by John F. Carr
If he could only get back to Docktown with the news, he knew he could raise a large enough army to come back and take the island.
Brodski and Van Damm met near the path in the converging hedges above the water.
They’d been giving “last mercy” to the wounded gangsters on the field. They started up, looking at each other—then recognized the lack of expression on each other’s faces. Both shared distaste for the business.
“Have you seen Jomo?” Brodski snapped, sounding angry.
“No,” Van Damn answered. “How about you?”
“No luck. Let’s check the boat; he might still be in the wheelhouse.”
“Good idea. Big Lou will take care of the rest here.”
“Alert her that there might be stragglers from the beach,” Van Damm warned.
“Amen.” Brodski shivered and turned away. “Their land, their fertilizer.… Shit.”
As the two mercs plodded to the side of the river, their radios crackled to life.
“Where are you, Señor Owen?” came the question. “Are you and Señor Brodski all right?”
“All’s secure here, Granny. Tell Jane we’re going to check the boat for signs of Jomo. We haven’t found him yet. Could you send the Bitch to take us to the wreck?”
“I’ll relay Captain Makhno to you. We shall keep watch for Jomo from up here. Señora Jane says, do not be too late for breakfast. Granny, out.”
“Just like a woman.” Van Damm laughed. “The world can be falling apart around them, but their major concern is that you get to the table on time.”
“So what’s more important than survival? And what’s more valuable to survival than food? Let’s get a move on, Van.”
Crouching and creeping along the path beside the second ring hedge, Jomo worked his way northward. If he could get safe far from the battle, he could maybe swim the river, the far bank, hike his way back to Docktown. One of those squatters along the river had to have a rowboat, or raft, or some damn thing that would float—not to mention supplies for the journey. Or maybe, if there was time, he could chop enough wood from the wreck of The Last Resort to make a raft, find enough food to hold him while the raft floated across river.
In any case, the hunters were least likely to be back at the point.
Little Ester had insisted on following the two mercs, and Makhno had no complaint. The Black Bitch, engines roaring wide open, hauled them up to the point in a few minutes’ time. Makhno circled the tiny harbor. Nothing was moving.
“Well, that leaves ship and shore,” said Brodski, centering his optic on the smoking hulk. “The only man in the wheelhouse is the corpse of the pilot. There’s no sign of life aboard.”
“Then we should go back to the landing,” Van Damm insisted. “We may still have some unfinished business.”
“I’ll pull in at the east corner,” said Makhno, heading the Bitch around, “right where the hedge starts. They couldn’t have gotten ashore any sooner than that.”
They grounded just under the start of the hedge, got out, hiked the branches aside and began searching uphill.
Little Ester was following Van Damm, carrying her shotgun at high port, when she saw a leg move under the orange-berry bush.
The roar of her shotgun brought the men around with weapons pointed.
“It’s okay,” Ester chirped, smiling. “I got ‘im in the head.”
Van Damm checked the body and pulled it out to the open. “We owe you one, little sister,” he said. “Hmm, if this one got through the hedge, we can assume others did, too.”
Ester took a look at the man she had killed, bit her lip, then hurried into the bush. The sounds of her stomach emptying came back to them.
Brodski resolutely turned away. “How many do you think could have made it through?” he asked.
“We have to assume that Jomo did, since we have not found his body.”
“That’s what I like about you, Van; you’re such an optimist.”
Jomo had stopped for a moment as nature called him, when he heard the shotgun blast below. He dived for cover beneath the hedge, not waiting to zip his pants, and peered back toward the shore.
Below him he saw a hunting-party searching the forest-belt, beating their way slowly southward. Below them, beyond the hedge, the zodiac was nosed into shore.
Jomo smiled hugely. The answer to all his troubles gleamed black on the beach: the famous Black Bitch! It couldn’t be difficult to run, and it was the fastest boat on Haven. He checked his .44 pistol and started back down the slope.
