford standard fare of stew, bread, and beer arrived. The three sat in the back room of a restaurant whose management understood their need for quiet and privacy.

  As the waiter retired, Zef continued. “Now, we have two problems. Two guys from the farm stations have rolled into town. I expect they want to talk to the town elders. It would be a disaster if they chanced upon your problem.”

  “Then you will have to get them out of town before they can.” Big Al smiled. Zylon would not want to be on the receiving end of that smile.

  “How are you going to handle the Navy?” Zef harped on Big Al’s part of the problem, ignoring his own.

  Big Al pushed himself away from the dining table and the boring food that covered it. He glanced at Zylon. “I understand the Navy is looking for recruits. I believe that gives us an interesting avenue to rush them on their way. Ms. Plovdic, can you help me arrange an appropriate greeting for the crew?”

  “I would be glad to.” Zylon raised her mug of beer.

  Alexander Popov raised his in salute, and drained it. “A quaint local brew. Not unlike a minor one I tasted on Vega. Have you ever been to Vega?”

  “Not yet.” They exchanged a smile, full of confidence she would see Vega soon.

  • • •

  Ruth hadn’t seen Hurtford City for four or five years. Then, like every farm girl who came to town, she’d been husband hunting…and she’d found herself one. Mordy, just off a shuttle, had looked at her like no boy ever had. She’d taken him home, just like her Ma had taken Pa home. So what went wrong? Pa said Mordy was nothing like him, but Ruth couldn’t help wondering what Ma had that she didn’t.

  While her life had gone in circles, Hurtford City had grown out. The reprocessing plant for the pharmacologicals had been out in the country then. Now it was surrounded by shops, homes, and a solar power plant with its own collection of small factories. As they came down into the valley, Ruth saw buildings stretching almost as far as she could see.

  The hotel they stayed at was the same one, now looking a lot smaller and older than Ruth remembered. As they offloaded fresh fruit and vegetables, bags of grain and potatoes to pay their lodging, people passed them—lots of people. Folks didn’t wave or shout hello. It was as if, surrounded by so many, they didn’t see anyone at all.

  Not everyone was busy. Slackers, in parts of Unity uniforms, lounged against the building across from the hotel. None showed guns, but Ruth wondered how many would be willing to kill people like the Abdoes or the trader.

  After checking into the hotel, the three gathered at a table. Mr. Seddik and Pa represented the stations. Ruth was there
because she’d gotten in the truck. Nobody but her husband could tell a married woman what to do. This was the first time Ruth had tested the freedom that Mordy had left to her. She was none too sure how she felt about it.

  While they’d been unloading, Mr. Seddik had heard a rumor that a Navy ship was in orbit. “I think that was their shuttle we saw landing as we came in. That might give us a bit more leverage. City elders won’t want us raising a stink while the Navy’s around. They’ll listen to us real well and real fast.”

  Pa wasn’t so sure. “If these folks were going to help us, they would have. I don’t think they will, or can.”

  “Then we go to the Navy,” Seddik countered. “It’s their job to knock heads, isn’t it?”

  Pa shrugged; everyone assumed his time with the LornaDo army made him an expert on such things. He might be all the local expertise they had on military affairs, but he was the first to point out that wasn’t much. “To make a rabbit stew, first you got to catch a rabbit. Five hundred Navy types, two hundred miles up, with laser cannons aren’t exactly what you need to hunt a rabbit.”

  “So what do we do?” Ruth asked. She might not have a vote, but the least she could do was ask dumb questions to keep Pa and old man Seddik from talking around and around the obvious.

  The old man sighed. “I’ll see about the next meeting of the city elders. Why don’t you try to find out something about the Navy? When you got two bunches that might lend you a hand, it’s best to know as much as you can about both.”

  Ruth would rather have gone with Mr. Seddik. She’d seen all the spacers she needed to see for the rest of her life. But Pa took her elbow, so she went looking for spacers.

  • • •

  Izzy spent the afternoon entangled in details. It seemed a shame to visit a planet whose main product was fresh fruit and vegetables and not take on a full larder. The price for inspected and bug-free veggies would just have to be haggled, not something her supply officer was comfortable doing. Izzy’s bigger problem was raised by the city manager.

  “Uh, Captain, I don’t know how long your folks have been in space, or what their idea of a good time is, but, while we got plenty of beer for the taking, our young women are not.”

  “And your young men?” Izzy couldn’t pass up the jab at old-fashioned attitudes.

  The city manager had the good humor to laugh. “What I’m trying to get at is that our women are free to do what they want. Dance with anyone. Go for a walk with anyone. But when they say no, they mean it. Most of ’em will say no twice if they think someone is hard of hearing, but if a girl screams for help, you better believe a dozen good folks will be right there in a second. And they’ll make sure the guy who didn’t understand ‘no’ gets to understanding its meaning.”

  Izzy wasn’t so sure the Navy hadn’t applied the same education to some of its own. Still, this was no topic to be confused on. “I will get my dumb spacer back in one piece?”

  “Oh, yes. Just a bit the worse for wear—the first time.”

  “Mr. Shezgo, if you will make sure my ‘worse for wear’ crew member gets turned over to the shore patrol, I will make sure he, or she, spends the rest of our stay aboard ship. Dented heads I can handle. Dead ones will be another matter.”

  “Then I think we have an understanding. On Hurtford Corner, we teach people the right way the first time. We got too much open space to waste folks.”

  Izzy had the word passed to her division heads and on to the chiefs. “Anybody comes back from liberty with a black eye better not plan on going down again.”

