War World: Discovery

by Discovery v2 lit

  Van Damm considered the options. “You mean put a bunch of farmers and religious nuts in a position to be slaughtered?”

  “Exactly. You handle this one well, and I’ll recommend you for a job on Luna in charge of the Haven desk. It will be small, but will require a man with on-planet experience.”

  “Especially in light of the planned mining operations and BuReloc’s policies.”

  “It will mean a promotion for you. “ Cole said.

  “So this whole thing is a setup for making a planetary prison mine for BuReloc and the mining companies?”

  “Yes, and you have ninety days to pull it off. The captain of this ship can hold only that long, no longer. Kennicott can’t afford to have a filled ore ship waiting any longer than that, so get to it.”

  Owen took that as a dismissal, and started to leave. Another thought made him pause in mid-step.

  “Mister Cole? What if I don’t pull it off?’

  “If I don’t get a report on the start of an uprising inside of ninety days, then you will stay here until you do it. Good luck.”

  “Thank you, Mister Cole.”

  Owen Van Damm considered that there was no choice involved. In fact, a field agent on Haven could be a better deal than assistant to some bureaucrat on Luna.

  Kennicott Metals, Reynolds, Anaconda Mining, Dover Mineral Development and BuReloc.and probably a couple of big politicians behind it all.

  There were greater dreams than Jomo’s out among the stars.

  Captain Makhno steered the Black Bitch back to the waiting shuttle, considered what he’d seen, and kept his own counsel. There was much to see here, and much to think about.

  He eyed the last passenger he took ashore with the same sharp eye he’d turned on all the others. This one had the stamp of toughness about him, but not the sort Makhno was used to seeing: not the obvious bluster of the bully or the cold disinterest of the cop, but more the quiet confidence of someone who could use violence quite competently when needed. There had been another like that on the last ship, six months ago, but that one had been older, and talkative. He walked with a cane and was now in Castell City somewhere.

  That one, unlike most of the voluntary settlers, was full of questions about the planet, the town, what kind of work there was to be found and where, the availability of lodgings, and the rest.

  This one was silent. He was in his thirties, perhaps, and he stood about 170 cm. tall, shaven of jaw and head with gray eyes and a scar on his left cheek. He was well-muscled and seemed fit. He had a familiarity with small craft, and helped casting off from the shuttle and the docking.

  The duffel bag he carried had an insignia freshly painted over, but looked to be that of the CoDo Marines.

  Interesting, Makhno thought to himself..Not in uniform...Maybe a wounded retiree...Perhaps senior enlisted...Not the usual sort at all. Janey would be interested.

  He had a lot of news this trip, and not all of it good. The sudden change of ownership at Harp’s Place, for instance: how had Jomo managed that? What had become of Old Harp? Where was Harp’s family, and how were they doing?

  And just what was Jomo going to do with those loads of mining equipment? Jomo wasn’t the sort to be interested in hard work of the legal variety, and running a mining operation took long hours and a lot of sweat. Maybe he got it cheap, and was going to sell it to the highest bidder; but that didn’t fit either. Cole hadn’t acted like a machinery dealer. The military type was another interesting factor.

  Makhno’s fees for hauling passengers and cargo from the shuttle should be enough to fund a lot of pub-crawling, greasing a few palms, collecting all the news he could. Something had gone seriously wrong in Docktown while he’d been away.

  Jane Wozejeskovich strolled through the upper field of South Central Island, examining her current crop and grinning in joy at the sight of the tall stalks, huge palmate leaves and already-forming flowers.

  Of all the seeds she’d brought with her from Earth, this Illinois-bred hemp had adapted best. Something about the light/dark cycle and climate pattern had stimulated the plant growth to the point that she was getting a full, harvestable crop every other full cycle of Haven around Cat’s Eye. She knew--who would know better than an organic gardener?--all the practical uses of marijuana, but the accelerated growth was a bonus she hadn’t expected.

  Gods, yes: a very good crop, and a very good year.

