by John F. Carr
“Wait here. Brodski got up and went back to Charlie, wrote something on a note and handed him a 5-credit bill, then came back to the table. “Just arranging for my duffel,” he explained. “We may as well get acquainted until our new boss shows up.”
They didn’t have long to wait. Four leisurely beers, some gossip about mutual acquaintances in the Fleet, another sandwich and the arrival of Brodski’s duffel bag later, the door opened (Van Damm still hadn’t found where the peephole was) to admit Leo Makhno. He went to the bar, conversed briefly and quietly with Charlie—who pointed to Van Damm s and Brodski’s table.
“Look alive,” muttered Brodski, finishing his beer. “Here comes the recruiter.”
The deal didn’t take long to clinch, though the work was strange—training a small farmers’ militia—and the pay was stranger.
“A…land-grant share?” Brodski repeated, swapping looks with Van Damm.
“And the profits thereof,” Makhno finished. “Money’s tight, but the trade’s good and will get better. You want the deal or not?”
“Of course.” Van Damm hurried to agree. “When do we start?”
“Soon as you’re ready to go.”
“Right now, then,” said Brodski, pushing up from his seat.
Just then Charlie gave a low whistle and motioned Makhno, who frowned and went back to the bar.
“Our new boss doesn’t seem to want to spend time in Docktown,” Van Damm observed. “Nor do I blame him.”
Brodski didn’t answer, watching Charlie lead the still frowning Makhno through a backdoor. A moment later the pair reemerged, leading two nervous-looking young girls, both in their teens, both almost painfully pretty.
Makhno grimly marched back to the table. “Passengers,” he explained. “Let’s go.”
He led the way out, the girls huddled close behind him, Van Damm and Brodski bringing up the rear. At the barn’s outer door he paused to look up and down the street. “Come on,” he almost whispered. “Quickly!”
The direction he took was not toward the northeast, up toward the river-mouth. He managed to look businesslike and nonchalant, but set a fast pace. The girls pulled scarves over their heads and did their best to look invisible in the dull light of Eyefall. Brodski and Van Damm automatically paced close behind, watching the shadows.
They’d made less than fifty meters when two skulking silhouettes came scurrying toward them. The whole party tensed and crouched, reaching under folds of clothing but the two figures practically fell on their knees in front of Makhno and hailed him in quick whispers.
“Please, please, Maitre—Capitan—Makhno.” Their voices, both female, jumbled together. “Take us with you—We don’t want to work for Jomo—please—we will pay—some money—whatever you want—please—we’ve heard how women are left alone there please—we can work—please.…”
Makhno looked around, swore, motioned the two women into line behind him. “All right, all right,” he whispered. “But keep quiet and keep together. We’ve got to move fast.”
The women scurried to comply, and the party moved out again in the waning light of the planet above.
Brodski was in “drag” position of the little column when he heard the sound of a stunner being fired. Both of the volunteer women crumpled and lay still. Makhno and the two girls dropped flat.
Almost without thinking, Brodski drew his service automatic and nailed the origin of the sound with a 10mm slug, dropped his duffel bag, fell flat and rolled. He noted that his shot was rewarded by a ricochet sound and a yelp.
“Damn-it, girl, get off my arm!” he heard Makhno snap.
The ZAP and flash of a CoDo stunner raked at the source of the last comment.
Brodski put two rounds at the spot the flash had come from, and rolled toward a low hummock in the dim light. This time a scream showed he’d made a clean hit.
There came a duck’s “quack” from his left. Van Damm, he thought. “Duck.” Right. Well, it looks like I get a chance to see him in action. He noticed a shadow moving from about where the quack had come from, and smiled. I’ll hold this flank and let him chase them out to me. I’m a potted palm in this one.
There was movement almost dead ahead of him and slightly to the right. Their flank-man, possibly. If I wait, he might give me a better target.
Further to the left was another movement, and the quick gleam of sudden steel, but no sound. The spot he had been watching suddenly reared up and became man-sized; Brodski shot it. Van Damm wouldn’t silhouette himself like that. The shadow fell.
