by John F. Carr
It turned out that he had gained his nickname of Moses by leading the movement of thousands of miners and others to found the town Hell’s-A-Comin,’ in an operation that people now referred to as an Exodus. You could tell that this modest man was proud of what he had accomplished, even though he made jokes about it. And Sergei was surprised to discover that a man who had wielded so much power had done nothing to use that power to his own advantage, and after the project was completed, went back to his previous duties without complaint or demand.
Before long, Sergei realized that his new friend was also one of his best sources of information. He knew as much as anyone in Castell City about what went on in the Kennicott mines to the west. And he had a friend, Captain Doyle, who ran a steamboat between Castell City and Hell’s-A-Comin,’ and came to Harp’s to play his fiddle whenever he came into town. From Doyle, Sergei was able to hear about the latest developments in the mining operation. If only he had such good sources regarding operations to the east, up the Jordan River.
But as much as he enjoyed the company of Deacon Miller, and the others who frequented Harp’s, it was the chance to see Moira that brought him to the pub so often. One night, Moira, who loved to dance, dragged Sergei out to the center of the room, with a group of others, lined them up, and taught them a dance called the “Siege of Ennis.” The dance involved a lot of whirling around and changing partners, and he felt an electric thrill whenever Moira ended up in his arms.
It was later that night he worked up the courage to ask her out to dinner, and the next night found them at a restaurant, up the hill, close to the town square where the representatives of the mining companies lived. Moira wore a long dress, deep blue with a white bodice, while Sergei wore black pants and vest, with a new white shirt, smelling of bleach and stiff with starch. They spoke of their childhoods, and Sergei found himself telling more of the truth than he should have, while she related a tale of childhood bliss that ended with sorrow.
Moira in her teens had become embroiled in political activities. After decades of peace, angered by British collaboration with the CoDominium, nationalists in Northern Ireland had risen up again in another attempt to unite Ireland. Moira had joined the movement, but been betrayed by a boyfriend, swept up and turned over to the CoDominium Bureau of Corrections for transportation. For himself, Sergei focused on describing his military career before he had been a covert agent, and implied that political actions had led to his own transportation to Haven.
The meal and the wine had been excellent and the evening flew past. Sergei found himself standing with Moira in front of the boarding house where she made her home. They were bundled in coats and their breath was steaming in the cold.
“Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said, as he put his hands on her shoulders.
“Thank you,” he replied. He put a hand on the back of her neck, and leaned toward her. The kiss was chaste, but sent a flush through his body. He put his arms around her, and pulled her to him, but relented when he felt her tense up.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I’ve been hurt too many times to be quick in romance. Would you be a patient man?”
Sergei said he was a patient man, but as he walked home in a daze he realized that was a lie.
*
*
*
Springtime grew closer, and Sergei began to buy supplies. He saw no way to find out what was happening in the mining camps to the east without going there himself. He made one of his rare visits to Fyodor, and filled him in on his plans. Fyodor had obtained the data device that Sergei had requested, a rugged and field-ready piece of gear, with a solar panel on its side for recharging. He had also obtained a set of night vision goggles, a bit old and shabby, but CoDominium military gear still in good working order. The old man agreed with Sergei that it was time for a field trip, and sent him on his way with his new gear, some hard sausage, and a bottle of vodka for the voyage.
Sergei found a company that was building wooden steamboats and running them up and down the river. Arranging transport was simple, and he bought supplies that included a heavy pack, sleeping bag, cooking gear, a hunting knife, and fine, sturdy new boots. The revolver he had obtained on his first night in Castell City would do for a sidearm, but he bought extra ammunition for it. For a shoulder weapon, he bought a bolt action rifle with a five cartridge magazine, about 7mm, a sturdy and reliable weapon with good sights and accuracy. A rifle that would fit his cover of being a hunter, but also would be good in a fight. The weather was getting warmer, and it would soon be time to go.
Moira was not pleased with Sergei’s plans. They spent a lot of time together, but she refused to speak of him leaving, or to engage in any talk of the future. One night, though, as they sat side-by-side on a bench in front of Harp’s, she pulled him toward him, and kissed him fiercely.
“Your name may be Sergei, but to me you are mo chroi,” she said.
“What does that mean?”
“It’s Gaelic; it means ‘my heart.’”
Sergei felt like his own heart was in his throat.
“If you don’t come back to me,” she said, “I will never forgive you.”
“I will come back, I promise,” he said, no thought of any lies on this night.
One day as he was standing guard, while a wagon of beets and winter wheat from one of the outlying farms was being unloaded, Sergei watched as a man stood on a wooden box on the sidewalk. The man was a preacher, ranting loudly and angrily. He was speaking out against the CoDominium, comparing them to the Roman Empire, oppressor of so many nations in ancient times. Then he launched in on the Harmonies, comparing them to the Pharisees of ancient Israel, collaborating with those Roman occupiers. He warned that this collaboration was going to lead to destruction, death and pain.
Then he pulled a small guitar from a bag on his back, and began to sing in a loud voice, “On Jordan’s stormy banks I stand, and cast a wishful eye to Canaan’s fair and happy land…” Sergei saw Deacon Miller standing across the street in his brown robes, and approached him.