  Well, so much for the main crop: now on to the latest project. Jane strode out of the field and up the guided course of the islands sole reliable creek. Long before she reached the new mill-pond and dam, she could hear Benny Donato arguing high and loud with Big Latoya. Jane grinned again. She’d bet a bushel of medicinal-quality “euph-leaf” that Latoya was sweet on Benny, was trying to get him housebroken to suit her before she made any moves, that Benny had some idea what was going on and wasn’t exactly running away.

  Benito Donato--volunteer settler, master machinist complete with a Multimate machine shop--had been a prize catch for her settlement, but he did need an occasional kick into line.

  With his pal, Jeff Falstaff, he’d come to the island with a head full of delusions about being the only man among a co-op of eight women. The reality--that he was one of three men, counting Makhno, and would have to work his butt off like everyone else--had left him a bit miffed. Well, he’d get over it.

  Falstaff had caught on, and settled in, a lot quicker. His little brewery was already producing a good enough beer that the miners downriver were trading rough copper and zinc for it. He had been a general science teacher Earthside, until caught teaching things not required by the curriculum of the Greater Los Angeles School System and the requirements of the CoDominium--such as original thought and Scientific Method....

  Her course took her through the main hall/dining room and the kitchen beyond, where Maria-Dolores and her mother tended the ever-burning fire and the still-kettle set into the wall behind it. Granny calmly stirred the stewpot on the fire while Maria-Dee fussed with her baby in the crib and watched the temperature gauge on the brew-kettle.

  Falstaff was in his laboratory down the passage. So were the kids: Latoya’s big-eyed toddlers, Muda’s gawky ten-year-old boy, the teenagers Nona and Heather--all of them staring in fascination at the current demonstration by Mister Wizard. Jane wondered if he’d ever had such devoted students back on Earth.

  Falstaff--tall, bald, dark and reedy--looking like his Shakespearean namesake, had designed and made a “caseless” ammunition to replace the dwindling supply Jane had brought with her from Earth. Right now he was busy showing the kids how to package the stuff. Even the toddlers were fascinated.

  Hopefully, Donato would start teaching them gunsmithing next. He had modified her “coach gun” to use a piezo-electric igniter for the new shells, which were better than the ammo she had brought with her. The pair of them were a treasure beyond belief out here on Haven.

  A quick stroll through the rest of the house showed little Muda and Lou fussing over the hemp-cloth loom, arguing over how much fiber they’d need to keep the settlement in clothes with the children growing so fast. The treasured cat that Heather had brought from Earth lay curled in her basket, buzzing contentedly as she nursed her new litter of kittens; the previous litter had sold for incredible prices in Castell City.

  Jane paced up the stairs to her bedroom, her one indulgence, a semi-tower room whose glassless window looked out on the cultivated land, most of the island and of the river beyond. She never tired of the view. There was the house and the home-acre, the outbuildings and kitchen-garden, the pens of rabbuck and pigs and cattle, the hemp-fields beyond, the trimmed and cultivated forest of nut, fruit, resin and timber trees beyond that, divided by ditches and greenthorn hedges, then wild forest down to the waterline. All her doing: her dream, her seeds, her labor...

  Hold on, there. Never forget the labor of the others: they’d been in it from the start. Those seven women she’d recruited at the landing had worked harder and longer
hours than she had asked; even the children had worked too, as best they could. The men had provided needed skills the women didn’t have.

  And don’t forget the help of the neighbors, all the squat-farmers on the river--little settlements hidden behind thick forest along the riverbank proper--living in dugouts, scratching bare existence out of the forest, hardly surviving before she came with her offers of seed and tools. They’d prospered too, repaying her in shares of their hemp or useful plants and animals discovered in the forest. Oh, yes, one needed to have good neighbors here.

  Of course, what she offered them was worth the work: land of their own on her homestead, but who could have guessed they’d all do so well? Let the stupid CoDo bureaucracy sneer at “welfare bums,” not that she would ever tell the CoDo about it; she knew better.

  She wished the Earth-normal corn was doing as well, but her people wouldn’t starve. The pigs she had traded from the Harmonies were thriving on local flora, as were the two heifers. One had taken to insemination, and she hoped the calf would be a bull.

  Now if only Leo Makhno would come home soon, her contentment would be complete.

