by John F. Carr
Nobody spoke again for another hour. By the time they broke for lunch, the refining mill had dumped a load of refined hafnium into one of the specialized trucks and had piled up a sizable hill of discarded stone powder at its other side.
“That gonna grow,” one of the black miners said, gesturing at the hill.
“If Kennicott can’t think of something to do with it,” Bronstein commented, “Maybe we can.” He reminded himself to ask History-Man if his cronies could identify metal ore in that powder heap.
At the end of the shift the guards collected the shovels, and ostentatiously counted them before handing them over to the next team.
Dinner, as always, was held in the main tent. Bronstein’s bunch gathered around the heater to eat, and the quiet grumbles started.
“They’re tightening up on letting us use the hand tools,” Blades growled. “They don’t want any shovels going missing—or anything else.”
“And we’re lucky if we make four huts a day: usually just three,” grumbled one of the Brits. “We’re bloody well not going to ’ave enough huts for the next lot of us, not til the end of summer.”
“We not get plumbing or power, just huts. Yes?” mourned Rajna. “Was better back in Detroit.”
“Ain’t got room to raise kids right,” growled Mama Yolanda. “We gotta do better than this.”
“We won’t get it from Kennicott,” Bronstein commented quietly. “The Company wants us dependent on them for food, water, everything.”
“We can get our own food, at least,” Blades grinned evilly, displaying a ripe clownfruit. Nobody asked her to share it.
“And just when do we get paid?” History-Man asked. “And in what coin?”
“Another week,” one of the black guys offered, “And in company creds. Guard told me.”
“Will there be a company store, then?” Bronstein asked innocently, already knowing the answer.
“Oh yeah,” the black guy grimaced, setting down his bowl. “And there won’t be much in it. Guard told me that, too. Blankets, clothes… No food.”
“Any tools?” Bronstein asked. “Anything… metal?”
There was silence as the other miners looked at each other.
Old Muscles crouched close and tapped Bronstein on the shoulder. “First shift of weekend,” she almost whispered, “Come with me. I’ll have something to show you.”
Bronstein only nodded, making some good guesses. He looked around at the other cliques gathered outside his circle, wishing Jablonski were here, though he’d seen the man go out with the second shift. The non-organized weren’t united, stuck to their own little circles—and yes, there was Hassan trying to harangue the other Arabs again—but there were enough of them to be effective scabs when it came to that. And of course Kennicott Metals could arrange for the next shipload of deportees to land here.
We’ll need complete independence before we make a move, Bronstein sighed to himself. That would take time and work, and he didn’t know how long his budding union could stick to the plan. He’d have to tell them, show them, something that would give them hope. With luck, Muscles could supply that.
The weak point was metal: metal to make tools of their own. Whatever the deportees had brought with them was limited, and would eventually wear out. There was likewise a limit to what they could quietly liberate from the company’s tool-sheds. Between History-Man and the educated cronies he’d picked up the miners could make their own smelter and forge, no matter how small, but they’d have to start soon. That would mean sneaking away from under the eyes of the guards, not just working on the weekends. The timing on this would be tight, and nothing must warn the guards—and thus management—beforehand.
*
*
*
As promised, Muscles came tapping on the thin plastic door of Bronstein’s hut early on the first day of the weekend. He yawned hugely, pulled on his boots, turned off the heater and went outside to see what she wanted. The older woman grinned silently, jerked an indicative thumb toward the guard shack where none of the guards appeared outside, then led Bronstein around the huts and into the forest. Once they were behind the screen of trees and brush, she turned northward and marched parallel to the riverbank.
“There’s an outcropping up here that juts almost into the river,” she explained. “It’s close enough, and made from the wrong kind of stone for the company to look at.” She led him through the trees to where the ground turned stony and began to rise. “Yeah, just here. Look.”
Bronstein looked carefully, and saw a tangle of dead brush leaning against the side of the slope. Muscles slipped past him and pulled the brush aside. Behind it, he saw, was a hole big enough to walk into: the mouth of a tunnel.
