The Price of Peace

by Mike Moscoe

  “Damn death march,” Jagowski muttered.

  Ruth eyed the sun, which was finally dropping low in the sky. “Night’s gonna be as cold as the day was hot. Better collect some dry wood for fires.” People who could hardly hobble were soon clutching two or three sticks.

  The boss called a halt as they entered a small clearing under a stand of tall, spreading oaks. “Take the rest of the night off,” he announced. “You stay to that half of the clearing. I get this half.” His half was marked by the remains of a fire; their half wasn’t. Scattered over the clearing were trash, buzzing insects, and proof that no care had been taken about sanitation. Pa would never leave a camp like this.

  “What do we do?” Ruth asked in the same breath Jagowski did. The marine officer rubbed the bridge of his nose. As he opened his mouth, Clem interrupted.

  “I bet you’re hungry,” got everyone’s attention. Clem’s mouth moved as he counted the hungry faces gathering around him. Then he pawed in the pack of the mule he’d been leading and came up with, by Ruth’s quick count, exactly half the ration boxes they needed. Clem pitched them out like one might toss dry bones to hungry dogs. Then the thug produced an extra ration. “Any of you girlies want to make friendly with me tonight, I got some extra grub for you.” His gap-toothed grin made Ruth want to knock a few more teeth out. She turned to the marine.

  He was eyeing the four burly types who had kept up with the boss; toughs who probably wanted Clem’s job. That thug had made sure a good chunk of the rations landed near them. The biggest had grabbed three boxes, smirked, and turned away. The marine shook his head, his lips getting thin. “Hate to get the boss’s attention again today,” he muttered, then stepped forward.

  “We got to share our food rations.” The lieutenant’s voice came out low, but rock-hard in command. Several folks around Ruth started pairing up, though none in actual possession of food boxes seemed overly committed at the moment. The four kept walking away.

  “Excuse me, gents, but I need those rations you’re carrying,” the marine repeated.

  The one with three turned, a vicious grin on his face. “I’m hungry. When I’m hungry, I eat.”

  “Lots of folks are hungry.”

  “Tin soldier, you seem to have mistaken me for someone who gives a shit.” The tough enjoyed the laugh that remark brought from his associates. Behind Ruth, Clem bayed like a donkey. The marine eyed the boss. He’d spread his bedroll; his interest centered on the mattress as it filled with air. The goings-on around him apparently were no concern of his.

  Trouble stepped toward the tough. “I want those rations.”

  “Come and get ’em.” The twisted smile was evil, delighted.

  The marine took another step forward, but didn’t go into a fighting stance. The thug couldn’t pass that up. Dropping his ration boxes, he charged Trouble, arms flailing.

  The officer ducked, sidestepped, and sent the big guy on his way with a push. The thug went down, sliding to a halt, his nose buried in some particularly messy residue from previous campers. He came up bellowing, blood bubbling from his nose. “You shouldn’t have done that, pretty boy. I’m gonna sleep real warm tonight in your red coat. You’re gonna be cold and dead.”

  “Come get it.” Again, the marine just stood there.

  This time the tough was slower in his approach. Lumbering up to the marine, he kept his arms wide, a big, nasty bear, ready to hug his prey to death.

  Trouble waited, then went in with two fast punches. The big fellow stumbled back, shook his body to rid himself of the shock. Then, roaring in outrage, he charged again.

  Trouble faked right, then evaded wide to the left, side-kicking the fellow’s knee as he went by. The man screamed, “My leg, my leg,” as he went down. But not for long, as his skull came up hard against a tree.

  “That’s gonna cost you extra.” The boss was relaxing on his bed, a warm meal in his lap. “You damage my merchandise, you got to make it up to me.”

  “I guess I’ll have to run a tab,” Trouble said, collecting the dropped rations and ones offered him by the other toughs.

  “Smokey’ll share with me. Won’t you?”

  Sharing had suddenly become popular. Clem and one of his sidekicks attempted first aid on the slow learner. Ruth could probably have done a better job, but at the moment, she had a meal to prepare.

  A little shyly, she offered Trouble half of her only slightly warmed meal. “Heater didn’t work too well,” she apologized. As they split the beans and something, with ancient crackers and gummy fruit bits, Trouble outlined what he wanted.