At where he would have put the far end of the enemy position, something moved away low and fast. Brodski considered it, but didn’t shoot. The light was too uncertain and the range a bit much for the expenditure of a round.
For long seconds, nothing moved.
“Brodski!” came Van Damm’s voice out of the gloom. “I think I’ve got it cleared here.”
“Okay, Owen. Coming out.” …But where the hell were Makhno and the women? “What have we got?”
“It looks like there were four of them. Three dead. One got away,” said Van Damm, frisking the body in front of him.
Brodski produced a pocket light, looked down and saw a corpse, expertly killed with a knife. It took a good man to get that close in what had been turning into a fire-fight. His estimation of Van Damm went up.
A powerful flashlight lit up the area, Makhno and the two girls just visible behind it.
“Did you get them?” he panted.
“Three out of four,” came Van Damm’s reply. “Not bad for this sort of thing.”
Makhno’s light beam hovered over the bodies. “Hmm, they look like Jomo’s boys… I’ll wager they weren’t trying to ambush us; more like, they were headed the same way we were—maybe chasing the women.”
Brodski put his pocket light away and reloaded his pistol.
“Look what I’ve found!” chirped Van Damm. “A stun-rifle! I think you broke it though, Ski.”
“Take it along, Mister Van Damm,” said Makhno, climbing to his feet. “We don’t waste anything.”
“You take the woman on the right, Brodski sighed, thinking of the painful extra weight. “I’ll take the other one.”
Makhno sent the older girl (Mary) to search the bodies, and the younger (Rose) to bring Brodski’s bag, while he helped the men pick up the stunned women. The little procession struggled its way through the darkened streets of Castell City, past the last of the outbuildings, up to the bent shore where the northern river emptied into the lake. There Makhno hunted through the underbrush until he found the disguised Black Bitch.
“So you hid her here and walked in,” Brodski noted. “How come?”
“Didn’t want to be noticed by Jomo’s men. There’s reason to think they’d grab the Bitch if they could.” Makhno pulled the concealing tarp off the zodiac and began testing her engines.
“Not to mention what they’d make of these,” said Brodski, holding out the sack Makhno had set down. “You must have half the portable CB radios on Haven in there.”
Makhno grabbed the sack and stuffed it aboard the Bitch. “Yeah. Better we should have ’em than Jomo.”
“Hmm, any idea why those bozos jumped us?” Brodski asked. “And were they really Jomo’s boys, or possibly independents?”
“Jomo’s goons,” snapped Makhno, not looking up. “Maybe after the Bitch, maybe wanting the women. Saw us, jumped at the chance and started shooting.”
“Why the women? Why your raft?” Van Datum pushed.
“The Black Bitch is the fastest boat on the planet, and the women…” Makhno paused. “Jomo’s pulling all the whores in Docktown under his rule. These two used to be independents, who didn’t like Jomo’s working conditions. As for the girls—they’re Old Harp’s daughters. Do I need to tell you anything more?”
“Er, no. Not a thing.”
The girls handed in three sheath-knives, a revolver and ammunition from the other man that Brodski had shot. “They didn’t have
any money on them, Captain Makhno, Mary duly reported. “Just these things.”
“That’s all right, Mary. Now, everybody, get those women aboard and help push off.”
They slid into the river at dead slow, without the superchargers engaged. When they made the lake proper Makhno opened the throttles, pointed the nose of the Bitch south and relaxed to the rising whine of the superchargers. They’d reach Janesfort at just about Eyerise.
Nobody followed them.
*
*
*
“You are quite sure,” Jomo asked coldly, “that the women are nowhere to be found in the city?”
“I assure you, mi Commandante, my men searched the city most thoroughly.” DeCastro started to reach for a cigar, then thought better of it. The supply was running low.
“We even managed to search some of the buildings in Castell City proper, under pretext of looking for two women who were contagiously ill.”
Jomo raised one eyebrow slightly in appreciation of that trick. It was almost impossible to get any cooperation out of the Harmonies.