“You did this all yourself?” Bronstein marveled, as he peered into the cave. He’d known the old woman was as strong as an ox, but this was a bit much.
“Nah, got help,” she chuckled, leading him into the dark passage. “The older kids, some of the women, a few of our guys who could be trusted to keep their mouths shut. Turn left here, around this edge; keep going straight and you’ll fall into a deep hole.”
“What did you do with everything you dug out?” he wondered, following her carefully.
“Threw the tailings in the river. Nobody saw a thing. Hold on a minute…” A click of a lighter, a brief flare of sparks, and there was light. It came from a small flame dancing at the end of a handmade wick, sunk in a classic clay lamp. “Raj was right about sufficiently heated fires baking clay,” she said. “And some of the local plants are full of burnable oil. Doesn’t even smell bad.”
“Oh, nice! Very nice,” Bronstein happily gave credit where it was due. “How big is this cave?”
“Not enough to house the lot of us yet,” Muscles frowned, “But give us another few weeks. This is soft sandstone and claystone. Chisels cut and hammered from common bar stock can chip into it.”
“Uh huh,” murmured Bronstein, impressed. He followed her into a rounded chamber big enough to seat maybe a hundred people. One of the small hut-sized heaters sat in the center. In niches chipped around the perimeter sat more of the clay lamps. “What do you do for ventilation?”
The old woman pointed to a shadowed rough-carved archway. “That leads out on the other side. The winds around here are steady enough to keep the air moving. We’re under enough rock that the outside temperature doesn’t get to us. Oh, by the way, we’ve got the water-purifier set up. It puts out only a couple gallons an hour, but it’s all drinkable and all ours.”
“Beautiful,” he said, meaning it, and sat down on the floor near the heater. “How long, do you think, before you’ll have enough space to fit the whole gang in here?”
“Give me two Terran months,” she smiled toothily. “Now, when are you gonna tell the rest of the bunch that what we’ve got here is a union?”
“When we’ve got enough resources to pull off a strike, and win.” His expression hardened. “We’ll need more than safe sleeping-space; we’ll need stockpiled food, tools, any medicine we can get, heaters, fuel—”
“Those heaters won’t last forever,” Muscles frowned. “We’ll have to dig fire-pits and stockpile wood… Hmm, and I’ll have to study the ventilation a little more, too.”
Bronstein frowned deeper, and stared at the heater. “I’m wondering how far down we’re going to slide,” he said quietly. “We can’t lose metal-working! Metal is the key here. We’ve got to get the forge going before we show our hands at all—”
“Hey, History-Man and Jablonski are working on that,” she soothed. “And Lucinda’s out scouting for food-plants every chance she can get. She’s got gardening started, and the other women are collecting fibrous plants, and some of those Hindu-boys know about hand-spinning…”
“Yeah, I know.” Bronstein pulled a deep breath and deliberately calmed himself. “Back when we first knew the gov was going to go after the unions, we made a point of giving everybody those notebooks, and crash courses on organizing.
When they came for me, I was ready. Problem was, we didn’t know which world we’d be shipped to, and there was only so much we could take with us.”
“Tell me about it,” Muscles grimaced. “I got a mini-medical kit suitable for Comstock. I suppose a lot of the stuff is useful here, but…”
“Right.” Bronstein rubbed his forehead. “We’ll have to get applicable medic supplies, too.” Jablonski’s spinal injury… “Let me think about that.”
Muscles raised her head, listening. “Well, think about it somewhere else,” she said. “The work-crew’s coming in, and we’ll be doing a lot of digging today.”
Bronstein laughed shortly and pulled himself to his feet, hearing approaching footsteps. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I’ve got to catch up to Jablonski and History-Man.”
“Talk to the Chinese family, too. They’ve got some skills they’re keeping close, but their hearts are in the right place.”
“Skills,” Bronstein muttered, heading for the doorway. “Skilled trades. That’s our real edge.”
“By the way,” the old woman grinned, “My name is Marian.”
