“I’ll tell you what, gentlemen, I’ll give you a thousand apiece, five hundred each right this moment and the rest when you bring me the child. How’s that?”
“I’ll be a double-cunted cow pissin’ on a flat rock!” Gooden shouted, slapping his thigh with one hand and extending the other to shake on it. “Thousand credits fer a night’s work! Damn! You got yer-self a deal, Mr. Doctor!”
Gobels smiled warmly as he shook hands all round. Pensy Fogel counted out the advance money. Back in Fargo five hundred credits would buy a decent supper in a second-class hash house.
Their plan was simple. Plan A: Linney would approach Treemonisha’s cabin with a box saying it was supplies sent out from Wellfordsville by Tanner Hastings. When she opened the door they’d jump her and take the kid straight back to Jack’s Shop and collect the remaining five hundred credits. Plan B: There was no Plan B and Plan A didn’t quite work out.
Treemonisha’s chickens gave them away before they were within fifty meters of the cabin door. It burst open and there she stood, shotgun leveled at the trio. “What you no-goods want here at this hour?” she thundered.
At first Linney was so startled he forgot his lines for a moment. “Well, Miz Giddin’s, we is bringin’ yew sum supplies from Tanner’s place,” he finally got out. He could plainly see the child peeking out from behind her skirts. Damn, he thought, shore does look jist like a Shackelford, that kid!
“What you grinnin’ at, you damn fool?” Treemonisha shouted. “I ain’t ordered no supplies! Now git th’ hell off’n my property!”
Linney took several steps forward but stopped cold as Treemonisha cocked a hammer on her shotgun. “M-Miz Giddin’s,” he stammered, “no need fur thet! We is jist followin’ Tanner’s orders!” Linney squeaked.
Gooden Ashcake stepped forward, elbowing Linney aside. “Now see here, Treemonisha, quit this foolishness! We is jist helpin’ Tanner out by deliverin’ this here box o’ goodies—”
“I ain’t ordered no goodies,” she replied, cocking the other hammer.
“Ah said, stop thet, woman! You is liable to git someone hurt!” Gooden snatched the box out of Linney’s hands and advanced quickly to the steps. He thrust the box out at Treemonisha. He got then a good look at the kid. Well, damn my eyes, he thought, thet thar kid is a gawdam Liggons if I ever saw one! Ol’ Linney’s been out here by his self fer sartin shore!
He thrust the box upward suddenly and lunged forward. Both barrels of the shotgun discharged with a tremendous roar, blasting a big hole in the roof and leaving his ears ringing, but Treemonisha reeled backward, stumbled, and fell with a crash so hard she was momentarily stunned. In that instant Gooden stepped forward and snatched Moses by the back of his shirt. He whirled, holding a struggling Moses high in one hand, and shouting, “Eeeeeehaaaawww!” His two companions, startled at how quickly the action had unfolded, just stood there, transfixed.
Suddenly Adner’s eyes grew large as saucers, his mouth fell open, and he pointed a shaking finger at the house. But it was too late. Treemonisha slammed into Gooden Ashcake so hard that Moses flew into the air and plopped down into the dust right at Linney Liggons’s feet. But Gooden, with Treemonisha on top of him, slammed hard into the dust with a lung-bursting “Ooofff!”
“Run, Moses, run!” Treemonisha screamed as she banged Gooden’s head into the dust.
“Gawdam!” Gooden shouted around a mouthful of dirt.
“Git ’im, git ’im!” Adner yelled. Linney scrambled after Moses, but the little Skink was fast on his stubby legs. While Gooden struggled to get out from underneath Treemonisha, Adner and Linney chased Moses around the yard, raising a cloud of dust so thick they ran smack into each other. “Yew gawdam fool!” Linney raged, getting to his feet. “Th’ lit’l bastard’s gettin’ away!”
“Faster ’n a gawdam chicken afore Sunday dinner!” Adner gasped.
“Gawdamit, git off’n me, yew tub o’—” Gooden yelled up at Treemonisha. The pair flailed away at each other in the dust.
“Run, Moses, run!” Treemonisha screamed, in spite of Gooden’s hands around her neck. She was losing her grip on Gooden’s greasy hair. In desperation he managed to roll her over. He spit out a broken tooth with a curse and smashed his fist into her nose. Blood spurted everywhere. Meanwhile, the chase after Moses had moved out into the road.