  • • •

  Trouble paused while a private from the trailing truck double-timed up to open the car door for him and the skipper. He, like the young marine, was in full dress red-and-blues, complete with choke collar, sword, and pistol. Izzy had made it clear that Trouble and his marines were responsible for the perimeter security at whatever gala the locals laid on. He’d gotten the word out to his troops that as soon as the dumb swabbies proved there were no land mines out there, he’d turn them loose for some fun. His marines provided smart-looking door guards, hall guards, and a couple of them were serving as waiters, making sure the officers’ glasses were kept filled…with water and soft drinks brought down from the ship.

  The skipper was one paranoid woman. Trouble liked that.

  The party was quite a spectacle. The local women were turned out in everything from miniskirts with frilly undies that often flashed into view to floor-length dresses that could be tight sheaths or swirling skirts. Tight and loose, glitter and bows swirled next to each other on the dance floor. The men were somewhat more subdued in slacks and shirts with colorful needlework, although the city manager and several others wore something like tuxedos. Each different, the people had come for fun, and, to the tunes of several alternating bands, they had it.

  Regularly, Trouble made the rounds of his own men. Even though their red-and-blues clashed with the soft pastels the community center was hung in, Trouble assured them he appreciated their decorative contribution to the gala night—and that they stood ready to switch from toy soldiers to real ones. The night stayed hot, so he switched the guard detail from an hour on and an hour off to one on, two off so he wouldn’t lose any to heat prostration. That meant pulling the guards off the rear side of the center and covering that quarter of the perimeter with the roaming NCO, but it seemed a minor call. He did a quick touch-base with a tall blond from the local Office of Public Safety and made regular radio checks with the chief heading up the Shore Patrol. His teams were circulating, but had nothing to report but sailors and civilians having fun.

  After two hours of this, Trouble was starting to relax as he rejoined the skipper. She was diplomatically declining a dance. The song being played could be quite sedate, or otherwise, depending on who was leading. To her raised eyebrow, he answered with a thumbs-up. She turned back to a small circle of people and their discussion as he moved up to cover her back. Mr. Withwaterson was in full sail.

  “Your communications are narrow-band. I can give you ten times the bandwidth. Your solar power cells are twenty years behind, your storage cells at least fifty. I can update every part of your economy.”

  “Why?” asked an elderly man in a tux.

  “Why!” the businessman echoed in wonder.

  “Yes, why?” A younger man in a nearly transparent lace shirt cut in. “They work fine. They get the job done. Why change what is doing the job for us?”

  “But you can do it so much better, faster, cheaper with my equipment,” Withwaterson sputtered.

  The young man shook his head. “But what we have is paid for. It’s doing what we want. What off-planet exchange we’ve got needs to go for expansion where we see a need. We don’t need a central fusion plant, or fancy doodads. The mines we’ve opened meet our needs. What you’ve got costs too much.”

  “If you’d quit stonewalling me and let my products onto the market, you’d find them indispensable. Whoever has been ripping them off from my warehouse already knows that.” The glances exchanged around the circle didn’t seem to agree, as to whether that related to the “indispensable” claim or the part about stolen goods, Trouble couldn’t decide.

  “Lieutenant”—the city manager broke the silence before it ripped—“let me introduce some of the city elders to you.” Mr. Donovan was the older man. Mr. Poniatow had to be in his twenties. Trouble tried to suppress any surprise, but it must have showed.

  “I speak for the younger and less experienced,” the young man said as he eyed the older. “Maybe less hidebound.” The two locals shared a knowing smile. “Still, innovation for its own sake is not why my great-grandfather came to Hurtford Corner. We are quite content to be a bit slower than the rest of humanity so long as we are comfortable and enjoying ourselves.” He turned to the band.

  Four women had just finished backing up two others, one on sax, one singing a slow torch song. The couples on the dance floor had enjoyed the slow dance even if the sax had missed a few no
tes, and the singer’s voice broke on the final high one.

  “We see nothing wrong with the real and natural. Why give up so much to chase the perfect, the flawless, the plastic? Next time you come, Mr. Withwaterson, bring a catalogue of what you can deliver. Most of what’s in your warehouse is just taking up space. I believe both your rent and restaurant tab are overdue. You should pay them.”

  “I can’t pay until I sell something.”

  “Then sell it. We are not stopping you,” said Mr. Donovan.

  “For a tenth or a hundredth of what it’s worth.” The color was again rising up Mr. Withwaterson’s neck.

  “Which is what it is worth to us. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been promised several dances by a certain someone.” With that, Mr. Poniatow bowed slightly and joined another man. They disappeared onto the swirling dance floor.

  “You know, Mr. Withwaterson,” Captain Umboto raised her glass in a mock salute, “that is just about what Earth said to the frontier worlds when they set the price for resources and finished goods before the war.”

  “I had expected more support from the Navy.”

  “I’ll have supply go over what you have and see if we need any of it. That might at least allow you to pay your bills.”

  From the glare the businessman gave his skipper, Trouble seriously doubted the man appreciated the Navy’s help. Captain Umboto just shook her head as Mr. Withwaterson stomped away. “Someday, Trouble, when I’m old and got nothing better to do, I’m going to get myself a professorship at some big university and teach MBAs a course on the proper application of military intimidation to the negotiating process.”

  “The way you applied six inches of laser to that pirate’s butt,” he grinned.

  “No, Trouble. As my old boss used to say, killing them is the easy part. Persuading someone you’re not allowed to kill—now, that’s what separates the men from the boys.”

  “Boys?” Trouble tried to raise his eyebrow a tad higher. It was about as high as he could get it and still keep it on his forehead. The skipper was not known for accepting put-downs, sexist or otherwise, placidly.

 

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