War World Discovery

by John F. Carr

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  The second trip, from a navigational standpoint, went even better than the first. The steamboat crews had begun to get the hang of pushing the ungainly rafts in the right direction. They brought back some outdoorsmen to teach the emigrants the ways of the wild, which kept more of them out of trouble during shore-side rest stops.

  But this group was a more diverse group, with more townspeople, less miners, and more of the folks that chafed under Harmony rules, and who naturally rebelled against the regimentation required to spend time on a raft in cramped quarters. The two deputies per raft helped, but were nowhere near enough of a presence to maintain order. While the same spirit of excitable chaos permeated the group as it did on the first trip, chaos was still chaos.

  Miller and Jackson found that much of their time was spent soothing hurt feelings and resolving arguments. The 100-person shop concept, which had proven effective for the first rafts, often broke down, and protests went to the highest level.

  On the second day of the trip, Deacon Miller was summoned to a crying woman. The young man beside her was saying, “Why didn’t you tell me? You know you shouldn’t have come on this trip.”

  “But I needed to get away from momma, I couldn’t let her know.”

  It turned out she was pregnant, not showing too much, but eight months along, and whether anyone liked it or not, it was time. Up until now she had kept that pregnancy a secret, although Miller thought the boyfriend must be pretty dim not to have seen the signs. There was no doctor on the trip, none could be lured from Castell City, so they summoned the nurse practitioner who provided medical care.

  Six brutal hours later, it was over. The girl’s cries had died down to a dull moaning. There was no cry from the baby—like so many on Haven, it was stillborn. Since the youngsters were Christian, Preacher Jackson offered them comfort, and presided over the burial the next time they pulled alongshore.

  Deacon Miller found himself deeply troubled. Would the first generation on Haven also be the last? With so few children being born, how could a normal society be built? Was this a sign that their presence on Haven disturbed creation’s harmony, and was the planet itself trying to restore the balance? He hoped that someone would be able to solve the problem—this world was filled with too much pain, and this was the ultimate loss.

  A few days later, Miller found himself called to a crying mother and daughter, and a sullen man held between a group of other men. To his horror, he soon realized that he was dealing with a case of molestation, that the man had attempted to rape the little girl while she and her mother lay sleeping.

  Soon, he found himself surrounded by an angry crowd, which was starting to get ugly. At some point, however, he was joined by Preacher Jackson, who worked with the crowd, and Captain Doyle, wearing a pistol and accompanied by Deputy Davis and two armed crewmembers. Doyle listened to the statements of the mother, the suspect, and then the little girl. He turned to Miller and said, “I’ve got this one,” and climbed up on a wooden box.

  “As you know, as Captain of this vessel, I have the power to enforce discipline, and keep the peace. This man,” and here he pointed at the suspect, “has disturbed that peace, and while I don’t have the power to impose punishment, I do have the authority to remove him from this vessel, and put him ashore.”

  Deacon Miller gasped. They were hundreds of kilometers away from the nearest civilization. This was virtually a death sentence. But then he thought about it some more. He had been a victim of some pretty vile treatment when he was young, and the scars of that treatment had followed him throughout his life. This was not the Harmony way, but it felt right. So he kept his mouth shut, and limited his involvement in the situation to ensuring the man left with a box of matches, a kitchen knife, and a blanket in addition to his other possessions.

  The man did not go gracefully. He cried for mercy, and when there was none, howled with anger. He tried playing the victim, he tried logic, he tried threats—but to no avail. Doyle loaded him onto his steamboat, and drove him to shore. The man fought Deputy Davis and the crewmember when they dragged him ashore, and wrestled with them when they removed his bonds. Deacon Miller hardened his heart to the screams that slowly faded behind them.

  When Doyle returned, he took Miller aside. “Someone had to play the heavy there, that was nothing to fool around with. If he had been around much longer, he would have been a victim to mob justice. And once that cat is out of the bag, there is no putting it back again. You Harmonies have trouble playing the heavy, even when it’s required.”

  Davis nodded in agreement, “It had to be done,” he said.

  Miller thanked them, although his heart was heavy.

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  Minerstown was humming when Harry stepped ashore. There was construction everywhere. His first stop, as he had promised Erica, was to deliver the package to the farmer. He got the impression that, whatever was in the package, he had done something of great benefit to Erica and her interests.

  He went to the site where Erica’s new place was under construction. Because of her contributions to the emigration effort, it was one of the buildings that was at the top of the priority list. It almost looked like there would be a roof over it by the time she arrived.

  The happiest moment of all was when Harry found a tent where someone was already serving local booze. It tasted pretty hideous, but it was drinkable, and it had a satisfying kick to it. Once the women came down on the next trip, all would be right with the world.

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  Deacon Miller was amazed at how much had happened in the new town in only six short weeks. The main street leading down to the docks was already taking shape, and some low buildings were already under construction. A steam engine, imported from Castell City, had already become the heart of a sawmill, and heavy logs were dragged by mules from the newly cleared fields to be cut into lumber. The giant rafts from the first trip were already gone, cut into hundreds of planks and beams. A blacksmith shop was in full operation. Nearer the river, where buildings could not be set into the ground because of the water table, there were raised platforms, now with tents atop them, but which would soon become homes, shops and warehouses.