Gooden staggered to his feet and grabbed the empty shotgun. He slammed the stock onto the porch, snapping it off. “Yew ain’t pointin’ thet gawdam thang at ennyone agin,” he wheezed. But at that moment Treemonisha slammed into him from behind, pushing him hard against one of the porch supports, which gave way, causing the roof to come crashing down on both of them. If either of them had been conscious after that event they’d have heard Linney and Adner shouting and cursing as they chased Moses down the country road.
“What in the world—?” Dr. Gobels exclaimed. The disheveled trio stood disconsolately in the gathering dusk outside his lab at Jack’s Shop. “Wh-where is the child?” he asked.
“Well, we got ’im,” Linney Liggons said, nodding his head vigorously.
“He in a safe place,” Gooden Ashcake muttered, holding a hand to his busted lip. A dirty handkerchief wrapped around his head did not quite cover the gash left there where the roof fell on him.
“We wanna talk to you ’bout thet critter,” Adner said.
“What’s to talk about? Either you have him or you don’t. And you don’t. Not this moment,” Pensy Fogel replied.
“Well, we got ’im.” Linney nodded. “But ya see, it warn’t no easy job to ketch thet little bastard ’n we suffered considerable damage in the process.”
“You didn’t kill that old lady, did you?” Fogel asked anxiously. Kidnapping and cheating the government was one thing, murder quite another.
“Hell no, asshole! She damn near kilt us! Lookit Gooden’s haid! We jist laid ’er up a bit. Now see hear, we want another thousan’ afore we hand ’im over. We earned it!” Linney nodded his head again for emphasis.
“Well, gentlemen, I can hardly be expected to pay you such a huge amount without some proof that you have the, er, boy.” Gobels smiled disarmingly. “Can I?”
“I s’pose not,” Adner agreed. He pulled a red-and-black checkered shirt out of one overall pocket. “He wuz wearin’ this when we caught ’im. See, it’s the right size.”
Gobels examined the tiny shirt and passed it to Fogel. “Could’ve come off any child,” he said, tossing it back at Adner.
“Now see here, Mr. Doctor Gobbles,” Linney said, his face turning red with anger. “Yew don’t want th’ kid, we kin always find someone else be interested. Thousan’ credits more ’n we have us a deal, unnerstan’?”
“Oh, yes, yes. Quite. Um, Pensy, give them the money, all the money, the five hundred we promised and the thousand more they want to settle this business.”
“Uh, you sure, Doctor?”
“Quite sure.” Gobels smiled. “These are honorable gentlemen. I’m sure we can trust them. Count out the cash, my man, and let’s get this over with.”
Fogel slowly counted out the credits from a huge wad in his pocket. He handed each man a stack of bills. This part of the country was a barter and cash-and-carry economy where no one had heard of electronic banking in centuries, and the scientists had come prepared to buy their way with actual cash. The three men grinned as the money came into their outstretched paws. Even Gooden Ashcake. The gap in his front teeth may have been quite noticeable to him, but to Dr. Gobels it was hard to see among all the others.
A piercing white beam of light suddenly froze the small group and a godlike voice thundered from the sky, “Nobody move! This is the Confederation Ministry of Justice and you are all under arrest!”
“Meet at Yancy’s still!” Adner Shackelford yelled and broke for the woods; the other two took off in different directions. They knew the woods from childhood. But Dr. Joseph Gobels and Dr. Pensy Fogel had nowhere to go.
“Goddamn, goddamn,” Gobels muttere
d. “Well, Pensy, if I can’t have it nobody can.”
“No!” Fogel protested. “We can use your data to bargain with them! Don’t do it!”
Gobels smiled and pressed a small device in his pocket. The resulting explosion destroyed his lab and all his research and pitched the two men to the ground.
“You goddamned fool!” Fogel shouted, around a mouthful of mud.
“Shouldn’t talk with your mouth full, Pensy,” Gobels said with a grin. “You don’t know what I know and now nobody will. Nobody will!” He laughed.
For a long time after that evening at Jack’s Shop, Gooden Ashcake, Linney Liggons, and Adner Shackelford lived high at Verne Driscoll’s tavern. Late at night, surrounded by empty beer bottles, they’d sit with their heads together and chuckle about how they’d gotten one over so completely on the city slickers at Jack’s Shop. They spent so much time at Verne’s that their wives actually began to enjoy life a little.
But they made themselves scarce whenever Treemonisha Giddings visited town, although she never said a word about what had happened at her place. All she knew, and that made her feel good, was that Moses had escaped. It was enough for her that her baby had gotten away.