Brodski and Van Damm had spread out keeping Ester in the line between them, and were working their way through the forest, each hoping to catch Jomo alone. They had plans for him.
Makhno, seeing them go, decided to leave the search in their hands and head uphill. It was time to check in with Jane and get the latest report.
“We didn’t get off free,” Jane grimly informed him.
“They shot back, not just with the stunners. Muda’s dead, and who’s going to tell her son? Minh got a little too enthusiastic, showed herself, and caught a bad one high in the chest. She probably won’t make it. Tall Lou got clipped in the leg; she says it isn’t bad, but knowing her, it’ll probably leave her lame.”
Makhno ground his teeth; he’d liked Muda. “Hell, we didn’t expect to win scot-free. Cheap at the price, I guess…if that’s all there’s going to be.…”
“What do you mean, “if?”
“We still haven’t found Jomo. If he gets, back to Docktown he’ll raise another army, and he won’t make the same mistakes. I don’t know if we could stop him a second time.”
“Don’t worry, Leo. Even if the worst happens he’ll need a boat to get home. We could still hunt him down with the Bitch.”
“The Bitch—” Makhno jerked upright in sudden alarm. “Nobody’s guarding her! I left her on the beach—” With that, he turned and ran back downhill.
“I’m coming, Leo! Jane shouted after him through the radio. “Just let me tell the others first.” She picked up her shotgun..
Makhno didn’t hear; he was too busy racing for the anchorage.
When Van Damm heard the call he had been working his way along the hedge, looking for tracks. He hadn’t found any, but he’d had hopes.
Brodski had made good progress upstream, and was looking over toward the stretch of beach when he got the call.
“Time to go back, girl, for all of us.” Brodski stopped a moment and considered. “Let’s get under the hedge and down the beach.”
“Why, Mister Brodski?”
“I’ll have a clear shot at him when he comes down to the landing-point. I might put a hole in the Bitch but we’ll stop Jomo.”
Makhno dived under the lower thorn-hedge and came rolling out on the narrow beach. He got up and ran northward along the shore, heading for the Bitch.
“Goddamn-it, Makhno,” Brodski s voice crackled from the radio. “Get out of my line-of-sight!”
Having no idea where Brodski was, Makhno ran on. There was nobody near the Black Bitch when he came pounding up to it. Panting with relief, he started to shove off. The best way to keep the Bitch out of any surviving Simba’s hands was to take her out into deep water and keep her moving.
Then the zap of a stunner crackled out of the forest. Makhno fell sprawling in the bottom of the raft.
Jomo grinned down at the raft on the beach, regretting that the stunner wouldn’t kill, that he wasn’t accurate at that range with the .44, and that interfering fool hadn’t fallen into the water to be eaten. Well, he’d correct that. Meanwhile, best wait and see if anybody came. He could afford to wait, for a prize like this.
He pinned again, pulled a handful of crumpled leaves out of his pocket. With these for proof, he could recruit an army a half thousand strong out of Docktown.
Van Damm heard the zap ahead and below him, and dropped to a crouch. He waited a moment, then slipped forward, quiet in the thick forest, not nearly fast enough to suit him. So there was
a Simba left in the wood-belt, maybe Jomo. Now was he moving or holed up somewhere? There was no further sound.…
Damn, but this was going to take time.
Brodski crouched behind a boulder on the beach, held his aim on the top of the Black Bitch. Where the hell was that damned Simba? When would he break cover?
Mary Harp squatted beside him, trying to match her shotgun’s aim to his rifle, making no sound. Good girl, that. “Don’t fire unless I miss,” he whispered. Mary nodded, waiting.
So much for her, and Makhno—and Van Damm was somewhere uphill, coming down through the woods. Damn-it, where was Ester?
He heard the sound of light but clumsy footsteps sneaking away through the woods beyond the hedge, heading toward the point.
Brodski swore under his breath. The girl’s tactical sense was good, but she was making too damned much noise! Whoever it was had to hear her coming, and what then?
