by John F. Carr
Jomo smiled as he went back to the office; Jefferson had been with him for the last eighteen months but had been getting independent ideas of late. This had been the ideal solution.
Makhno threw the Black Bitch’s engines into fast reverse at the last possible moment and came to a foaming halt just at the edge of the north shore rocks. He killed the engine, threw out the anchor and reached for the dangling bell-pull in almost the same motion. The bell clanged overhead, louder than the laboring pump.
A grizzled head peeked over the ledge far above. Makhno waved frantically at it. The head withdrew. From above it came a creaking of gears. A rope with a padded loop at the end came snaking down toward the water. Makhno grabbed the loop, shoved his upper body through it and yelled: “Enough! Haul me up!’
At the ledge, hands pulled him in. He wriggled out of the loop before the crane’s gears were properly locked, and panted: “Where’s Jane?’
“At the fort, checking the stores,” said Tall Lou, raising her gray eyebrows at him. “Why didn’t you come around to the dock?”
“No time. What’s the quickest way?”
“Up the new stairs, there. What about your cargo?”
“Haul the cargo up with the crane!” Makhno yelled back, already running. He clambered his way up the newly cut stairs, rebounded around twist after turn, ran panting to a thick steelwood plank door in the towering cap-rock and pounded madly on the knocker. “Jane!” he roared. “Goddamn-it, lemme in! News!”
Nona opened the door, batting her eyelashes furiously. In answer to his snapped question, she pointed fast directions to the storeroom. By the time she had the door closed and bolted, he was already yards off and running.
The dim-lit rock tunnel let out into a low-roofed rock chamber packed with rough-cloth sacks and homemade wooden boxes. Jane was there, just turning to see him. The ceiling-hung oil lamp threw startled shadows across her broad Polish face.
“Jane,” he panted, bent over with the effort of sucking enough air. “It’s bad news. Old Harp’s dead. Killed. And Jomo’s taken over Docktown. And he’s got CoDo weapons.”
“Whoa, hold on.” Jane got up, tucked a stray lock of dark-blonde hair back into her tattered braids, and went to him. “Calm down, Leo. Take a deep breath and tell me everything, right from when I saw you last.”
“Harp—” Makhno started, then choked again. He sat down on a box and rested his head on his knees for a long moment, caught in memories.
Harp had been the leader of the independent faction of Docktown, willing to do business with the Harmonies or anyone. When he had arrived with the second Harmony transport, he had asked Castell himself if he could build a shelter and a bank was pointed out to him near the lake by a deacon of the church. Old Harp (had he ever been young?) had smiled, and had taken a shovel and started excavating into the hill.
By the end of the next two shifts, he had a room beyond it and a pile of rocks and soil blocking the wind from the entrance. Within a cycle he had rented his shovel for the use of an axe and had felled a couple of trees that he split for rough boards. Within fourteen cycles more, he had added a brewing room and a bar and had a going business dealing in beer, food, and renting the main-room floor space for sleep during off-shift and full dark.
Harp’s business had grown in leaps and bounds. He had become master trader and unofficial arbiter of deals between the independent farmers, Docktown and the Harmonies, respected by all sides as an honest man.
He had also been a voice of reason and strength against the growing gangs in Docktown. He had refused to pay protection to Jomo or any of the others.
“They found his body washed up on the lake shore, just a couple shifts before I arrived. Jomo took over his place, changed the name to the Simba Bar, moved his bullyboys in.” Makhno ran a lean hand through his wiry gray hair. “Word is, he’s taking over Docktown. He brought in CoDo stunners from off-world, and he’s throwing his weight around hard and fast.”
“Back up; you’ve just lost me.” Jane sat down beside him and rested an arm across his shoulders. “Just who and what is Jomo?”
Makhno turned to stare at her, then remembered that she’d spent less than a turn at the landing-site before getting her land-grant, collecting her settlers, and himself, and striking off into the wilderness. What she knew of Docktown, she’d learned mostly through Makhno—and he hadn’t told her everything.