“Is it safe to let him talk like that?” Sergei asked. “He comes a step away from advocating revolt.”
The Deacon nodded, but smiled as he replied, “Perhaps we need to be reminded about the limits of earthly power. He certainly is devoted to his God. And I love his singing, what a gift it is.”
The preacher spotted Deacon Miller, gave him a grin, and brought his song to a quick close. He stepped off the box, strode over, and Sergei was stunned to see the two men embrace like old friends, pounding on each other’s backs and grinning like a pair of boys. He was introduced to the preacher, whose name was Jackson, and discovered that he, along with the Deacon, had played a large role in the Exodus operation.
“So,” asked Miller, “did they finally get tired of you down in Hell’s-A-Comin’?”
“I guess you could say that,” answered Jackson. “Sometimes, as the Savior once said, they stop hearing your words, and all you can do is shake the dust off your feet and move on.”
He looked closely at Miller, “And I hate to say it, but it looks like people here may not be willing to listen either. I’ve only been in town two days, and already been asked to move along by some of your fellow Deacons.”
Miller sighed, and replied, “Unfortunately, I think moving on might be a good idea.”
Jackson looked wounded, “You too, Abraham?”
“Don’t misunderstand me,” answered Miller, “They don’t like what you say because they think you’re wrong. Me, I don’t like what you say because I’m afraid you’re right. Now, lets put politics aside, and I’ll buy you a beer at Harp’s.”
Jackson laughed, “Thank the Lord some things never change. You know, beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.”
Miller laughed, “Did the Savior say that, too?”
“No,” answered Jackson, “That one comes from Ben Franklin, I think.”
As the two men said goodbye and walked away, Sergei sto
od silently, wondering about what they had said. The situation here was unstable, and looked like it could easily get worse. Perhaps it was his age, perhaps he was affected by the reading he had done during his year of forced inactivity on the transport ship, but he found himself becoming much more thoughtful about political issues.
One night at Harp’s, a flute player approached him. “You like our music so much; you should learn to join in.” He handed Sergei a small silvery tube with holes in it, and a sheet of paper. “This is a tin whistle, and directions to learn how to play it. We figured if you took it with you on your trip, by the time you came home, you would know enough to play along with us.”
Deacon Miller, who had been sitting with Sergei, laughed and agreed. “Yes, Sergei, it’s time you learned to play music, it would do your soul good.”
Sergei’s eye was caught by a seedy looking man who had entered the door, and walked briskly toward Moira at the bar. As the man’s hand went to his pocket, Sergei leaped into action. There was a gun in the man’s hand, but before he could bring it to bear, Sergei had stripped it from him, reached up to grab his head, and twisted hard. The man fell in a heap, his neck broken. Sergei stood above him, his panting the only sound in the suddenly silent room.
Deacon Miller walked over, felt for a pulse, and addressed the room. “This was an act of self defense. This man entered this establishment with murderous intent, and Sergei did what was necessary to stop him. Pull the body to the sidewalk. I’ll arrange for it to be removed.”
He looked at Sergei with concern, but also with a bit of wariness, an uncomfortable mix of feelings. “And get Sergei a drink, he doesn’t look well.”
Moira poured Sergei a small glass, of whiskey rather than his usual beer. She sat with him silently. He did not know what to say, and apparently, neither did she. The music didn’t start again, but conversations around the bar soon picked up and returned to normal. When it came time to leave, Moira thanked Sergei, and told him he had done the right thing.
But Sergei wasn’t sure he could agree. He kept thinking of ways he could have responded differently, stopped the man without killing him. He had changed in the past T-months, and he wondered about how it would affect his mission. Suddenly, he realized that the Rodina, and her interests, seemed very abstract on a world so far away from Earth.
The day Sergei left, Moira made excuses, and chose not to see him off at the docks. She had kissed him nervously, with tears in her eyes, and watched him as he walked off down the street, his pack heavy, and his rifle across his shoulders.
Sergei boarded the wooden steamboat, and stared about with some interest. The vessel was about twelve meters long and four across. In its center, there was a large black boiler with a high stack. Behind that was a wood-burning furnace, and on the stern, a tiller and control for the clutch and gears that drove the propeller. A canvas tarp on a wooden framework, open on all sides, provided some protection from the elements. The boat was equipped with some solar panels, a radio that worked inconsistently because of the terrible atmospherics of Haven, few electric lights, and a small computer full of charts and navigational information.
Other than the electronics, the vessel could have been an artifact of the early Industrial Age back on Earth. The captain was a burly old man they called “Cap’n Mike,” with a bushy mustache and a black wool hat that never left his head. The engineer was called “Squint” because of a set of tiny eyes, a small man who hovered over the machinery with a nervous air. Two men who served as deck hands and stokers completed the crew.
There were ten passengers, a mix of miners and settlers, perched on trade goods, and surrounded by their own bundles and possessions.
Suddenly, as the lines were being slipped, there was a cry from the shore, and a man leaped aboard with a ticket clutched in his hand, a bag slung over his shoulder and a small guitar under his arm. Sergei looked and saw that it was the street preacher, Jackson, who ranted about Romans and Pharisees.
