by John F. Carr
*
Harry Davis bounced hard in his canvas jump seat as the shuttle touched down. His back and neck already hurt, and with all this bouncing around, they were going to hurt worse tomorrow. The cheap CoDo bastards didn’t even bother putting windows on these shuttles so you could see what was going on. Harry still burned with anger whenever he thought of how he got here. When he stood in front of that CoDominium tribunal, his Lieutenant didn’t even offer testimony on his behalf, just shook his head and wouldn’t meet Harry’s eyes.
It didn’t seem to matter to these idiots that his gun hadn’t been in his hand when it killed those two Guards. And why should it matter that he had a few drinks during lunch? No one even blinked when the hard-eyed lying bastard of a Sergeant had claimed he assaulted the phalanx and that their use of force was justified. So just like that, Harry Davis was a transportee, no rights, no justice. His ex-wife wouldn’t even let him see his kids before he left, wouldn’t even take his calls.
But Harry had to admit he had landed on his feet. The miners being transported because of their ‘revolt’ were only just over half of the passengers on the BuReloc ship. And among the others, there was a truly smart woman, Erica she called herself, one name only, like a stripper. She had gathered together a group of women who were willing to turn tricks. And with three to one odds, there was plenty of business. There was no money on the transport, but there was food, favors, even drugs and booze to be had.
Erica had taken a shine to him, and asked him to protect her and the girls. There was no way they could have carried off their enterprise without some muscle to back them up, and someone who knew how to cut deals with the crewmembers in authority over them. Harry soon found that the skills he had learned as a cop were perfectly suited for the other side of the law, and he gathered and trained a group of young toughs to help him.
Erica was a tall curvy woman with a huge rack, and long blonde hair. She was always hot to have him, and even willing to share him with the other girls. Plenty of tail, plenty of booze, the power to push punks around. Life was good. Harry caught Erica’s eye across the shuttle and grinned at her. There was no reason to think their little business couldn’t pick up where it left off once they got a feel for this place. Erica smiled back, and Harry turned away, not noticing how she rolled her eyes and sighed.
*
*
*
As the transportees flowed down the gangways and onto the docks, it was time to get to work. Miller, Nagel and their fellow Deacons and Beadles led the transportees to the long, low barracks buildings just above Docktown, separated them into male, female and family groups, assigned them bunks and work assignments, and got them to the mess hall for their first meal.
After shepherding a large group of male transportees into a barracks building, Deacon Miller straightened his long brown robe, and stood at the end of the large, open room, the men crowded in front of him. He began his standard speech, polished by frequent use.
“Welcome to Haven,” he said, “And welcome to the barracks that will be your home for the immediate future. We have a program here that will help you get integrated into Haven’s society, and help build the infrastructure that we need to support you. You are all welcome to live in these barracks, with a bunk and three meals a day, as long as you are willing to work eight hours a day, with one day out of every twelve a day of rest, supporting public projects.”
That drew grumbling and protests from the crowd, who had protested against much lighter work schedules back on Earth. Miller told them that they were welcome to head out on their own at any time, although he warned that on Haven, alone often meant death. The discussion of work schedules led to an inevitable discussion of Haven’s odd cycle of days and nights, driven by not only Byers’ Star, but also the luminous gas giant that spent so much time in the skies above. Miller tried not to dwell on that discussion, knowing that it would take more than one explanation, and a few T-weeks on the ground, for them to catch on.
The transportees’ protests became even more heated when Miller explained that, after a standard T-year of satisfactory work, they could earn their place in a colonization program, be issued a small supply of tools and provisions, and be sent out to one of the many new communities growing along the Shangri-La River valley. “What are we?” cried a miner, “a bunch of slaves?”
Miller tried to plow ahead with his lecture. He warned the transportees to be careful about too much exertion during their early weeks, to give their bodies time to adapt to the thin atmosphere. He spoke about the Church of New Harmony, and invited anyone whose heart sent them in that direction to seek out a service. He also spoke about other churches around the town. Then it was time for the list of infractions and their consequences. How Deacons and Beadles provided law enforcement on the streets, with the CoDominium Marine contingent to back them up. He warned that the food, especially in the coming winter, would mostly come from the nearby Protocarb plant, and that while no one would starve, food would be short and far from tasty.
Almost nothing he said was received with agreement. Transportees were usually pretty quiet, and somewhat stunned, during their first lecture. But this crowd continued to be restive, and the afternoon stretched on far longer than usual. By the time the transportees were off to their first meal, Miller was more than ready to head out for a well-deserved beer before bedtime. But then, as he left the barracks area, he saw Lieutenant Frasier, the young head of the Marine contingent, waving to him on the street. He yelled something, but Miller couldn’t hear what, until he moved closer.
“More shuttles are inbound,” he said, “I’ve been looking for you to pass the word.”
Miller’s jaw dropped. “But the barracks are almost full. Where will we put them?”
Frasier shrugged. “Sorry ‘bout that, don’t kill the messenger. And watch your back with these guys, you’re getting over 3,000 total, and about 2,000 of those are miners who staged a revolt back on Earth.”