  “Place needs a little work to make it decent. Jagowski, you see about digging latrines. I’ll take care of the fires. Ruth, could you get people to gather ferns, leaves, things to put between us and the ground?”

  “Right,” Ruth agreed, “the ground’s gonna get awfully cold before morning. Without blankets, we’ll be in trouble.”

  The meal done, people went about their jobs in the rapidly fading daylight. Two of the spacers got promoted to doctors and assigned to examine the worst blisters. Ruth eyed the rocks around the boss’s fire pit. “I could collect some more along the stream,” Ruth said innocently as she headed out.

  Trouble came close to her. “They’ll have water in them. Might explode.” Ruth grinned; for a spacer, the guy knew something about dirt. She nodded.

  The marine shook his head. “Unlike plastic, rocks got no fuse. They go off when they want to, not when we want. Your heart’s in the right place, woman, but let’s pass on this one.” The marine gave her a thin smile, nothing like the smirks Mordy tossed out at her ideas. “Dry rocks,” he whispered.

  “Okay.” She headed into the gloom. When she got back, three fire pits were being dug, Trouble and two others working on one as near the boss as the pain pods allowed.

  “I love watching other people work,” Clem giggled, tossing a handful of dirt that had fallen near him back into the pit.

  “So do I,” drawled the boss. “Clem, get a shovel and help these people. Soldier boy, a word with you.”

  They walked off a ways. The boss held the red box tightly in his hand; the marine kept a respectful distance. They exchanged words for a few minutes; Ruth understood none of it.

  When they were done, Trouble backed away slowly, then paused. “You got a med kit? We got folks who could use a hand with blisters. Maybe do something for that guy’s busted leg.”

  The boss chewed on that for a long moment. “Clem, that hole’s big enough to bury someone. Go get a first aid kit.” As Clem shambled off, a shovel slung over his shoulder, the boss followed him, his words now singsong as if he were talking to a three-year-old. “Take out the needles and the scissors. Mother can’t let them hurt themselves on pointy things.”

  “Yeah, boss,” Clem snarled. But he emptied part of one med kit into another, then tossed the first one none too gently to Trouble. Bandages and antiseptic sprays flew in general formation with the kit. Trouble caught the box, gathered up the scattered contents, and turned it over to the two spacers who were caring for feet. Ruth borrowed part of the first aid kit and took a look at the tough’s knee. The kneecap was out of place; she snapped it back in. The leg wasn’t broken, but the ligaments were a knot.

  “Somebody’s gonna have to carry him tomorrow,” she told his buddies. They showed no enthusiasm for the chore. With the knee wrapped, she returned to the fire pit nearest the boss, just as the marine was finishing.

  “Spare us a match?” Trouble asked.

  “Here’s the deal,” the boss said, tossing Trouble a single match. “You start it with that, and I’ll let you take fire from it to start your own. You ask me for a second match, and all my fire stays put.”

  No one risked a protest.

  “Anybody here started a fire recently?” Trouble asked.

  “Don’t you marines do this all the time?” Ruth snapped. “My Pa did.”

  “Dirt time on an oxygen planet has been kind of scarce lately. Okay, stand back
and let me have some air.” For the next minute, as twilight waned, the marine arranged tinder, twigs, and small chunks of wood. He was almost out of daylight when he risked his match. He struck it along the sole of his boot. Got a spark…and nothing else.

  “That’s dumb,” Ruth growled, and reached for a grainy rock like Pa used. She handed it to the marine. Trouble drew the match slowly along its flat, rough face, gradually increasing the pressure. The stick smoldered, then caught. After a brief flare, it died away almost to nothing. Holding his breath, the marine moved it the few inches to his tinder. The pile smoldered, caught, crackled, then began to die.

  Carefully, Trouble fed the tiny flame, building it, letting it reach out to the larger sticks. Grow, damn you. Expectant eyes glittered in its growing light.

  Once it was well caught, Ruth wrapped some dry moss around a stick, let it catch, then took it to the next fire pit. Jagowski had a pile of tinder and sticks like Trouble had made.

  The third was almost routine.