Jomo heard the approaching footsteps below, and smiled. So, Makhno did have a backup, one of the women, no doubt. This part would be enjoyable.
He waited until he could hear the steps directly downhill from him, then fired. A thump and a sound of crackling brush answered him. Got her.
Jomo slipped out of hiding and made his way downhill. A few moments searching found the girl sprawled in a tangle of eggtree fronds.
Why, surprise: she was white, a blonde in fact, quite young and good-looking. She’d make an excellent incentive for recruiting fresh troops, worth dragging along on the trip downriver. Jomo scooped up the limp body, settled the girl on his shoulder and continued on down the slope.
Van Damm heard the footsteps in the forest below him, and crept forward with care. There: the target came into sight ahead. It looked like Jomo, all right—and, damn-it, he was carrying one of the girls on his shoulder. No clear shot, not at this range, not that he could guarantee to take Jomo without hitting the girl; nothing to do but follow, Jomo to get closer.
And who was that now, flitting down the slope behind him? Whoever it was knew how to move both fast and quietly in this forest.…
Flaming hells, it was Jane!
Jomo reached the riverside greenthorn hedge and paused a moment to wonder how he was going to do this. The hedge was thick, and he’d have to lift the branches. Best to put the girl down and drag her through behind him. He dumped her on the ground and bent over to shove his stunner under the hedge.
Then he heard running footsteps behind him. Before he could yank his stunner out of the hedge and whip it around, a booted foot caught him square in the rump and kicked him head-first into the greenthorn hedge.
Jomo flailed wildly in the thorns, trying to ignore the deep scratches. The stunner was wedged in the branches below; he abandoned it to scrabble for his pistol.
“Jane, get out of the line-of-fire yelled a voice from upslope.”
Jane? Jomo wondered, then thought to roll over.
For an instant he saw the big, stocky, blond-braided woman standing over him. In an instant’s flash of memory, Jomo recognized her.
—A year ago, Docktown, just off the ship, walking away with all those slits in tow. The one who—
And then her shotgun blast stopped his mind forever.
DeCastro was sitting in the front room of the Simba, considering fate. His plan of consolidation had worked as well as anything else had on this planet, but now he was down to all of fourteen men, which was not enough to hold Docktown thoroughly in control. He was entrenched at his Golden Parrot Cantina and here at the ill-named Simba, but neither establishment had enough supplies to entertain customers. Business was not merely poor; it was dead. Jomo would not be pleased when he returned, and the object of his wrath was most likely to be one Tomas DeCastro. At least the elimination of the Reynold’s agent was a plus.
Try as he might, he could see no way out of this. There was nowhere he could hide in Docktown. The next ship wasn’t due in for seven or eight T-months. There was always the run to the wilderness, but survival required serious supplies, and there were no supplies to be had.
DeCastro remembered the good days in his then-profitable little cantina, and hoped Jomo might be eaten by a Tamerlane, a jackal-sized lizard known for its ferocious temper and appetite.
There was a distant but growing sound of boat-engines out on the lake. The engines grew louder.
In fact, much too high pitched for The Last Resort. DeCastro held, his breath. The engines cut to silence.
There came a shout from the dockside, then nothing. The three Simbas in the bar looked at each other, nervously fingering their rifles, but DeCastro kept perfectly still. He would wait patiently: it would not serve to appear excited.
He didn’t have long to wait. The front door flew back on its hinges, and the man who’d been watching the dock came flying through it, on his back. He hit the floor, skidded, bounced and lay still.
DeCastro and the three guards stared at the sight for a few seconds, but when they looked back toward the door it was too late; five unexpected guests had already entered. They were carrying shotguns, all of which were aimed at each of the guards, two at DeCastro.
DeCastro had better sense than to move, save to raise an eyebrow. He recognized the man in the lead with the sack on his shoulder—Makhno, owner of the Black Bitch—and the CoDo “Specialist” Van Damm, but who was the gray-haired one with the cane? And who were those arrayed beside them, the black woman and the stocky blonde? He might have seen those men in Docktown, but never those women.