“Why hello, son,” the man said with a grin on his face, sticking out his hand, “I recognize you. Who will guard the wagons now that you are leaving?”
Sergei shook the preacher’s hand and introduced himself using the name that had appeared on his ticket. The preacher raised an eyebrow at the change of names, but kept his peace. Sergei asked why the preacher was traveling upriver.
“As you heard me say to our mutual friend the Deacon,” the man replied, “people in this town aren’t willing to listen to the truth anymore. So once again, I shake the dust from my shoes and go elsewhere.”
This late addition to the passengers would certainly make the trip interesting.
The initial stretch of river was a tricky one, rocky narrows that extended for miles above the town. Once past these, however, the river settled into a wider, calmer body of water, much easier to navigate. There was always a risk of sandbars, and a crewman on the bow, but Cap’n Mike seemed to have a sense of where unseen dangers might lie.
The cycle of days and nights on Haven had a large impact on the steamboat’s travel. During the relatively few periods of truenight, the boat was unable to travel, and the crew and passengers made camp ashore. There were also periods during the dimdays, when it was often difficult to make out the landmarks. During these periods, the boat often tied to the shore, with the crew and passengers alike gathering wood to stoke the furnace.
Sergei imagined that after a few T-years of this practice, the banks would be bare for hundreds of yards in every direction. There was always a guard posted, as the wildlife were becoming used to humans and predators were common. “Cliff lions,” similar to the lions of Earth, were the worst, but there were also the mole-like “drillbits,” nasty little creatures with strong jaws and sharp teeth. And there was always the threat of renegades or other undesirables attacking the vessel. Many had left Castell City, some to farm and colonize, but others because they could not fit into society, degenerates who fell quickly into criminal activities.
The further they traveled upriver, the more strange the vegetation became. Oaks and firs gave way to native trees, with odd shapes and names like egg trees, bottle trees and fan trees. The shrubs grew strange and wild, with some, like sword ferns and prickle bushes, dangerous to approach. But despite these differences, it was amazing how close the plants and animals were to Earth life. This had been the subject of much discussion in the early years of exploration; some attributing it to the spread of spores throughout the cosmos, some to parallel evolution and some to alien, or divine intervention. Whatever its cause, this had certainly facilitated the explosion of human colonies into the cosmos in recent decades.
Despite Sergei’s early fears, the preacher was not nearly as intrusive as he had been on his wooden box in Castell City. He had inquired among crew and passengers, found a few like-minded Christians to minister to, and while he sang frequently while they traveled, as often as not, those songs were secular rather than sacred. Because the magnetic fields of Cat’s Eye caused radios to work poorly, and because of the rarity of electronic devices, public singing was a common entertainment on Haven.
One day, Sergei came across the tin whistle in his pack, and the preacher helped him figure out how to play it, and even accompanied him with his guitar as Sergei learned how to play some simple folk tunes and hymns by ear. Sergei found himself befriending the minister, and discussing philosophy and other topics that would have bored him in his youth. He noticed grey in a wisp of hair that fell across his face, and wondered if age had something to do with this more thoughtful approach to life.
From time to time, hunters were sent out to search for game to feed the crew and passengers. More often than not, it was Sergei and one of the crew members, Tom, who were chosen for this task, as they rarely returned without something to eat. Tom was an American, from a place called West Virginia that was apparently the home of some pretty capable hunters. He was curious about Sergei’s plans, and when Sergei told him he thought he might be a freelance hunter, Tom drew his
breath in through his teeth, and looked thoughtful.
“Whatever you do up there at the headwaters,” he said. “Watch your step. Them Dover Mineral folks are awfully suspicious and secretive. Most folks either work for them, or put up with being watched pretty close. Purity is a Company town. They probably won’t want a freelancer wandering around—they might see you as a threat, unless you get on their payroll.
Shortly after that, Sergei was able to bring down a muskylope, a large moose-like animal. It was too big to drag through the brush, so they skinned it, wrapped the best cuts of meat into the skin, and built a frame to carry their bundle as they dragged it behind them. The crew ate for three days from that hunting expedition.
One long dimday, after they had gathered wood for the next stage of their journey, and cooked up a dinner of stew, everyone sat around the fire singing and telling stories. Sergei had gotten more than serviceable on his whistle, and he and the preacher entertained them with a few tunes. One of their favorites was the hymn that Sergei had first heard the preacher sing in Castell City, and this time, many of the passengers joined in on the chorus, “…I am bound for the Promised Land, I am bound for the Promised Land…”
After the tunes were over, Sergei and the preacher began a conversation about the politics of Castell City. The preacher had a rather dim view of what the future would hold, and Sergei was inclined to agree with him. With the CoDominium and mining interests growing in strength, the Harmonies would soon be at a decision point. The preacher thought there would soon be violence, and speculated that the Harmonies would turn to force to keep their power, but like many pacifists, only turn to force after it was already too late for it to be effective. If the CoDominium were the Romans, said the preacher, and the Harmonies the Israelites, he feared that they would follow the path of the doomed Zealots, crushed under the boot heels of the oppressors.