  Tomas Messenger y DeCastro was no fool, as anyone in Docktown could tell you. He could see the writing on the wall--or on the new sign over what had been Harp’s Place. He also knew how to move fast when he had to.

  Therefore he had the advantage of surprise when he strolled into the Simba Bar and calmly asked to see Jomo. He drank a beer while various underlings slipped in and out of the back room. Eventually a flunky waved him toward the rear door. DeCastro coolly finished his drink and strolled to the inner sanctum.

  Sure enough, Jomo was there--curious enough to ask what DeCastro wanted and listen to his answer.

  “Very simple, senor,” purred DeCastro, lighting a large off-world cigar. “Everyone in Docktown knows of your new, ah, equipment. Everyone in Docktown has also seen your, hmm, acquisition of this establishment. It is only logical to assume that your next target will be none other than my estimable self. Correct, Senor Jomo?”

  Jomo answered with nothing but a smile. Only his lips moved.

  “I see you have considered it,” DeCastro continued, blowing an almost perfect smoke ring “Certainly I have considered it, and come to the conclusion that I must join forces with you to survive.”

  Jomo raised an appreciative eyebrow, saying nothing

  “I ask not for equality with your most estimable self,” DeCastro continued smoothly. “No. I ask to be your segundo, your teniente, your caporegime as it were. In exchange, I will ensure the loyalty of men and carry out your every command with great efficiency.”

  He leaned back in his chair and puffed another smoke ring, letting his words take effect.

  Jomo was silent for a long moment, then laughed harshly. “You expect me to believe this? You: a proud, independent Castillano, willing to bow the neck and swear service to another man? You expect--”

  DeCastro was ready for this. “I am no facisto Castillano” he broke in, calculatedly indignant. “I am Mestizo, ten generations’ worth.” His voice turned calm and ingratiating again. “And I have the good intelligence to prefer being a small and wealthy frog in a large pond to being a big and very dead fish in a small one. You, senor, are clearly Going Places--and I wish to go there too.”

  Jomo nodded acknowledgement, and considered the offer. He knew DeCastro to be smart and as good as his word when it came to holding a bargain. He had not progressed much because he was somewhat lazy, content to be comfortably wealthy and safely powerful, not terribly ambitious.

  After inspecting the deal from all sides--and considering the value of one Paul Jefferson who currently held that position--Jomo pronounced: “I have a second in command already. It must be settled between you as to who will have the position.”

  DeCastro smiled, bent his head formally, and stubbed out his cigar.

  Jomo got up from the desk and walked toward the door, motioning for DeCastro to come with him.

  The only people now present in the bar were Jomo’s men. Paul Jefferson was drinking at a table with one of the “safe” women. At a gesture from Jomo all noise and movement ceased.

  “Paul,” Jomo announced, “this man wants your job. Do you wish to give it to him?”

  DeCastro raised an eyebrow as he recognized the Reynolds off-world man.

  “Hell, no!” was the shouted answer, as Jefferson came up from the table, drawing his sheath knife.

  Jefferson’s next step was met with the roar of a large caliber pistol. He collapsed on the floor with a bullet hole through his right eye. The woman at the table carefully reached for her cup, and drained it.

  “Discipline must be sure and quick,” said DeCastro still holding his pistol in a combat marksman’s stance. “Is there anyone else who wishes to dispute my authority?”

  Nobody answered.

  “No? This is good. I will now have a drink with each of you. We must get to know each other.” DeCastro went to the bar, holstering his pistol.

  DeCastro pointed at the first two men at the bar. “Dispose of that corpse, then come back and speak to me,” he said.

  Jomo smiled as he went back to the office; Jefferson had been with him for the last eighteen months but had been getting independent ideas of late. This had been the ideal solution.

  Makhno threw the Black Bitch’s engines into fast reverse at the last possible moment and came to a foaming halt just at the edge of the north shore rocks. He killed the engine, threw out the anchor and reached for the dangling bell-pull in almost the same motion. The bell clanged overhead, louder than the laboring pump.

