by John F. Carr
The resulting accommodations with the Harmonies were predictably strained and left them feeling as if they were the outsiders in their own community. Fortunately, Martin’s problems were at Camp #2 with the miners and he should be able to avoid any entanglements with the Harmonies and their straight-laced leader.
“Have you noticed the miners always send out the spics with their list of demands?” Waddell asked. “We still haven’t ascertained who the camp’s real agent provocateurs are?”
Martin, who’d only arrived twenty hours earlier by packet ship from Tanith, replied flatly, “They send out the Hispanics because they don’t know anything. I see from the records the guards ‘questioned’ the third negotiating team and all they learned was the miners are in caves outside Camp #2 and that two “white guys” are in charge. I personally vetted the passenger manifest and it looks like the Bureau of Corrections’ transportee scoops picked up two union organizers, Jack Bronstein and Louie Jablonski. I suspect they’re the brains behind the strike.”
Sweat started to bead on Waddell’s forehead until they grew large enough to drift off in the ship’s micro-gravity. “We’ve got to settle this strike before the next ship goes out-system. If word gets back to HQ before we’ve settled this mess, we’re all in trouble.”
“Director, if by settling, you mean giving into the miner’s demands. That’s not going to happen. You know the Board well enough to know that will mean your job.”
From the worry lines bracketing the Director’s eyes and mouth, it appeared he was well aware of the consequences of any further delays. “Time is money” was a well-used axiom in the upper ranks of Kennicott management.
“Remember, these miners were sent here to lay the foundation for the next wave of transportees,” Martin added. “The Bureau of Corrections will be bringing us thousands of new ‘workers’ in the next couple of years.”
“What do you suggest we do, Martin?” the Director asked.
Peltz didn’t like being addressed as an equal by subordinates, even when undercover. He made a mental effort to reign in his growing irritation. “I believe it’s time to bring in the Marines.”
He knew the camp guards were next to useless; they were the castoffs and dregs of every off-world Kennicott operation. Only sent here because Haven and Tanith were the dumping grounds for the Companies fuck-ups and incompetents-like Director Waddell. The idea being it was cheaper to exile them on Haven than to buyout their contracts or payout their severance pay. Who else, but an incompetent hack such as Waddell, could have allowed a couple of hundred unschooled miners to close down an entire camp; Stephen DeSilva would have a stroke when he learned off it. He would have to send a memo to Stephen about reviewing this policy: it was proving to be a mistake. And Tanith had her own share of problems.
“Marines, you mean the CoDo Marines! They’re only here to keep the peace in Castell.”
“No, they’re here to maintain order. Period. This strike is disorderly and it’s time we used the Marines to their fullest capacity.”
“There might be bloodshed.” Waddell’s face turned as white as a bed sheet.
“Time for peaceful negotiations has come and gone. The miners have proven their intransigence. Now, it’s time to let the Marines do what they do best.”
“We don’t want the Camp destroyed, nor any of the equipment…” Waddell trailed off, all but wringing his hands.
“I’m going to go down to Castell City and head up the operation myself,” Martin stated. He didn’t trust the Marines much more than the guards, since the soldiers on Haven were garrison troops, not line. They probably hadn’t seen action in a while and might go off half-cocked.
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Jack Bronstein made his way along the perimeter of the mining camp, careful to mask his progress behind bushes and trees, noting the lack of any human presence. The guards were no longer at their posts; they were probably in the huts gambling, playing cards or video games. It bothered him that the Company appeared to have lost interest in both the camp and the strike.
Things were not going as planned. The plan was that they went on strike and the Company negotiated until a settlement was reached. That was how it worked on Earth; it was beginning to dawn on him that there was an entirely different set of rules in play outside the Sol System.
The miners had been in the caves now for over six T-months and the Company still refused to negotiate. Food was running out as the local wildlife was killed off or had left the area because of human predation. They were unable to plant much because the guards searched out their gardens and destroyed them; probably as much out of boredom as criminal mischief. Without anyone to guard, they were pretty much adrift.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and cut off a gasp that threatened to erupt.
