by John F. Carr
The fact that the skies were bright so much of the time was very favorable for the growing of crops brought from Earth, and one of the reasons this cold moon was habitable. Sergei looked at the heavy curtains on the windows of the barracks, and realized that their presence had just been explained. He also realized that the one day of rest every twelve days would probably be when the waking cycle occurred during a truenight, when it would be difficult to work on a planet where electric lights were rare.
The Deacon spoke briefly about the Church of New Universal Harmony, and explained that anyone whose heart sent them in that direction would be welcomed into the church, but no one would be forced to join. He stated that there were a variety of other churches in the city, and that religious freedom was encouraged. Sergei wondered if there was an Orthodox Church among them—the chaplains aboard the transport ship had left much to be desired, most being of the irritating American fundamentalist variety.
The Deacon grew serious. He went through a list of infractions and their consequences. The city had a rather large jail, with Deacons and Beadles providing law enforcement on the streets. While these officials bore religious titles, it appeared that their duties had become primarily secular. And even though the Deacons and Beadles were unarmed, they had a CoDominium Marine contingent backing them up, providing a menacing deterrent to those who might break the peace.
That military contingent was berthed near the one fusion plant on the world, which largely provided power to the Petrocarb plant that kept most of the city’s populace fed. From the geological surveys it appeared petroleum was rare on Haven. The only known small field was in the Atlas Mountains and its production was dedicated to the food plant and to Kennicott which had set up the oil rigs. That protein ration provided the calories needed to survive, but was certainly not satisfying. Sergei realized the Harmonies had relaxed the strict pacifism that had distinguished their church in the early years—not surprising, as it would have been difficult for them to remain in political control without some force to backup their rules.
Names were called, tasks were assigned, and Sergei found himself learning a protein distribution route, delivering the bland staple to a variety of barracks and homes in the eastern part of the town.
Civilization was raw and new on Haven. Only a few modern devices were to be seen, reminding him that he was not in some historical video. Certainly there was nothing modern about the wooden pushcart that Sergei used to complete his rounds and make his deliveries. At the end of a hard day of work, one that ended at the start of a truenight, Sergei was given a few coins and sent on his way.
The man showing him the delivery route called this pittance the ‘beer money,’ and Sergei decided to use it in that manner. Bars and pubs were an important source of information in a new city, and had been Sergei’s first stop during many a mission. In the first bar, he found that the coins would buy him three beers, as long as he stuck to the less expensive homemade brews. There was also a good market in harder liquors; vodka, whiskey and gin. Sergei drank alone, drinking each of his beers in a different bar, and listened carefully. The second bar was also a whorehouse, the Golden Parrot, and the third was also apparently the source of harder drugs.
Sergei heard of stress between miners and the mining companies, clashes with CoDominium Marines, conflict between the mining companies and the church, and the recent formation of a new town, called Hell’s-A-Comin’, down the Xanadu River. The church was doing an inconsistent job of maintaining control, nearly overwhelmed by new transportees, with little CoDominium support to keep the situation in check.
There was much conversation and excitement related to the Kennicott Metals and their activity down the Xanadu near Hell’s-A-Comin.’ There were also other company operations: Dover Mineral Development was rumored to be doing more secretive work at the headwaters of the Jordan River, while Anaconda Mining had mining works north of the Devil’s Heater. These operations were creating a variety of jobs, and many of the new transportees listened raptly to promises of good pay, less regulations, and a way out of the dead-end life in the barracks.
As he was leaving the last pub, Sergei walked the streets to get the lay of the land, peering into windows as he went. Streetlights were few and far between, especially in this part of town, and the streets and most of the buildings were dark. At one point, he was in an alley, when he heard raised voices ahead of him. Without thinking, he clambered up the side of the building, and hunched up on the edge of the thatched roof. Two men came by, arguing loudly. Sergei pulled out a loop of discarded electrical cable that he had obtained on the transport ship, and wrapped each end around his hands.
Just as they came to where he lurked, one of the men pulled a knife and stabbed the other. He bent over the body, and began rooting through pockets, taking what he found. Sergei dropped silently behind him, slid the cable around his head, and pulled.
In a moment, it was over, and Sergei robbed the robber. He left the knife, as he didn’t want to be carrying a murder weapon, and found some drugs in a small plastic bag that he discarded. He found quite a bit of cash, and a small handgun, a pocket revolver, which he kept. He would need resources for his mission, and this was a good start. He melted into the night, and returned to the barracks for some much-needed rest.
*
*
*
Sergei’s first T-weeks on Haven blended together in a blur of too much work and too little sleep. His elimination of the murderer had given him some new resources, but he decided to limit any violence to situations vital to the mission, or situations where he came upon those who preyed on the less fortunate.
He found a new job on the docks, as an armed guard for a private company that dealt in luxury items. The job gave him enough money to buy a winter coat, and afford a small room, with the privacy he needed for his efforts. He continued to make his rounds of the bars in Castell City, in the seedy areas that were becoming known as ‘Docktown,’ until one truenight he came upon one that was different.