“Okay, from the top.” Makhno rubbed his eyes. “Remember the day you came in on the third ship, right after you got back from seeing Castell?”
“Oh, yes.” Jane chuckled.
She remembered that well; as soon as she’d set foot on the lake shore, she’d gone after Charles Castell, finally caught up to him in a cow-barn, and asked him then and there for legal right to a full land-grant. Of course she could have just gone off and land-squatted, as so many did, but the fact that she bothered to ask the head of the Church of Harmony had impressed him. In return, he had bothered to ask her what manner of land she wanted and how she meant to work it.
In the end they’d struck a mutually profitable deal; Jane got a river island in exchange for a tithe of her crops for the next five years. A secondary deal for breeding-stock of turkeys, pigs and two cows for another half-tithe. She’d headed back to the landing-site, looking for a boat and whistling “Solidarity Forever,” feeling quite charitably disposed toward Castell and his crowd.
“That’s when I got hold of you and the Black Bitch, to take me down river.”
“Right, right.” Makhno had a vivid memory of the first time he’d seen her, a big stocky blonde woman in denim bib overalls, wrapped bundle of tools on her shoulder, huge pack on her back, plodding up to his ship. “You remember, after you stowed your pack and went out to collect volunteers.”
“You thought I was nuts.” Jane grinned, remembering the skinny, grease-stained, hung-over riverboat captain who believed all the usual crap about transportees. “Especially when I asked only women.”
Makhno winced. Looking back now, it made sense; the women had no illusions about their situation, good reason to fear what the bigger and badder elements might try on them. Damn right, they’d taken Jane’s offer to get out of town and set up on their own.
“Well, that was part of the problem, you know,” he reminded her. “There you were with a whole gang of women. A real prize for any pimp.”
“I don’t recall that we had much trouble with that,” Jane frowned. “Just that one fool who came up and tried to bully us.…
“And you hit him on the head with the shovel,” Makhno finished. “That was Jomo. He won’t remember you kindly.”
That too was part of the problem. Jomo had always been a strong-arm man and a thug, but now he was a thug with weapons, and was moving to secure all Docktown.
His first obstacle would be the other, smaller gangs. Jomo commanded about thirty men. DeCastro had about twenty, but until now they had been better armed: three shotguns, one old-but-serviceable rifle and nine pistols of various calibers. However, getting ammunition for them was a problem. The rest of DeCastro’s men carried clubs and knives and had shown great willingness to use them. Jomo, with his new weapons, was a power to reckon with.
“He must have made that arms deal way in advance,” Makhno concluded. “When he knew the guns were coming, in, he took out Old Harp, grabbed Harp’s place. It won’t take him long to deal with DeCastro and the others, take over Docktown, maybe even Castell City.… Hell, I was the one who delivered those crates! ‘Mining Equipment’—Goddamn, if only I’d known, I’d have pitched the things overboard!” Makhno pounded his fist on the stone floor.
Jane caught his wrist. “There’s no way you could have known.”
“I could have saved Docktown—”
“But not Old Harp. You said he was killed before the ship landed.”
“Yeah.” Makhno took a deep breath and straightened his back. “So how do we deal with this, Janey? What do we do when Jomo takes over Docktown, maybe all the set
tlements he can find? He’ll try to make himself king of the whole valley before he’s done. How do we survive?”
“We organize, said Jane. “Up and down the river, among all our friends, we organize. Then, we strike.”
Jomo was talking with his accountant, and the news was not good.
“For the last two turns the take is down, and instead of cash, barter is being offered. Most of those clients insist that Old Harp always took trade goods, so why don’t we?” The accountant, a small skinny man of unguessable age and race, paused to tap his pen against his teeth.
Jomo briefly rattled his fingers on the table before him. “Has any of the trade been in foodstuffs?”
“No, and no beer either. It has mostly been in timber, some furs and in a few cases, fish from the lake. What beer we do get is made right here and is of very poor quality. It’s hard to tell, if food is going to Castell City, for the Harmonies appear to be living on lake-fish and the…paste from the synthetic food plant, like the rest of us.”