“If they’re miners, why aren’t they being dropped directly to the Kennicott camp?” Miller asked.
Frasier flinched. “News of our recent union problems, and problems on other worlds, got too much media attention back on Earth, and the Humanity League forced changes to CoDo relocation policy. No more turning transportees directly over to private companies for transportation. BuReloc handles all movement of transportees. The mining companies have to attract workers to jobs, either on Earth, or on the outworlds.”
“That seems fairer, but sure makes my job a lot harder.” Miller waved over Beadle Nagel. “Get the word out to the full crew of Transportee Supervisors, we have more inbound. We are going to have to double up on bunks and lockers. I want the full crew in front of Barracks One in fifteen minutes. And walking staffs for everyone.”
He waved off Nagel, and turned back to the Lieutenant. “They have been a difficult bunch, and are going to be even more difficult when we pack them in so tight. What support can you give me?”
The Lieutenant gritted his teeth. “After what I’ve heard, just the sight of my men might set them off. But I can stage a platoon in the Docktown CoDo offices, close enough to come running if you need them.” He looked quizzically at Miller. “Walking staffs?” he asked.
Deacon Miller smiled back, “We call them that so Reverend Castell can pretend violence is never the answer. But you and I know that, in the real world, a sharp rap in the shins, or on the chin, is sometimes the only way to get through to certain people.”
The Lieutenant grinned back. “Understood. I will gather my men, and hopefully, won’t see you later. Let’s pray that my part tonight consists of a lot of ‘wait,’ without any ‘hurry up.’”
Miller nodded and turned back to his work. No beer and no sleep tonight.…
*
*
*
When the trouble among the miners started, Harry decided to stay clear. He wasn’t going to get caught in another riot with these losers. He had found a top bunk in the corner of his barracks, and
sat in it with his back against the wall, and arms around his knees. When everyone was told to double up on bunks, he’d found a skinny young kid that didn’t look like he’d be any trouble, and looked like he would appreciate someone telling him what to do. The kid sat next to him, staring wide-eyed at the excitement from between strands of stringy black hair.
Some of the miners had tried to jump a couple of Beadles, and soon found out that their sticks were not just for show. And a whistle from one of the Beadles brought some reinforcements. Things got tense again when the miners pressed closer and closer to the Beadles, but all the fight went out of them when a maniple of CoDo Marines came in the door. Not as well equipped as the Guard unit that had taken Harry down back on Earth, and with broad-brimmed campaign hats instead of helmets, but tough looking bastards with murder in their eyes.
A scrawny little guy with an Irish accent put himself between the miners and the Marines. Harry recognized him from the ship, he was one of the leaders, maybe the leader of the miner’s union. The guy had some guts to put himself where he was, and had the gift of blarney, because he was able to calm the miners, get them to stand back and calm down, and convince the Marines and Beadles that they could go on their way.
There was gunfire in the distance, some muffled as if it was coming from inside another building, some closer, from outside the buildings.
Harry suddenly thought about Erica. Not only was she the best lay he ever had, she was his ticket out of these miserable barracks. So he told the kid to guard their stuff, slipped off the bunk, and out a side door. He ran between the barracks, in the direction he had seen the women going. Harry was careful. I’d hate to see the place they transport you to, he thought, when you get swept up in a riot on Haven.
He stopped at the end of each building, peered ahead before rounding the corner, and doubling back when required. This paid off twice, the first time when a round from a Marine smacked into the building above him, scattering splinters. I guess that answers my question—they transport you in a pine box when you make trouble around here, he decided. The second time Harry’s caution paid off was when he saw a crowd of miners striding down an alley, spoiling for a fight, with rude clubs in their hands—broken table legs, whatever they could get their hands on.
He stopped at a barracks that, unlike the others, was dark. He opened the door.
“Is this the women’s barracks?” he hissed.
“Who wants to know?” came back a voice, a husky alto that answered his question.
“I’m looking for a woman named Erica. Tall, blonde.”
“Just a minute. Close the door and wait here,” the voice came back, and he heard someone running across the floor.
As Harry’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he realized that he was surrounded by a ring of women, all equipped with clubs themselves. But unlike the mob outside, these clubs had been plucked from a uniform source, a lumber pile perhaps. The women near him were all young and strong. Beyond them, he could see other groups of women clustered in the center of the room, women who were obviously less capable of defending themselves than those by the door. Someone had organized the occupants in this barracks, turned the lights out to prevent attention, someone who knew what they were doing.
“Harry? Is that you?” The group of women parted, and Erica was there, a wooden slat in her right hand, looking for all the world like a military commander.
“I came to see if you were all right,” said Harry, starting to feel foolish.
“Noble gesture. Not needed, but noble,” she said. “But since you were out there, fill me in.”
Harry described the confrontation in his barracks. She nodded and said, “Fineal Naha. I had him pegged as someone to be reckoned with from the first days aboard the transport.”
Harry described the shot from the CoDo Marine.
“They aren’t afraid to shoot to kill in a fluid situation,” Erica said. “That says a lot about their training and rules of engagement. Or maybe, their lack of training, given what you described.”