The sign was green, with a yellow harp painted on it. The name under the symbol, “Harp’s,” was somewhat redundant. The building was very much in the style of the oldest structures on Haven, partially dug into a low hillside. It was in a nicer part of town—there were even electric streetlights on some of the corners. It had small windows that glowed with the light of oil lamps, and the smell of cooking beef and brewing beer wafted from the back rooms. There was also music, of a type Sergei had never heard, a jaunty dance tune. But despite the jauntiness, the tune itself had a dark color, a feel that reminded Sergei of the music of his homeland.
He entered the room, and found a cozy area with a bar at one end, and a ring of booths around the walls. The musicians were perched on wooden stools in a corner in a tight circle, playing violins, flutes, an old accordion and some sort of large mandolin. The bar had a painting behind it, a picture of green hills with sheep grazing. The bartender nearly stopped Sergei dead in his tracks. She was lovely—a bit taller than he was, slender, with jet black hair and eyes as blue as the sea.
“And what’ll you be havin’?” she asked, with a smile on her face that would melt a stone. He sat on a barstool, ordered a beer, and another and then another. No wandering for him tonight. He couldn’t remember afterward just what they spoke of, only her eyes and the lilt of her laugh, as the music whirled and spun behind them.
A few days after his first visit to Harp’s, Sergei made his first contact with the Russian intelligence network on Haven. He was down at the docks, where an amphibious shuttle had just landed. While most of its cargo was destined for the CoDominium Marine contingent, there were also some imported items that Sergei’s firm had been waiting for. The pair of Marines actually had a military truck, incongruous among the draft horses, muskylopes and wagons. Sergei had wondered about all the animals when he first arrived, but finally realized that when you import a dozen trucks, years later you will have less than a dozen in service. Import a dozen horses, and years l
ater you will probably have a few more than twelve.
As the cargo was being loaded, one of the Marines turned to Sergei, and asked, “Are you Russian?”
“Da,” said Sergei.
“Where from?” asked the Marine.
“Saint Petersburg,” Sergei replied, “and you?”
“Vladivostok,” the Marine replied. “You know, there is a Russian neighborhood here on the west side of town. You would feel quite at home there. Stop in at Dzhigurda’s, and tell old Fyodor that Ivar the Marine sent you. Bring a little coin, and you can get a meal to remind you of home, instead of the swill they feed you in most places in this town.”
“I’ll do that,” said Sergei with a smile. The Marine might be simply recommending a restaurant, or he might be a contact.
After work, Sergei went to check the place out. Its exterior was not too much different from any other building in the city, but its sign consisted of a brightly painted cutout of a Russian city skyline, with onion-domed church spires above the other buildings. The name ‘Dzhigurda’ was painted at the bottom in bold Cyrillic letters.
Old Fyodor was a heavy man with a huge beard of black hair, shot through with grey. A samovar sat on a corner table, and Sergei smelled tea, real tea, for the first time in over a T-year. His mouth began to water. Perhaps he could even get some good borscht here. The old man invited him over to his corner booth. Evidently his practice was to greet newcomers personally.
After some of the same ‘where are you from’ chitchat Sergei had shared with the Marine, the old man dropped a phrase from Sergei’s briefing packet. Sergei responded with the counter-phrase, and soon the men had established the fact that they shared the intelligence profession. Fyodor invited Sergei to a back room, and gave him a large mug of tea that tasted as good as it smelled. Fyodor continued to sip from the glass of vodka that had been in front of him when Sergei had entered the restaurant.
“Finally they send me some real help, after ignoring message after message, my fingers worn to the bone from typing requests. A professional intelligence agent. And not just some young idiot, a man of experience,” he said. “Up until now, I have had to settle for gossip, and gather what I can from a few clumsy informants. There are three things that the Russian community here shares.
“The first is our language. The second is the taste for food and drink that keeps my restaurant in business.” At this the old man paused and gave a mercenary grin. “And the third is an unfortunate contempt for the Rodina. Not the makings of a good intelligence network. Oh, if only my lot in life were to work with better materials than I have here.”
“I’ll do what I can to make up for those shortcomings,” Sergei said modestly. He smiled inside. Fyodor’s complaints reminded him of home. He remembered a housemaid from his youth, who in fortunate times complained that God sent her good luck so she would be boring, without anything to talk about with her friends.
“To preserve your cover,” Fyodor said, “I imagine that they sent you without any gear, weapons or funding. I will have to do something about that.”
“The weapons and funds are already taken care of,” said Sergei. “Although I could use your help obtaining a small personal data device that can record and store pictures and audio. To buy such a device myself might draw unnecessary attention. And if possible, a night vision device. Which will probably be even harder to obtain.”
Fyodor beamed, “As I said, a real professional. Taking care of things already. The data device I can provide you soon. The night vision gear—that might take a bit longer.”
Sergei recounted what he had learned so far, and it squared with what Fyodor had been able to gather. There was much mining activity on Haven, but also hints that there was more afoot than was discussed publicly. They both agreed that the key seemed to be the activities of the Dover Mineral Development Company.