  Then the marine did surprise Ruth. He captured the ends of a couple of saplings, collected their ends together with his web belt and then tied that to a downed log. In one swoop he had a lean-to. While one of the other spacers used her belt to do the same for a second lean-to, people scattered armfuls of leaves and sheaves of moss. “You got two choices tonight, folks,” the marine said. “Stay close and warm, or keep your distance and be cold. I never thought I’d say something nice about this old-fashion uniform, but it’s got a lot of old-fashion wool in it. I’ll take one of the outside edges.”

  Plopping down with his back to the outside, Trouble eyed the rest. Well, he hadn’t been bossy, exactly. Besides, Ruth was exhausted. She lay out beside him, guiding a sick woman down beside her. The spacers settled in next like a pile of spoons. The city folks, depending on who they knew and how well, slowly found their places under the bowing saplings.

  “Hope you don’t mind if I snore,” Trouble said.

  “Snoring’s better than being pawed,” Ruth answered. “Thanks for all you’ve done today.” She wiggled closer to him, the closest she’d been to a man since her own walked out. Strange how this was working. She didn’t expect to sleep, but in the warmth of Trouble behind her, she must have.

  • • •

  Joe didn’t know what to say to his wife. Bibi had raced from the house, the kids like a swarm of bees around her. The sight of the empty seat beside her husband had brought her up short. “Where’s Ruth?”

  “Somebody’s grabbed her,” he snarled, getting out. “Seth says we got to talk before we can decide what to do.”

  “This can’t wait ’til next Thursday’s dance.” Bibi dried her hands on the towel she wore wrapped to her waist.

  “It’s not gonna,” Joe snapped. “Son, get the crew saddled up, armed, supplied, and ready. I’m not sure we’ll be coming home after tonight’s meeting.”

  “Right.” The young man moved off, Slim at his elbow. Bibi gathered the younger kids around her. “I’ll get the rest packed. Where will we sleep tonight?”

  “Love, I don’t know. Maybe we’ll have company. Maybe you’ll go home to another station. I just don’t know.” He glanced at the dark western sky. “But this is going to stop.”

  • • •

  Zylon Plovdic worked late that night. Nothing about the missing Navy personnel surfaced. No surprise for her. It was dark before Risa dismissed her office staff. “You’ve worked more than your fair share today. Get a good supper. I’ll tell Mikhail the Navy’s nowhere to be seen.”

  Zylon came late to supper, but she knew she would not be eating alone. The waiter brought her meal and left the table quickly. As Zylon expected, two men were already eating.

  “Any surprises?” Big Al asked. The bland glance he threw her told that none were expected—and none would be accepted.

  “No surprises. Everything’s under control,” Zylon answered the off-world boss. Alexander Popov had arrived with Unity—and survived its demise. His connections went far beyond the rim, Zylon suspected to old Earth itself. It was he who’d talked the elders into signing mineral contracts just before the war with some of the biggest names in space.

  “We’ve got the farmers running back to their stations, tails between their legs,” added Zef Davis, the local boss, junior scion of a third-generation Hurtford family. What he didn’t know about Hurtford hadn’t happened. What he wanted was for exciting things to happen, and real soon. “We won’t see the hayseeds again until they’ve had a chance to talk everything over six different ways, and then they still won’t decide anything. You get that damn cruiser off our backs, and we’ll have a free hand. I still say we should have cut that Withwaterson fellow in. That would have saved us all this.”

  “If we have to cut anyone in, it will not be a minor trader of his ilk. He’s out of his league and will learn soon enough.”

  “Well, how come your big league couldn’t keep one lousy cruiser off our backs?”

  “I’m looking into that. It will be taken care of. In the meantime, that pretty little skipper has lost five of her crew. She will be more careful about spending time down here.” That got a laugh from both of them.

  Zylon finished her nondescript stew while the two played their little power game. Like so much of what passed for food, goods, and services on Hurtford Corner, the stew lacked taste, and the wine lacked body. Zylon wanted something rich, full-bodied, overflowing. She nodded to the two, paid attention to both. Her time would come. When they fell silent, she summed up her day, and the next week…and life on Hurtford Corner.

  “Nothing’s happening. Nothing will happen. We’ve tied up all the loose ends. I’ll keep an eye on them to make sure they don’t unravel.”