  Everyone who arrived at Minerstown was obligated to work for the common good during that first summer, and that meant everyone. Even the merchants who had commissioned buildings were put to work on those buildings themselves, or depending on their skills, helping someone else with another task. This frenzy of activity served to keep everyone too busy, and too tired at the end of the day, to cause much trouble.

  Some of the miners from the Kennicott camp had walked out on the company and joined the building efforts. Other newcomers had been released from their duties to take positions with Kennicott, with the proviso that their wages during that first summer would come back to town for the common good. Reports were that Kennicott had given in to demands for higher wages in order to keep the remaining miners, and were even allowing organization of the workers, and entertaining inputs from workers councils and representatives.

  After a few whirlwind days, Miller, Jackson and Davis again found themselves aboard Captain Doyle’s tug, and fell into comfortable companionship. The preacher would get Miller’s goat by singing songs about Moses with a wry grin on his face, and would only quit when threatened by a rap from Miller’s walking staff.

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  Harry was back in Castell City, and it was almost time for the final trip. Erica’s place was already closed up, so he sat in another bar down by Docktown, one that still had furniture, and booze behind the counter. He was surrounded by others who were also leaving in the morning, departing in the last group of rafts that would be traveling to the new town. Erica was not with him, she had told him to go have fun while she finished packing. Besides, she had told him, now that he was a law man, they had to keep their distanc
e, at least in public.

  A man came up to Harry, and invited him to join someone in a dark booth in the back of the bar. A large man sat there, his face in the shadows. There was a bottle of whiskey in front of him, and as Harry sat down, he poured a drink and pushed it across the table.

  “Hello, Harry,” he said.

  Harry recognized him. “Oh, hello Peltz,” he said. Peltz was an ally of Erica’s, but not one that had gained Harry’s full approval. And if Erica couldn’t be seen with Harry, it would be even worse for him to be seen with a Kennicott representative.

  “Whadaya want?” Harry slurred.

  “I have a package here,” said Peltz, gesturing to a gym bag on the bench beside him, “that needs to be delivered to the new town. Erica and her people can’t take it, because they are subject to search when they board. But you can come and go as you please.”

  “What is it? asked Harry.

  “You don’t need to know, and probably don’t want to know,” answered Peltz. “But trust me, it will be well worth your while to transport it. I’ll make sure that you get a house of your own in the new town. You must be sick of living in the new barracks, and it certainly would not go over well to have you living with Erica.”

  Harry nodded. After all, this wouldn’t be the first mystery package he had delivered.

  “Besides,” said Peltz, “you don’t want to be too dependent on Erica. You are a powerful man, and need to show the world that you stand on your own two feet. And I can help you with that. This can be a personal side deal between you and me—she doesn’t even need to know about it.”

  Harry nodded again. The guy was making sense. Erica was treating him well, but it wasn’t good for a man to be too dependent on a woman, hell, to be too dependent on anyone.

  “Done,” he replied, reaching across the table to clasp Peltz’s hand.

  Peltz smiled. “When do you leave?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow at 0700. The leaders have a meeting on the dock at 0600, and a half hour later, we board the rafts.”

  “That’s what I thought,” answered Peltz. “Then everything is all set. Good luck.”

  Peltz turned and left through the kitchen and back door.

  Harry looked at his watch. He’d better get going. Like some of the other Deputies, he had decided to sleep onboard the raft, so he’d be there first thing in the morning to start his duties. He picked up the bag, and carried it out the door.

  After a few blocks, the bag began to get heavy, and he realized he was next to the last bar before the docks. The doors opened to the Away Spot as a patron left, and the smell of booze and muskylope steak wafted out the door, along with music and a happy buzz of conversation.

  A few more drinks won’t hurt me, he thought as he walked in and ordered a whiskey.

  A few hours later, the bartender pointed into the back booth, where Harry slumped against the wall, snoring loudly. “What should we do with him?” he asked.

  “Ah, hell,” said the owner, “just another drunk sleepin’ it off. He looks too heavy to carry. Throw a blanket over him, and we’ll head for home. When he wakes up, he can let hisself out.”

  In the dim light of dawn, Harry woke with a start. He looked at his watch and cursed. 0613. He was already late for the goddamn meeting. He grabbed his bag, and headed for the door of the bar, but at 0615 the timer in the bag clicked over, and ten kilos of plastic explosive went off.

  Harry and the interior of the bar were consumed by the blast, and burning debris rained down on nearby buildings.

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  Deacon Miller looked up in surprise at the sound of the explosion, and all heads turned for shore. A plume of black smoke rose in the morning air above Docktown. Fire bells began to ring.

  The others turned to him. “What do we do?” they asked. “Should we delay our departure and help?”

  He thought about it and shook his head. “No, let’s slip our lines. The town will be getting along without us eventually, they might as well start now. If we let people go now, there will be hell to pay getting them gathered up and back aboard. And it will be tough enough to keep this crowd under control without having them sit for hours, waiting to see what happened.”