“Oh.” Bronstein paused in the tunnel. “Uh, mine’s Jack.” It was odd that he hadn’t thought of that since he was first shoved onto the ship. He hadn’t thought of himself as anything but a deportee and an organizer—with a single task and a single name.
*
*
*
Trouble started on the next working day’s second shift. Bronstein was leading his team back to the main tent when he saw a bunch of, yes, Arabs mobbing the guard-shack and the guards puffing themselves up, fingering their stunners. Near the front of the mob—not in the very front rank, no, but just behind a shield of his cohorts—stood Hassan, yelling loudly in Arabic.
Bronstein led his contingent quickly back into the tent and met Jablonski coming out. A fast question revealed that, yes, one of Jablonski’s team understood Arabic. They grabbed the man and hustled him toward the mob scene.
“Quick,” Bronstein hissed in the bewildered man’s ear, “What’s he saying?”
“He’s saying they won’t work until—” He blushed visibly in the low light. “Until they know which way Mecca is. They can’t pray properly without knowing which way to pray to.”
“Oh, hell,” muttered Bronstein, shoving the man forward. “Tell them Mecca’s on Earth, and Earth is… in the direction of Byers’ Star—Haven’s sun, that damn bright thing there. Say it good and loud, so everybody hears.”
Jablonski’s man gulped, then did as he was bid. Some of the mob looked around, puzzled, beginning to lose steam and concentration. Bronstein urged him to repeat the message, louder. Meanwhile Jablonski quietly slipped around the crowd to the guard-shack and explained things to the nearest of the Kennicott men, who looked first amazed, then relieved. In a moment the guards were bawling: “That way! That way!” pointing toward the distant sun.
In another few minutes the mob eroded away. Hassan, scowling in disgust, went with the last of them. Bronstein paced beside Jablonski as the second-shift team made its way to the ore-trough, making some effort to keep out of Hassan’s sight.
“That was close,” Bronstein whispered. “We can’t let the Kenny-boys think anything’s wrong until we’re…positioned.”
“Hassan’s gonna be trouble,” Jablonski murmured back. “He wants to be the big frog, and this is his way of goin’ about it. Uh, do you think we should—take him out?”
Bronstein thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, that’ll set off whoever he’s got in his camp. We just keep preventing his little schemes while working all-out on our own.”
“Won’t be easy.”
“We’ll have to manage.”
“You know, he’ll have to be taken out eventually or he’ll get us all screwed.”
“Let the Kenny-guards do it.” Bronstein thought for a moment. “In fact, it might be a good idea to give them his name.”
“That I can do—or get done.”
“Good.” Bronstein peeled out from the team and headed for the latrines. As soon as the guards had moved on with the team, he came out and headed back into the main tent. He had some things to tell the rest of the organizing committee.
When he came in, he noticed that another dozen of the Latinos were now sitting quietly among his allies near the central heater.
Word spreads fast, he smiled to himself as he went to the food-dispenser.
Payday came early, at the end of the week, and it was definitely in Kennicott company credit-chits. Likewise, the company store opened early—and yes, the goods inside were all clothes, shoes and blankets. It sold no electronics whatever. There was nothing in it made of metal.
The guard-shack radio warbled about Kennicott leveraging the buyout of Krasnowic Tools.
*
*
*
Next weekend History-man and his cronies got the smelter started. It was a tiny affair, a small fire-pit out in the forest, lined with tailings from the refinery, using some of the bowls for ladles, but the charcoal worked and History-Man’s bellows worked, and by the end of the day they had two pounds of crude iron. Rajna came up, grinning to split his face, holding a ceramic mold shaped for chisels. Jablonski and one of the other workers, formerly a machinist, managed to turn the ladle, using tongs made of a rock-hard local wood, and poured the molten contents into the mold without spilling too much.
“This,” Lucinda announced, “Calls for a celebration.” With that, she brought out, lit and handed around a clay pipe. Bronstein recognized the smell of the smoke before the pipe reached him, and only looked questioningly at her.