“Therefore I must regretfully conclude, that the delectable Ahnli and Zilla have fled the city: DeCastro’s regret was genuine, and not just for the loss of income. He had sampled Ahnli’s charms last shift, and wanted more of her.
“Then where could they have gone?” Jomo glowered. “There have been no boats in dock for the past three turns, no carts or wagons either. I do not see those two slits going far on foot.”
DeCastro shrugged elaborately. “They must have fled with the assistance of those admirers who proved so effective against our search party. The survivor of that encounter was not able to recognize the men in the poor light. They could have come from anywhere, in a concealed boat or wagon, and taken the women back with them: to an outlying farm, or to some collection of the miners and prospectors to the west, or—who knows?—to the legendary Island of Women. In any case, gone out of our reach.”
Jomo’s frown deepened. “We must discourage further such defections, and it is time we extended our reach beyond Docktown. We must have land and river transport, DeCastro.”
“Of course.” DeCastro interlaced his fingers in thought. “When The Last Resort returns with her latest catch, we can persuade the owners to put the ship at our disposal. As for wagons, I cannot predict when another will come rolling into our reach. We may have to march our troops into farming country to look for one.”
“Better to use the ship to take us to farms along the river,” said Jomo. “Indeed, we will have to visit those farms eventually. Best to start planning now.”
“Si, mi Commandante,” DeCastro sighed, wondering how to persuade Jomo not to send him out on any such expeditions. DeCastro hated the wilderness, had spent all his life in cities, wished to be nowhere on the planet but nice, comfortable Docktown, getting rich off the spacer trade.
*
*
*
The trip upriver was long, wet, dark and cold. Makhno took the opportunity to explain some of the facts of life at Janesfort, but the reception was mixed.
“Now we’re into Central Forest proper. Behind the screen of woods, you’ll find lots of farms—squatters, all of ’em, but what Castell doesn’t know about doesn’t hurt anybody else. The squatters along here are all friends of Jane’s. They’re willing to help, but the real fortress is at the island.”
The girls and women nodded acceptance, then huddled together in mute, miserable endurance.
The two men weren’t nearly as patient. Brodski settled into griping and swearing; Van Damm joined him and looked sour.
That they’d be working for women, or that the trip was uncomfortable, was no damned excuse. Makhno grew steadily more irritated with both of them.
When they reached the north cliff-face of Jane’s Island, Makhno took his own sweet time pulling up to the anchorage spot under the ledge-hidden hoist. Sure enough, while Brodski reached, cursing, for the camouflaged bell-rope, Van Damm spotted the rising pipe to the water pump.
“Weakness, that,” he said, pointing. “Invaders could climb it.”
“Not likely,” Makhno teased, hiding his grin. “Too wet, too dangerous.”
“Good troops could climb it,” Van Damm insisted, taking the bait.
“Hell, I’d like to see you try,” Makhno nudged.
“Fifty creds says I can.”
“You’re on.”
Van Damm actually smiled, made a smooth leap out of the raft and caught the pipe. Makhno had to admit the guy was good, didn’t even slip on the damp lower stretch of pipe, shinnied up fast and smoothly.
“You just lost fifty creds fast,” growled Brodski, jerking on the bell-rope.
“Not yet I haven’t,” Makhno chuckled, his reply muffled by the bell. He watched as braid-wrapped heads peered down from the ledge, grinned as they turned to look at the stranger shinnying up the pipe.
Van Damm was better than ten meters up when he came abruptly nose-to-nose with a shotgun in the hands of Tall Lou. He yelled like a banshee, sprang away from the pipe, and went straight back down into the water, narrowly missing the raft.
Makhno managed not to laugh as he hauled the man back aboard, but he couldn’t help grinning from ear to ear. Brodski, who’d been busy with the bell-rope and had missed the whole encounter, asked what the hell had happened.
“A woman with a shotgun,” came Van Damm’s reply. “I couldn’t even see her until she poked it up my nose.… She was hidden by an overhang and a berm, damn-it”
“Yeah. They keep watch on all the approaches.” Makhno snickered. “You should’ve gone up the hoist, like a proper guest.”