Sergei promised that he would stop in on occasion to keep Fyodor informed, although not so much that people would become suspicious. And before he left, Sergei confirmed the fact that the food was indeed worth a return from time to time.
Sergei continued his visits to other bars, hearing more and more about Kennicott, Dover and their mining activities. He followed a number of suspicious characters, robbed them when he felt it justified, searched some of their dwellings for clues and information, and was forced to beat one senseless when the man came home unexpectedly. He left another, a busy drug dealer, near death in the night, and emptied his pockets of money providing more resources for the mission.
Sergei was tempted to kidnap another man, a Dover Mineral official, and interrogate him, but that would be difficult to accomplish on his own, and he certainly had no place to detain the man while he broke his resistance. And besides those practical concerns, forced interrogation had always sickened him. If he was going to find hidden wealth on Haven, which was being concealed for American gain, he needed to travel to the east, to the headwaters of the Jordan River, and see what this Dover organization was doing.
Sergei justified his lingering in Castell City with thoughts that a trip to the east should not begin until well into the spring, but that was not the only reason. More and more, Sergei found himself spending evenings at Harp’s. One night, as he stepped in from the cold, the bartender, whose name was Moira, greeted him with the words, “How is my fine man tonight?”
When he asked how she knew what kind of man he was, she pointed back to the kitchen, where the dishwasher gave him a shy wave. It was Pamela, the woman from the ship, whose duffel he had carried off the ship. Suddenly he was glad for the altruism that had made him feel guilty before. He felt a glow inside, and smiled.
Moira pointed to a corner booth. “There’s someone here who wants to meet you.”
Sergei looked, and saw the Deacon who had spoken on his first day ashore, Brother Miller. Moira led him to the booth, and he followed, somewhat uneasy about the direction this conversation might take.
“Sergei,” Moira said with a smile, “I would like you to meet a local hero, leader of the Exodus, our own Brother Moses.”
The Deacon let out a good natured snort of exasperation, and replied to Moira with a rueful smile, “How many times have I asked you not to call me that?”
He turned to Sergei, and stuck out his hand, “The name is Miller, Abraham Miller. Pleased to meet you.”
Miller ordered a pair of drinks, and as Moira went back to the bar, Sergei asked, “Why does she call you Moses? And what’s a Deacon doing in a bar? I didn’t think your sort went for this.”
The Deacon smiled and replied, “The Moses thing is something I’m sure you’ll hear about eventually. As for why a Deacon hangs around a pub, I come for the music. Everywhere there is music, the spirit of the universe is revealed. Old Harp, the founder of this place, has a close relationship with the Harmonies. He’s even bankrolled a music shop and luthier up at our end of town, where many of our children buy instruments. And why should you be surprised that a pacifist who sometimes knocks heads together would also have a taste for beer?”
Sergei nodded. “This is good beer. And fine music, once you get used to it. Sometimes it sounds very Western, but other times it sounds almost Russian.”
“That would be the modes,” the Deacon replied, “a distinctive feature of both Irish music and the music of your homeland.” He went on for quite some time in that vein. Music was central to the Harmony faith, and like many of them, the Deacon had obviously studied musical theory. Sergei had himself always loved music, and even sung in a male choir during his youth, but had trouble following some of the more arcane musical terminology.
“But now I want to ask you something on another topic,” the Deacon said, finally getting down to business. “This town is getting difficult to manage. Harmonies may be willing to use force when required, but we haven’t bent our principles to the point where we want to carry arms. And yet, we face a lot of situations where we don’t feel it appropriate to call on the Marines. They’re soldiers, not law enfo
rcement personnel.
There’s been a rash of crimes in Docktown in the past few T-weeks, all involving rather unsavory individuals, but disturbing all the same. I’ve been trying for years to convince Reverend Castell that a force of armed constables is a good idea, and I think if I can present a few likely candidates, my chances of persuading him will improve. During your trip here, you built a reputation among the transportees as a man of character. Would you be interested in a job as a constable?”
Sergei concealed his discomfort. Did this man also suspect that he was behind some of those same violent acts he had mentioned? “I’m sorry,” he replied, “I don’t care for the thought of working in law enforcement, in fact I don’t enjoy my security guard position that much. I find that, as I get older, I don’t have the heart for conflict and confrontation anymore, even for a good cause. I have thoughts of going upriver, to see if I can make a go of it as a hunter for the mining encampments. I have to decline your offer.”
The Deacon nodded. “I suppose I can understand your reasoning,” he replied, “but please, give the offer some thought, and keep an open mind.”
Later that night, as he walked home in the cold, crisp air, Sergei realized that the words he had spoken were truer than he thought. He was sick of conflict and violence. Even when the mission called for it, even when he targeted those who preyed upon society, he hated it.
As the days went on, Sergei continued to work as a security guard, and gather information in what time he could spare. He forced himself to limit visits to Harp’s to every other day. When Moira was too busy to speak to him, he would often sit with Deacon Miller, enjoying the music. Miller turned out to be a very interesting man, and his faith, while strong, was rooted in a very practical and realistic world view.