  A grizzled head peeked over the ledge far above. Makhno waved frantically at it. The head withdrew. From above it came a creaking of gears. A rope with a padded loop at the end came snaking down toward the water. Makhno grabbed the loop, shoved his upper body through it and yelled: “Enough! Haul me up!’

  At the ledge, hands pulled him in. He wriggled out of the loop before the crane’s gears were properly locked, and panted: “Where’s Jane?’

  “At the fort, checking the stores,” said Tall Lou, raising her gray eyebrows at him. “Why didn’t you come around to the dock?”

  “No time. What’s the quickest way?”

  “Up the new stairs, there. What about your cargo?”

  “Haul the cargo up with the crane!” Makhno yelled back, already running. He clambered his way up the newly cut stairs, rebounded around twist after turn, ran panting to a thick steelwood plank door in the towering cap-rock and pounded madly on the knocker. “Jane!” he roared. “Goddamn-it, lemme in! News!”

  Nona opened the door, batting her eyelashes furiously. In answer to his snapped question, she pointed fast directions to the storeroom. By the time she had the door closed and bolted, he was already yards off and running.

  The dim-lit rock tunnel let out into a low-roofed rock chamber packed with rough-cloth sacks and homemade wooden boxes. Jane was there, just turning to see him. The ceiling-hung oil lamp threw startled shadows across her broad Polish face.

  “Jane,” he panted, bent over with the effort of sucking enough air. “It’s bad news. Old Harp’s dead. Killed. And Jomo’s taken over Docktown. And he’s got CoDo weapons.”

  “Whoa, hold on.” Jane got up, tucked a stray lock of dark-blonde hair back into her tattered braids, and went to him. “Calm down, Leo. Take a deep breath and tell me everything, right from when I saw you last.”

  “Harp--” Makhno started, then choked again. He sat down on a box and rested his head on his knees for a long moment, caught in memories.

  Harp had been the leader of the independent faction of Docktown, willing to do business with the Harmonies or anyone. When he had arrived with the second Harmony transport, he had asked Castell himself if he could build a shelter and a bank was pointed out to him near the lake by a deacon of the church. Old Harp (had he ever been young?) had smiled, and had taken a shovel and started excavating into the hill.

  By t
he end of the next two shifts, he had a room beyond it and a pile of rocks and soil blocking the wind from the entrance. Within a cycle he had rented his shovel for the use of an axe and had felled a couple of trees that he split for rough boards. Within fourteen cycles more, he had added a brewing room and a bar and had a going business dealing in beer, food, and renting the main-room floor space for sleep during off-shift and full dark.

  Harp’s business had grown in leaps and bounds. He had become master trader and unofficial arbiter of deals between the independent farmers, Docktown and the Harmonies, respected by all sides as an honest man.

  He had also been a voice of reason and strength against the growing gangs in Docktown. He had refused to pay protection to Jomo or any of the others.

  “They found his body washed up on the lake shore, just a couple shifts before I arrived. Jomo took over his place, changed the name to the Simba Bar, moved his bullyboys in.” Makhno ran a lean hand through his wiry gray hair. “Word is, he’s taking over Docktown. He brought in CoDo stunners from off-world, and he’s throwing his weight around hard and fast.”

  “Back up; you’ve just lost me.” Jane sat down beside him and rested an arm across his shoulders. “Just who and what is Jomo?”

  Makhno turned to stare at her, then remembered that she’d spent less than a turn at the landing-site before getting her land-grant, collecting her settlers, and himself, and striking off into the wilderness. What she knew of Docktown, she’d learned mostly through Makhno--and he hadn’t told her everything.

  “Okay, from the top.” Makhno rubbed his eyes. “Remember the day you came in on the third ship, right after you got back from seeing Castell?”

  “Oh, yes.” Jane chuckled.

  She remembered that well; as soon as she’d set foot on the lake shore, she’d gone after Charles Castell, finally caught up to him in a cow-barn, and asked him then and there for legal right to a full land-grant. Of course she could have just gone off and land-squatted, as so many did, but the fact that she bothered to ask the head of the Church of Harmony had impressed him. In return, he had bothered to ask her what manner of land she wanted and how she meant to work it.