“My first crop,” she grinned. “I brought an envelope of seeds with me, and they grow pretty well here. The light from Cat’s Eye seems to be enough.”
Marian caught Bronstein’s thoughtful look. “Hemp’s a valuable plant,” she reminded him. “Gives food, oil, fiber, light wood, and a harmless high. It’s a damn-sight safer than a lot of the local plants.”
“Got another one for ya,” Jablonski smiled through a puff of the odorous smoke. “I heard that farmers way off downriver are growing grain, and made a deal to ship some up here—for the bosses, of course; synthetic food’s good enough for the likes of us—but I figure a sack or two might just fall off the boat.”
“Grain?” Bronstein puzzled. “I don’t see us raising a lot of it soon.…”
Jablonski laughed and passed the pipe along. “Not for planting, man; for sprouting.”
“…And then what?” Bronstein puzzled.
“Then ya mash it up in water, and ferment it. Know what that makes? Ale! We’ve got no hops to turn it into beer, but it’s a start.”
Bronstein thought about that, then laughed and reached for the pipe. As he inhaled he wondered which of the local fungi would ferment grain-mash into edible alcohol, and decided it was time to check into his notebook computer again.
Come to think of it, he should find a better hiding place for the computer, too.
*
*
*
Just a week later, Hassan and his crew tried again. Bronstein’s team was coming in at shift’s end when they heard—then saw—the mob crowding around the guard shack. There seemed to be fewer of them this time, but they were fiercer and noisier. Bronstein’s team marched past them without pause, hardly sparing them a look, which seemed to infuriate them further. Bronstein kept a covert eye on the mob all the way back to the main tent, where he saw Jablonski and his Arab translator lounging at the doorway.
“They’re bitching about the food,” Jablonski said quietly as Bronstein stepped out of the incoming line to hear him. “Sayeed here says they’re calling it ‘unclean’, something about pork in it.”
“He’s dreaming,” Bronstein snorted. “Nobody would ship anything as valuable as real meat all the way out here, not for us. Bet you gold to Kenny-creds, Hassan ate synthetic food back on Earth. What’s his real complaint?”
“Just flexing his
political muscle.” Jablonski smiled sourly. “And he’s being stupid about it: acting as if there were media-cameras rolling, ready to spread his sob-story all over the news. He doesn’t seem to realize that nobody’s watching.”
“It probably worked for him back on Earth.” Bronstein flicked another discreet glance at the howling crowd. “He doesn’t seem to realize that this bunch here is all the sympathizers he’s got. I take it the bosses know his face and name by now…?”
“Oh yeah,” Jablonski snickered. “Another stunt like this, and they’ll have ’im.”
“Just make sure everybody else stays visibly separate from his bunch. We’ve got to keep looking neat and sweet for awhile.”
“No sweat. And speaking of which, my shift’s rolling out now. Catch you later.”
Bronstein nodded and went into the tent, carefully sidestepping the men on their way out, and went looking for Marian Muscles and History-Man.
Not until the end of second shift did he hear the rest of the story.
Jablonski knocked briefly on the plastic door of Bronstein’s hut and then pushed his way in. “The Kenny-cops busted Hassan’s rally,” he said without preamble. “Waited until we’d all gone down to the ore-trough or building huts, then waded into the crowd with stun-clubs. A chopper came out and hauled the bodies away to the brig, a brick building, somewhere downriver—where they’ll probably be stuck for the next week. Bad news is, Hassan got away. He could be anywhere in walking distance now.”
“He’ll have to sneak into the main tent sometime,” Bronstein calculated. “He doesn’t know what’s edible out in the woods—never bothered to ask—and ‘unclean’ or no, the dispenser’s the only food-source he’s got.”
“And once he shows his face in there, somebody will spot him and turn him in for the reward. He’ll be out of the picture for a week at least.”
“I wouldn’t sell his sneakiness short,” Bronstein reconsidered. “There’s another way he can get food without showing himself.”