“Captain Makhno,” DeCastro ventured, “to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
Makhno grinned. “To an encounter with Jomo,” he said. “I have a message from him: move out of this place, right now.”
DeCastro set his empty hands on the table. He asked, “And how shall I know, señors, that this message is from my employer?”
“He can tell you himself,” said Makhno, stepping forward. He put the sack down on the table, then stepped back.
Suppressing a mad hope, DeCastro opened the sack. Jomo’s head grinned up at him from its depths. It took effort for DeCastro not to grin back.
“A wise guest knows when it is best to depart,” he said, smiling. “I shall retire to my beloved cantina and former status.”
He got up from the table, not too quickly, and started toward the door. An impulse of generosity seized him. He turned to the nearest Simba and offered: “Señores, if you are seeking employment…?”
The Simbas made haste to follow him, the latter two remembering to pick up their fellow from the floor and carry him with them.
“That,” said Jane, “was almost too easy. Let’s bring the girls in.”
But the girls needed no summoning; they came shotguns ready, eyes wide with hope. “Did it work?” they yelped. “Are we safe now?”
“Safe, and in full ownership of Harp’s Place again, Jane smiled. “You’d better repaint the sign soon…and perhaps you’d best put that on a stake outside the door, at least for a few shifts.” She pointed toward the sack on the table. “It’ll be good news.”
The office of Harp’s Place wasn’t in bad state; DeCastro had left a sizable amount of cash behind, and had not messed the files. The stock was down to nearly zero, of course, but Makhno’s announcement of the end of the boycott and Brodski’s trade share would solve that problem.
“The girls own the place, fair and square. You run it with them, and protect them, and in return you and Van Damm share half the profits.”
“No complaints, Jane,” Brodski smiled. “A nice little retirement business for me and Van.”
“I can imagine,” said Jane, through pursed lips.
“Uhmm, you know, sooner or later CoDo will come.…”
“I know. With any luck, they won’t bother me and mine.”
“True, but remember, with CoDominium comes the Fleet, and they’ll favor old Sarge Brodski with their business. ‘Trust in the thirst of the Fleet, and you’ll die rich,’ as the old saying goes.”
; “Perhaps they’ll like to sample the local euph-leaf, too.” Jane smiled, getting up. “Take care of yourself Mister Brodski.”
“No fear of that,” Brodski replied, watching her go. Yes, he could predict a profitable future for Jane and Docktown—and himself.
One way or another the Fleet took care of its own.
— 12 —
LAST CHANCE
Steven Shervais
2063 A.D., Haven
Thanks, mister, I was gettin’ kinda dry.
As I was sayin’, I never really did like Jonnie Johnson, even before he got to be one of the richest men on the southern slope. It wasn’t the money. Hell, I coulda been as rich as him, but I spent it all on booze an’ women. It was his attitude. He was always too sure of himself, too ready to go off and do things his own way, even if the rest of us would’a bitched if we knew what he was up to. The thing that made it so bad was, that red-headed runt was almost always right.
That was part of the reason a lot of the men had a hard time trustin’ him. You gotta remember, we was all criminals, transportees from Earth. Jonnie and me and the boys was in the Great Lakes Iron Revolt back in ’45. In it or standin’ by when the National Guard pulled that final sweep durin’ the cease-fire negotiations. We weren’t no political revolutionaries. Hell, all we wanted was a safe job and pay you could feed your family on. An’ if the company cops hadn’t fired on the picket lines, the strike would never have turned into a revolt.
Anyways, Jonnie was always in good with the guards an’ the Company men. He never kissed ass ‘er nothing’, but if one of the guys got in trouble, he would always be able to smooth it out, diplomatic like. The guards liked to beat up on us for no reason at all…that’s how I lost this eye. But Jonnie could usually keep all but the worst of them off of us. He was so good, some of us thought he was a Company spy.