“Sorry, Jack,” he heard a familiar voice say.
“What is it now, Louie?” he said, trying to keep the anger he felt out of his voice. Jablonski was becoming a real pain-in-the-ass. Their close living quarters, the cold, the moist cave, the constant bickering among the other miners, all of these had left Jablonski completely stressed-out. His leg was giving out on him now to the point that some days he couldn’t even walk. Bronstein didn’t even want to try and imagine the pain the man was in, but other than some rot-gut alcohol and marijuana; they were completely out of borloi and pain meds.
It wasn’t that Jablonski complained about his problem; it was the way his face contorted and the constant beating on his leg. It drove those around him for any period of time crazy. It was getting so bad Bronstein wanted to take his handgun and shoot the poor son-of-a-bitch, just to put him out of his misery.
“The minute you left, everyone started complaining about the ‘plan.’ We’re about to have a revolt on our hands. Between the overcrowding, the freezing cold, the boredom and hunger, these people are at the end of their tether.”
“You don’t think I know that,” he snapped. “We thought, based on our experience on Earth that Company management would cave in, but it hasn’t happened.” He stopped to rub his hands together, even with the mittens and over-gloves his fingers were growing numb.
“It’ll be truenight soon. What’ll we do then?”
“I don’t know,” Bronstein said. We need outside help. I thought the Harmonies might give us food, but our messenger never returned. But that was an outside chance to begin with. Let’s get back to the cave before we freeze to death!”
*
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Mining Officer Martin Peltz took a small vertical lander down to Castell City, which had been covered by a light snow blotting out and covering most of the City’s mud and grime. The air was thin enough that every deep breath hurt. He was going to have to be careful not to exert himself too much until he was more acclimated to the sparse air and biting cold.
Castell City was a small town with few pretensions. The inhabitants slunk along the wooden sidewalks and frozen-mud streets with downcast eyes. The CoDominium 26th Marine garrison was headquartered in a cement block structure that was as solid as the Marines it quartered. Martin identified himself to the sentry, showed his I.D. and was given permission to enter. Discipline appeared good, which was a positive sign.
The thick metal door slid open and he found the garrison Commandant, Lieutenant William Frasier, waiting for him inside the duty room. “Welcome to Niflheim, Agent Peltz.”
Martin had almost total recall and the definition of Niflheim instantly popped into his mind: In Norse mythology, Niflheim was the lowest region of the underworld. A place of mist and cold, which was sometimes called the home of the dead. He nodded. “Most appropriate, Lieutenant.”
“How can I be of service, sir?” the Lieutenant asked.
Frasier appeared to be a much higher caliber officer than one might expect in a provisional garrison unit posted to a dead-end frontier outpost. Martin wondered which of his superior officers he’d insulted or made an enemy out of.
�
��First, I’ve got a few background questions before I come to the reason behind my visit.”
Lieutenant Frasier nodded.
Anything that shakes the boredom off his shoes in a post like this, Martin thought, is probably welcome. “I was a little taken aback by how built-up this town has become. I was expecting a small camp or a few tumbledown shacks.”
“The 26th only arrived two T-years ago at the Harmonies’ request. As I understand it, from talking with Deacon Kev, Old Garner Castell had made secret deals with several of the big mining companies to bring in supplies, from saw blades to small blast furnaces, and livestock in exchange for mining rights. The Harmonies are very industrious and they had help when a second shipload arrived.”
Martin nodded. “I’m familiar with Garner’s deals. Hell, our own survey teams arrived months before the Harmonies landed here. Kennicott even set up the first wharf. Of course, we had to move operations after the Harmonies landed. You know about the thousand kilometer provision.”