“So no real food is coming into Docktown?” Jomo frowned, remembering the taste of paste and baked lake-fish. “Not from inland or along the rivers?”
“No boats from anywhere up or downriver have come here for three turns.” The accountant sighed. “In short, nothing coming in from out of town. The entire trade has dried up. I have not seen anything like this since I got here, and that was on the second ship.”
“Then this is not the result of poor harvest.” Jomo tapped his fingers on the table again. “I believe we are victims of a boycott.”
“That is my impression also, Master Jomo.”
“If the supplies do not come to us, then we must go to them.” Jomo set both palms flat on the table. “Send me DeCastro on your way out.”
After the man left, Jomo glanced down at the desk where his second-best treasure lay: a recent satellite-map of the entire Shangri-La Valley. With it he could find any structure or farm in the valley, and then no one could hide from him. With the stunners and this map he would take all of Haven.
Leo Makhno considered that of all the ways of wasting time on Haven, trying to make the Harmonies understand a problem was his least favorite. They simply didn’t comprehend that some problems could not be sung away and that others must be dealt with immediately.
He had been trying for the last two hours to convince Charles Castell that Jomo was a threat to the Harmonies and their way of life, and had gotten nowhere.
“You are not in tune Captain Makhno. This Jomo person only affects Docktown, not us. We have complied with your request not to trade farm goods to Docktown because that is harmonious with our beliefs, but to use violence against him, or to even support violence is discordant with our way. “
Makhno sighed. “Then you will not help us against him?”
“Not if ‘helping’ includes violence. Captain, there is nothing we can do. Even if there was, we would not. Each must find their own way in the Grand Tapestry of the Universal Song.”
Leo could hear the capitals and knew that further talk was useless.
“Good-bye then, Mr. Castell. I hope you survive what is coming.”
“We will, Captain. Go in peace.”
Leo figured it was time to see if he could find at least one of the military types he had seen earlier.
If a deal to at least train the women at Janesfort could be struck, some progress would be made.
*
*
*
Owen Van Damm was hunting. It was his profession to hunt on occasions, and he took pride in his ability at it. Right now he was approaching the “lair” when he saw his quarry leaving. He followed unobtrusively down the street.
This quarry was difficult in that he didn’t walk very fast, perhaps slowed by his lame leg, and was quite aware of his surroundings. Van Damm stayed about ten meters back and ambled slowly.
The quarry turned a corner at one of the newer buildings in Castell City (it had an entire floor above ground and was made out of wood), and Van Damm followed. He made the turn—and stopped right there, nose to nose with his target standing and confronting him.
“Are you following me?” came the question. The voice was polite but the body language said: I am armed and dangerous and you seem to be a threat.
Van Damm sighed, and answered. “Yes, I am.”
“Why?” The man smiled, but his keen blue eyes never wavered.
Well, in such situations, the best defense was the truth.
“Someone has been asking questions about you and I, looking for us. I do not know who is asking, nor what connection he sees between us, and such puzz1es are healthier if you solve them.”
“Agreed.” The man relaxed slightly, and leaned on his cane. “What do you think we have in common?”
“Your name is Nicholas Brodski. True?”
“Yes.” No surprise, nothing else given away.
“You have the carriage of a military man, perhaps senior enlisted, likely of the Fleet Marines.”
“Right again, laughing boy.”
“I would also guess that you were retired for wounds?” Van Damm asked, looking at the “penalty weight” the man was carrying, his gray hair and the cane loosely ready at his side.
“Right again. What’s all this about? You ex-Fleet?” Brodski’s blue eyes turned hard. “…or still working?”
“I am…retired from the Fleet, also. My name is Owen Van Damm.” Truth enough.
“Okay, Owen. Let’s get off the street and discuss this in more civilized surroundings.”
“I agree.” Van Damm allowed himself a quick smile. “If you know of some place where the food is not synthetic slop and the beer is better than the horse urine that seems to be all they serve now in Docktown, I’ll buy the first round.”