  “Have supper with us tomorrow,” Big Al offered.

  “Be glad to.”

  • • •

  Izzy leaned back in an overstuffed chair in her day cabin, which was more ship’s office than personal space. A conference table for big meetings stretched along the wide outside end of her pie-shaped cabin. Smaller meetings such as tonight’s used comfortable chairs and a sofa grouped around a coffee table that looked wooden and hid a fully functional data display. Behind her, a desk occupied the narrow focus of the office. As usual, a dozen red lights blinked from her in-basket—reports, reviews, and items demanding her signature before they left the ship. They’d wait. She had real business to handle. Leaning forward to tap the coffee table, she called up her to-do list. “Found their recall beacons?” she asked Stan.

  “All five,” her XO answered, no joy in his voice. “They’re all together in what looks like the town dump.”

  “And Shezgo said they’d search the trash cans.”

  “I think we ought to cut the guy some slack. I read the planet charter. All decisions are made by unanimous vote of the elders. There’s a little wiggle room, but these folks are dead set against autocratic rule and unilateral action.”

  Izzy rubbed her eyes as she mulled over that concept. “Hell of a way to run a warship,” she muttered, “or a planet.”

  “They’ve been at it for eighty, ninety years and are still here.” Stan gave his boss a quirky smile.

  Izzy could tell a dead end when it slapped her; it was time to move on. “What have we got on the farm net?”

  “That was a bitch. We knew they were there, but couldn’t find them. Igor and one of his old chiefs tried a different tack. Everything’s digital. You go up the frequencies by point one, point two, but what about what’s in between?”

  Izzy was physically tired, and her attitude was rapidly going from pissed to downright cranky. “Talk to me, Stan.”

  A quick nod, and words started falling quickly from the XO’s mouth. “Looks like the farmers grow their own radio crystals. None of the frequencies they’re using are at the standard digital points on the net. They can jump up the frequency by doubling, tripling, or what have you the base frequency. Igor and his team are working on a transmitter that ought to be able to dial i
n their net. Be ready by morning.”

  “Good. I want words with them. Morning ought to be soon enough.” Izzy yawned. Her brain was turning to mush, but there was more to do. “What about our survey?”

  Stan tapped the table. The screen changed from the to-do list to a map, centered on Hurtford Corner. “Looks the same as the one we’ve been staring at for the last week,” Izzy muttered.

  “Pretty much is. Roads, rivers, and hills don’t change much. The farm area’s spread out a bit. The town’s a little bigger. Nothing significant has changed.”

  “What have we got real-time?” Quickly the map was overlaid with a picture. Roads became a string of lights. Most buildings disappeared into darkness. The farm stations speckled their part of the map. Izzy zoomed the map onto the hills to the west. Tiny dots blinked. “What’s in the backcountry?”

  “Nothing but a few campfires. Most are herb and plant hunters. Original flora has some interesting hydrocarbon chains. Brings a good price from the pharmaceutical corps. Some are survey teams. Several Earth corporations got contracts to survey for minerals, both here and in the system.”

  Tired as she was, Izzy had the energy to frown at that. “A bunch of Luddites like these signed on for mining? What are they gonna have, a kinder, gentler strip mine?”

  “I don’t think the locals much like the contracts. Some Unity types signed them just before the war. But the Earthside suits are holding the present government to the contracts.”

  Izzy ordered the screen to zoom to each of the fires. Stan called up a database they’d acquired from the locals. “They keep good tabs on everyone backcountry.”

  “Isn’t that a violation of somebody’s privacy?”

  “Seems that where search and rescue is concerned, folks are a bit more understanding. People are kind of scarce out this far. They don’t want anyone dying if they can help it.”

  Izzy leaned back, her eyes losing their focus as camp after camp flashed by. What was wrong with this picture? People were few and far between on the rim. Yet, where she came from, folks were crammed into slums by the millions. Governments tried forced immigration, but shipping all those bodies was awfully expensive considering that few survived the first six months pioneering a planet. And folks like her sister Lora couldn’t be moved with explosives. In the war, Earth and her seven sisters had built most of the hardware. The other forty developed planets drafted most of the people who did the fighting. Funny how people and things ended up being distributed. God, I’m tired.