Lieutenant Frasier said, “Yes, that the nearest mining camps have to be a thousand kilometers from Castell City, but that doesn’t mean that Reverend Charles Castell likes it. The fact that his father made all these secret deals behind his back with the mining companies still sticks in Charles’ craw. But the troubles really began when Anaconda and Dover brought more than just goods and supplies with them. Since there were no operating mines on Haven to send return payloads, they shipped in convicts supplied by the Bureau of Corrections to help cover transport costs. That’s where the colony picked up sewer rats like the half-breed Jomo, Yankee Dog, Two-Guns White Calf and DeCastro.”
Martin snickered. “Oh, I bet the Harmonies loved that.”
The Lieutenant nodded. “Charles Castell’s complaints were picked up by the Humanity League and from there went all the way to the Grand Senate. The Colonial Bureau stopped the shipping of convicts, replacing them with Bureau of Relocation transportees. By that time, the companies—mostly Anaconda—had begun to realize they weren’t doing themselves any favors by dumping Earth’s trash onto Haven.
“The Fleet ordered the 26th Marines, Company C, Third Battalion to Haven when the wharf rats tried to put the squeeze on the Harmonies and take over Castell City a few years ago. The only ones who stood up to us were Yankee Dog and his sidekick, Two-Guns; both were killed with most of their gang in the subsequent firefight. I would have loved to have put the rest of the crime bosses before a firing squad, but they went underground after Yankee Dog and his gang went down. The criminals are still busy with the usual vices and racketeering, but it’s not the 26th’s job to police Castell City for the Harmonies—just keep the gangsters from taking over the colony.
“To keep the illusion of peace, the Harmonies built a palisade and live in a compound, like a pen full of sheep in the middle of a wolf pack—poor bastards. I’ve tried to help their Deacons organize themselves into an official constabulary, but Reverend Castell refuses to grant them permission. And things are only going to get worse. It’s my understanding that the Bureau of ReLocation now sees Haven as the perfect dumping ground for dissidents, especially politicals. It’s over a year away and return passage is too expensive for most to ever return.”
“Yes,” Martin said, “and the thin air means that their birth rate will be far below replacement levels.”
“That’s something I will not speculate on,” the Lieutenant said. “But I won’t say you’re wrong.”
Martin nodded, I think I’ve got my man, he thought. “How many men can you spare for a strikebreaking operation down at Camp #2?”
The Lieutenant gave him a wolfish grin; it was obvious he relished the possibility of real action. “Will there be a possibility of casualties, sir?”
Martin nodded. “We’re having problems with the miners at Camp #2. An unauthorized strike. We need to end it and arrest the leaders.”
The Lieutenant rubbed his hands together. “I’ve got one under-strength company of the 26th CoDominium Marines to police an entire planet. I have one platoon, made up of three infantry squads billeted in Castell City. One of them is an Infantry Mechanized squad. They’re all under strength. We’ve got about one hundred and sixteen men in total.”
“How many can you release for this mission?”
“Sir, keeping the peace in Castell City is mostly a babysitting operation, trying to keep the scum from gumming up the works. It’s been several T-months since the last deportee ship arrived and we’ve pacified the worst scourings of the transportees.
“A single squad should suffice for garrison duty, sir. I can give you two squads, which should be more than enough to pacify a couple hundred miners, no matter how well they’re organized. I will personally command the operation. What kind of weapons should we prepare for?”
Martin shrugged. “Several guards have disappeared or been killed. So I suspect the strikers have accumulated some handguns and maybe a rifle or two. The ones who were interrogated mentioned bows and arrows, knives and primitive spears.”
“Miners know a lot about explosives, as well, sir. We’ll come prepared.”
“Good. Do a good job here and the Company will do well by you.”
The Lieutenant nodded.
Due to funding constraints and the fact that the USA and the Soviets were often at loggerheads, the CoDominium armed forces were always under-funded and thereby more amenable to political influence than most services. A young commander could go a long way with the ‘right’ backing. With one DeSilva in the Grand Senate and another a Fleet Vice-Admiral, Kennicott Mining had a lot of political clout.