“I’ve found a ‘speak’ that has some decent brew. Their sandwiches are pretty good too. Just let ol’ Nick Brodski show you where.”
The speakeasy proved to be not far away, and connected by a backdoor to a recently used barn. Brodski knocked twice, waited, knocked twice more, waited, then knocked thrice. A voice came through the door: “Who’s your friend, Ski?”
“Another old Marine, Charlie. Let us in; he’s got cash to spend.”
A Chinese man of indeterminate age opened the door and let them in. Van Damm wondered, as he scraped goat manure off his boot soles, where the observation port was. He hadn’t spotted it from the outside.
The room was lit by lamps that burned a sweet-smelling oil, one of the few places that still had lamp oil, and was warm, and—despite the crowding—quiet.
After the beer (a pitcher containing a liter and a half, for two tenths of a CoDo trade credit) came the sandwiches: fresh meat and Earth condiments, all good.
“So,” said Brodski, around a mouthful of meat, “tell me more.”
Van Damm finished a swig of very good beer. “There is not much to tell. As far as I know, there is this man named Makhno, some sort of boat captain, who has been asking questions about us for at least the last six hours. I thought that I would look you up and we could compare notes, so, as to know more about what he wants.”
Brodski turned to look toward Charlie who beckoned from behind the bar. Brodski said, “Excuse me,” and went over to him.
Van Damm shrugged and went back to his sandwich and beer, which were better than in any other place Owen had tried in the last couple of turns.
Brodski came back with a funny look on his face. “What you just told me was confirmed by Charlie over there. He says that Leo Makhno was looking for me earlier. He runs the zodiac that trades on the river.”
“A coincidence, that. I came ashore on the zodiac, and since I don’t think that there would be two of them on this planet.”
“Right you are. So let’s add things up. Point one: We are both ex-Fleet. Point two: We are newly arrived on Haven.… I got here on the ship before this one.”
“Point three,” added Van Damm. “I understand that the flow of food and beer in Dockt
own has slowed to a trickle in the last few days. Who better than a cargo-boat captain to know why?”
“Good point,” said Brodski. “You’re not as dumb as you look.… Which brings us to point four. This shortage started shortly after one Jomo came up with a bit of CoDo stun-rifles and began consolidating Docktown. Hmm, and have you noticed there’s almost no off-world money around? Interesting.”
“That means somebody, possibly several somebodies, don’t want to work for Mister Jomo, and they are not sending food into Docktown.” Van Damm actually smiled as he let the idea expand.
“A…strike? Of the ‘union’ kind?”
“…And maybe the strikers would like some professional help in case of strikebreakers,” finished Brodski. “And a local shipping captain just might recognize a couple of old pros when he sees them. It fits. How do you feel about becoming a merc, Owen?”
“Not badly, after looking for work in this place for the past few shifts…no, Turns?”
“Turns is right, I’ve noticed the lack of honest work myself. I’ve been teaching Tai-Chi to some Deacons for room and board.”
“I had some idea of selling my, skills when I came here—but I soon found that it was work for a gang or not work. The Harmonies don’t hire much, and no honest Docktowners could pay anything—thanks to the curious shortage of currency. Since the only gang leader left is Jomo, I couldn’t work there. He ‘dislikes’ people that are not of mixed blood.”
“Un huh. So what do you say to finding this Makhno fellow and applying for the job?”
Van Damm shrugged. “Since I have no job right now, and things are beginning to get rough here in Docktown, I think that I would perhaps like to see a bit more of the planet.”
“Yeah. And I thought I’d quit being an armed tourist when I quit the Corps.… Well, Semper Fi, buddy,” said Brodski, refilling both glasses.
“Til the Final Muster,” toasted Van Damm. “Now, how shall we find our employer?”
“I have a funny feeling that if we just wait right here long enough, he’ll show up.… Or do you have to go home and pack?”
“Ah, no.” Van Damm pointed to his backpack. “I prefer to travel light—and ready.”