  So, with a mystery behind them, the rafts slipped their lines. Smoke belched from the stacks of the steamboats around them, and the occupants of the rafts coughed as the smoke blew over them. Propellers churned the river water, and slowly, the rafts gained momentum, and the town grew smaller behind them. Their journey had begun.

  Miller saw the madam, Erica, talking to one of the Deputies. After she went back to her place, he went to the man and asked him what she had said.

  “She was wondering where Deputy Davis was, sir,” the man answered.

  Miller realized that was a good question. But he knew the man had a reputation for drinking, and wouldn’t be surprised if he had missed the boats, He sighed with disappointment. He hated to see people fall victim to their vices, but it wouldn’t be the first time. And if the man had ties to the madam, perhaps he wasn’t the best choice to be a law enforcement official.

  After the excitement of their departure, however, the third trip was even more stressful than the second. Deacon Miller found himself dealing with many of the malcontents that he had punished during their early days as incoming transportees, and more than a few who had spent time in Castell City’s jail. Not to mention prostitutes that expected to continue to ply their trade, even in the exposed conditions of the open rafts. Even a conversation with the Erica woman hadn’t stopped that, although she tried to stop what she referred to as “freelancing.”

  This time they even had to deal with a murder, a knifing and theft. It took a few hours, and some searching ordered by Captain Doyle to solve. Doyle issued the same sentence he had on the previous trip, and Deacon Miller found he had not a single regret over this decision. He often felt uneasy with the middle ground that he navigated between pacifism and violence, and wondered if he still was, if he ever had been, a true pacifist.

  And all through the journey, Miller heard singing. Preacher Jackson didn’t do much actual preaching, but his songs sure did spread the word for him. Although Miller would never get used to the way people looked at him as they sang songs about the Promised Land and Moses. He certainly didn’t want anyone to get the idea he was some sort of prophet—that was the sort of activity that would not go over well with Reverend Castell and the other Deacons. He was just a man, trying to do his part to bring more harmony to a world that so desperately needed it.

  When the last of the rafts arrived, they found a feast awaiting them. Amazingly enough, Miller found there was already alcohol available, although it was of a type that required mixing to be palatable. The new town finally had all of its inhabitants. In a few days, Deacon Miller would board Captain Doyle’s steamboat for one last trip, and make his way back to Castell City, saying goodbye to Preacher Jackson, the proud new Mayor, Jonnie Johnson and all the others he had worked with side by side.

  The leaders in Castell City might see this as the dumping of undesirables, but Miller was proud of what they had achieved. Most of these people had not asked to come to Haven, had their lives destroyed by BuReloc. But here they were, celebrating the birth of something new. And Miller couldn’t help but think, despite all its warts, and all the sinners collected here, it could become something good.

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  Erica stood among a happy and boisterous crowd. She felt a glow of satisfaction. There was already a new “Erica’s” on a side street a the south end of town. And she had a financial stake in two bars, and a gambling hall that was competing for construction workers with a host of other projects.

  The inhabitants of the town had decided that one more task remained to be completed. No one seemed to like the name Minerstown, so the planning committee gathered one final time, along with representatives from the various ‘shops’ that still provided a loose organizati
on for construction efforts.

  Erica stood in the crowd that gathered around that outdoor meeting, beside one of the Deputy Sheriffs, a German man named Fischer. He was tall, muscular, blond and handsome, and glanced at her from time to time with infatuated eyes. She had begun flirting with him on the journey down the river. And it turned out, as gorgeous as the man was, his upbringing had been strict.

  So in the few days since she had arrived, she had been able to completely win him over, opening his eyes to acts he had never dreamed of. She sometimes wondered what had ever happened to Harry, but with his drinking and moodiness, she had known for some time he would have to be replaced. And this handsome young stud was certainly a step in the right direction.

  Under the cover of customers for her brothel, Kennicott had already gotten in touch with her, and information was flowing in both directions. She had re-established her link with law enforcement and the town government, not just with Fischer, but a couple of other notables as well. She was being looked up to as a leader among the local business community, who didn’t care how she earned money, just admired her ability to make lots of it. Erica could almost feel the power in the air, shifting in her direction. Life was good.

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  Deacon Miller looked around the crowd. Mayor Naha was, of course, at the center of things. There were some representatives from the Kennicott camp workers there, Bronstein, Lucinda, and even Yolanda, whose voice didn’t make it hard to figure out where the nickname “Big Momma” came from. There was even a representative from the CoDominium detachment watching over the proceedings.

  For names, Preacher Jackson suggested “Canaan.” Someone suggested “Moses,” but that died with a harsh look from Deacon Miller. Himself, Miller suggested, “Counterpoint,” and tried to explain how the new town and Castell City represented different melodies that would interact in the future, but no one seemed to understand what he was getting at.

  A cry of “Kennicott Vale,” the Company’s term for the area, was greeted with derision, and may not have even been serious in the first place. There were other ideas thrown out, some serious, but more and more sarcastic, or even ribald suggestions.