“What about transport, sir? We only have three helicopters.”
“I can get you all the company choppers you’ll need. They can act as spotters and you can put snipers on them, as well.”
“Excellent, sir. I can have the men ready in four hours. It would be best if we left soon. We want to catch them before Eyefall.”
“Right, Lieutenant. The Company doesn’t have a good infra-red satellite, because of the proximity to the local gas giant, Cat’s Eye, so I can’t help you out there.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem for our scanners, sir. We should be able to read the heat signature of two hundred miners, unless they’ve dug their way through the core to East Continent.”
“Good. We’ll meet at the Company helo pad at 0200 hours Terra-time.”
“Yes, sir.”
It was still dim-day by Haven reckoning, when Martin and the Marines boarded the choppers. Twilight was always a good time for an attack, the Lieutenant assured him. This was Martin’s first “battle”—if such a small operation could be called such—and the anxiety it created surprised him. If all went well it would be another bullet point on his corporate resume, if not, then life would get very interesting…Or he would be dead.
The Lieutenant had insisted that he wear a regulation flak jacket and a Marine visor-helm with infra-red sensors. As they flew over the shadowy trees and hills, Lt. Frasier related some of his own battle stories during his tour of duty on Frystaat and Makassar. He intimated that once the Harmonies were implicated in an insurrection, the moonlet would be incorporated into the CoDominium.
“Haven’s wonderfully isolated and hellish. A good prison world, like Tanith or Fulson’s World. A perfect dumping ground for dissident minorities, criminals, deviants and politicals. It’ll be interesting to see whether it ends up under the aegis of the Bureau of ReLocation or Corrections. Although, there’s room here for both. The biggest benefit, although no politician or bureaucrat will ever admit this fact, is that few births come to term due to the thin air. Dump your dissidents on Haven and they don’t breed back like they do everywhere else.”
In between the thwoop-thwoop of the rotors, Martin looked around to make sure none of the other Marines were within listening range. He liked the way Lieutenant Frasier’s mind worked; he was wasted here on Haven. If Martin survived the attack, he’d do what he could to make sure Frasier was put in a position wh
ere he could do the Company the most good. If he showed loyalty to Kennicott, he could rise high in the Corps.
“I agree, Lieutenant. The CoDominium resettlement program—if its real objective is to neutralize or get rid of dissidents and defective genetic genotypes—has been a complete failure. We’ve spread our problems over forty worlds, not just one. And, from what I’ve seen in my travels, they will come back to haunt us.”
“Exactly, sir. And, as I’m sure you know, the Fleet is stretched so thin that there isn’t much we could do if there were more than half a dozen simultaneous revolts on different worlds.”
Such talk bordered on treason, but there was no doubting of both the sincerity and veracity of the Lieutenant’s words. Such clear-eyed reasoning was rare on Earth in these decadent days.
They continued to talk in this vein for some time before a sensor pinged, announcing they were within air defense missile range of Camp #2. Not much likelihood of finding a surface-to-air missile here; although, stranger things had been known to happen. He studied the dark terrain carefully, looking for evidence of human habitation or the muzzle flash of enemy rifles. The countryside was as desolate as a virgin planet. What a place to be dumped, he thought.
*
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“What’s that?” Ward Bixby asked. Bixby, a retired CoDo Marine who had been picked up drunk and disorderly in a Bureau of Corrections sweep, was one of their sentries. And one of two men allowed possession of their only rifle. No one else in camp could hit the broad trunk of a clownfruit tree.
Bronstein and a score of men came running to the jerry-rigged cave door. They made their way outside through the cutting and bitterly-cold wind. He looked around, but the black ink of truenight had already fallen and he couldn’t see a thing. The only thing that was real was the slashing wind that tore through his parka as if it were made of cheese-cloth.
Then he heard the thwoop-thwoop of helicopter rotors.