About then the sling-hoist came creaking down to the raft. Van Damm shamelessly grabbed at it first, ducked into it and signaled to be hauled up. The windlass obligingly lifted him away.
“As I told you,” said Makhno. “Jane’s no fool.”
“I’m beginning to get that impression,” said Brodski.
*
*
*
The crew of The Last Resort never knew what hit them. One minute they were unloading a good catch of fish at Castell City dock, and then there came a crackling sound, and then they were waking up on the dock with ringing heads, bound hands, and a bunch of mean-looking Docktown goons grinning down at them.
Joey Brown looked toward Captain Feinberg, and got a bleak look in return. He wondered what these goons wanted to rob them of; all they possessed at the moment were their clothes, dry suits, tools, and a load of fish.
The crowd parted and another man marched through. He was chunky, swaggering, puffing a thick cigar. “DeCastro,” Captain Feinberg muttered. “Damned if I’ll visit his bar again.”
“Señores,” DeCastro announced through a cloud of odorous smoke. “Pray forgive this unorthodox greeting, but we have serious business to discuss. We need to hire the use of your boat and your estimable selves.”
“What pay?” asked Feinberg, daring to stand up.
“The usual shares,” DeCastro puffed calmly. “You will find that Señor Jomo is most generous to those who serve him well.”
“Jomo’s in charge of this?” Feinberg gaped.
“Shit,” said deckhand Brown—and lay back down on the dock.
*
*
*
Makhno strolled down the line of exercising women assembled in the meadow below the fort, and considered once again that Jane had been very sharp in collecting her crew. After the initial gossiping and chattering, everybody agreed to work as a unit—and there was no dissension thereafter.
For once, almost all of them were assembled in one place. Granny, Falstaff and Donato were off minding the little kids, the radio and the cook-pot, but everyone else was here: Tall Lou with her short gray hair tossing it with every stroke, big grumbling Latoya with her original fat, diminished enough to show the respectable muscles beneath her coffee-dark skin, skinny Ester and batty-eyed Nona bending and dipping with teenage enthusias
m, Muda methodical as ever, Harp’s daughters enthusiastic, the ex-whores Ahnli and Zilla struggling to prove they were as good as anybody else, even Maria-Dolores working soulfully while keeping one eye on the baby sleeping at one corner of the meadow. And there was Jane herself, blonde, big-breasted and stocky, the perfect stereotype of a Chicago Polack, unselfconscious working harder than the rest of them, setting an example, all quiet competence.
Deadly practical, all of them. All willing to farm and grow the hemp, all of them busy making a good living this past Earth-year, now all of them willing to fight for what they’d made for themselves.
Willing to pay for a couple of good combat instructors, like these two.
Makhno strolled quietly behind the two men, watching. He’d hired them and brought them here, and now they were busy at their job, and he knew better than to get in their way, but he could take mental notes to discuss with Jane later. He’d learned much, just watching them. Brodski might be gray-haired, fat and lame, but Makhno decided that he would never want to get in the way of that man’s cane; it looked too…useful. In demonstration of hand-to-hand fighting, he moved with a vicious economy that boded ill for any opponent.
Van Damm was muscular, shaven-headed and blank-faced, could have been any age between eighteen and thirty, and spoke little. Makhno had seen him teaching the hand-to-hand and knife-fighting class, and had done some practice bouts with him along with the women; he had decided to stay well out of his reach.
Jane had been right: wherever these two had picked up their experience, they were the best instructors to be had for the price, most likely the best on the planet.
And “CD Marine” hung on them like halos. Exactly what were they doing on Haven?
“Awright, enough!” bellowed Brodski, much to the assembled women’s relief. “Take a break, get washed up for dinner, and then we’ll talk about defense plans for the island. See you back here in an hour. Diss…missed!”
The women bowed as the two men had taught them, received a bow in return, gathered up their gear and trotted off toward the washhouse. Brodski ambled to the nearest woodpile, carefully sat down, rubbed his bad leg and took out a battered pipe and filled it with genuine Earth tobacco. Van Damm dropped to parade-rest and surveyed the scenery. Makhno sat down on the log and offered Brodski his lighter.