Harry ended by describing the mob. They heard more shots ring out, and a murmur of conversation spread through the room.
“Calm down, ladies,” said Erica, and then said to Harry, “That’s probably your gang of idiots, getting themselves killed.”
Erica gestured with her head, motioning Harry outside.
“I appreciate your concern,” she said, “but I’m fine, and so are the other girls that work for us. What I need for you is to get back to your barracks, blend in and lay low until we can find a place to set up shop. Be patient—don’t rock the boat until the time is right. Do your part, and there’s lots of fun times ahead.”
She gave him a wicked grin, a quick pat on the groin, and slipped back inside the barracks. Harry took off for his own barracks, even more carefully than the trip out. That Erica was quite a woman. He needed to take care of himself, he had a good thing to look forward to. It looked like things would be even better than they had been on Earth.
Harry grinned. Like a cat, he was going to land on his feet.
*
*
*
The room Deacon Miller had been summoned to was low and smoky, a fire burning in the corner. Reverend Charles Castell would never be accused of lording over his church in luxury. His low house, set partially into a hillside, was one of the most primitive in Castell City. He had his inner circle gathered around him, his wife Saral and his First Deacon, Kev Malcolm, prominent among them. Miller felt like he was on trial. He had been awake for forty hours straight, and ached everywhere. He felt like he had cracked a rib, and his left eye was black and nearly swollen shut.
“How many people were injured in the fighting? How did you restore harmony? How many of the new transportees were jailed? Why did you call in the Marines?” Miller slogged his way wearily through the answers, putting up with the inevitable criticism of his methods. At least he had handled the violence without fatalities on any side. As one of the more worldly Deacons, he was often given tasks that dealt with those outside the church.
But the same worldliness that made him useful also made him an object of suspicion among the senior church leadership. The church had rescued him from a life of abuse and pain, but he still cringed at their naive attitudes on so many topics.
“What’re we to do with all these people?” Kev Malcolm asked. “Winter’s coming on, and they’re packed in so tightly, more problems are inevitable. Should we send them down the river, in hopes that Kennicott Mining can feed and employ them?”
“Absolutely not,” snapped Charles Castell. “Not after what Deacon Miller found when we sent him down the river last spring to meet with Kennicott. The way those people were treated was horrible. Like slaves. And butchered by Marines for protesting their lot.” Reverend Castell would never forgive the Kennicott Company for intruding on Haven. No matter what CoDominium paperwork they presented, he considered their very presence a violation of the planetary charter signed by the New Harmony Church.
“Lieutenant Frasier has admitted that there were mistakes in handling that incident, mistakes that he regrets to this day,” Miller interjected.
Castell scowled back. “Regret does not bring back the dead. Nor restore harmony. We have no choice but to keep them here, employ them in expanding the town, and building a new life.”
“Can I look at our charter again?” asked Miller. “And the Kennicott paperwork I brought back from their camp? Perhaps there’s an answer there.”
“Waste your time as you wish,” said Reverend Castell. “But don’t hold any hope of another path. The song for this issue has been written, it simply remains to be sung.”
*
*
*
For a few days, Harry put up with the bullshit jobs these Harmony guys assigned him. During the evenings, he linked up with Erica. She set up a system where the girls, accompanied by one of Harry’s young toughs, would find johns who had a place to take them to, and turn tricks that way. But th
ey really needed a base to operate out of, so Harry made his rounds of the bars, finding out who controlled which turf.
The Harmonies were pretty strict, but their rules only applied to their own part of town, separated from the rest by a log palisade. In the rest of town, pretty much anything seemed to go. The Deacons and Beadles kept order on the streets, but other than that, anything that was going to happen, happened without restriction. Castell City was like one of those frontier towns in old cowboy movies, dirt streets, wooden sidewalks, and low buildings, some made of sod, or set into the side of hills. Some of the bars and merchants were legitimate, but many others, especially as you got nearer to Docktown, traded in not only booze, but also drugs and flesh. Gambling, especially with cards, was open and widespread.
Harry used some of the money Erica had passed to him to buy a small revolver and shoulder holster. He was going to have to keep his eyes open and his wits about him in this town.
*
*
*
A few days after the transportee riot had been put down, Miller sat in one of the booths that ringed the walls of his favorite pub, a place named after its owner, old man Harp. The sign over the door was a gold harp on a green background. It was a cozy little place in a nice part of town, partially dug into a low hillside. The Deacon had just finished his supper, and the pub glowed with the light of oil lamps, and as always, was full of the smell of cooking food and brewing beer.
The musicians in a corner were in the midst of a set of jigs, with fiddles, flutes, a button accordion, and a guitar playing along. There was a painting behind the bar, green hills dotted with grazing sheep. This was Miller’s favorite place in the whole world. Not the type of music he would hear in a Harmony Church, but he considered all music a gift from the Creator.
He realized that there was a man standing beside the booth, an odd little man with white hair, and a fringe of a beard circling a round face.
“And would you be the man called Deacon Miller?” the man asked.