Men from faraway Fargo had come and interviewed everyone in Wellfordsville, but in the manner of country folk since the beginning of time, the locals told them nothing. For weeks the men from Justice combed the surrounding woods and drained ponds but in the end they’d gone away empty-handed.
Moses ran until his pursuers were left screaming and cursing far behind in the dust of the road. When darkness fell that first night he slept in the bushes by the roadside. In the morning he headed toward the rising sun and soon found himself in a marshy area that quickly turned into a swamp. He pulled off his remaining clothing and soaked in the warm, muddy waters. It felt inexpressibly good. He began to relax, to feel completely free.
Moses had always been good in the water. The Brattle boys had marveled at how long he could hold his breath. He’d never told anyone he didn’t have to hold his breath under the water. His gill slits weren’t vestigial; they actually worked and he could breathe in the water. He slipped beneath the scummy mass that morning and propelled himself along effortlessly. For the first time in his short life he was free!
Small, wiggling creatures—and some not so small—proved very edible and Moses happily gorged on them as he swam through the murky waters. He reflected on humankind. He was not quite sure what kind of creature he was himself, but he knew he was not human, or at least not completely. There had been times, though, when he’d felt kinship with the people around him. But who could possibly understand humans? The Brattles, Treemonisha, they were wonderful. Treemonisha especially. In fact he’d begun to feel real affection for the huge brown woman, stronger even than what he’d felt toward the Brattles. He supposed that was how people felt about their mothers.
But there were those others. How could anyone know if a human was kind and decent or cruel and evil?
Well, for now he would swim and eat and doze in the sun and enjoy life in the swamp. The swamp, that’s where he belonged! But, maybe, in time, he’d go back for a visit with Treemonisha, eat some of her pancakes, sleep in a bed, play with the chickens. Now that had been real fun!
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“You don’t want to send an advance party, Pat?” Vice Admiral Geoffrey Chandler raised an eyebrow in surprise. As fleet commander he was responsible for getting the army planetside.
“Naw, Jeff. I’ll be the advance party.” Lieutenant General Patrice Carano grinned. He knew what he’d just suggested violated military protocol. Commanders always sent advance parties to secure landing zones, liaise with the natives, do whatever was necessary to prepare for the follow-on forces in a deployment, but the commanding general himself was never the first on the ground. But General Carano was the kind of commander who liked to defy protocols. “The Marines have secured the landing zone, Jeff, so no need to send an army battalion down first.” He drew on the Uvezian and gently expelled the smoke through his mouth. “Damned fine cigar, this.”
“Well, Pat, if you think nine Force Recon Marines have secured the whole planet”—Admiral Chandler gestured with his own cigar—“be my guest. I’ll have you on your way planetside in ten minutes.”
“Thank you, Admiral.” Carano winked at his chief of staff, Major General Donnie (“Doc”) McKillan. “I’m takin’ Doc here and Ted Sturgeon with me. I’d like an Essay and one Dragon, one of Ted Sturgeon’s Dragons. That ought to be enough security.” Since he’d arrived on Arsenault and on the flight to Haulover, General Carano had gotten to know Brigadier Sturgeon rather well and he respected the Marine’s judgment and experience fighting Skinks.
“Pat, there could be a hundred thousand Skinks down there—”
“Probably are.” Carano drew happily on his cigar. “Andy Aguinaldo and I discussed this operation at length with Ted—his Marines have seen more of the Skinks than anyone else—and we agree they’ve picked Haulover for a set-piece battle. They want us to land in force, secure a beachhead, and engage, so I’m starting the war out with one pinkie in the water, and this Ensign Daly is the man who knows the temperature and depth. Once I’ve talked to him, send the corps in per the landing schedule we developed on the way here: military police and engineers first with one battalion of infantry for perimeter security. I’ll give the signal when I’m ready.”
“We could bring Daly up here, Pat—”
Carano shook his head. “No. I go down there. Daly’s a working man. He’s got his command to look after. Best Mohammed goes to the mountain.”
“The civilians down there are hopping mad, Pat. They resented our sending only a Force Recon detachment to begin with, and think we’ve taken too long to respond to the threat Daly identified.”
“I know. I’ve read the messages they’ve been sending to God and everyone. I’ll deal with them. I’m declaring martial law in Sky City and every other part of Haulover we control. That’s why I want the MP battalion to go in first. Aguinaldo approved all of this before we left Arsenault, Jeff. You know that. You were at the conferences.”
“I know, I know.” Admiral Chandler waved his cigar in the air. “I’m just playing devil’s advocate here, Pat. No sense ruffling the taxpayer’s feathers if we can avoid it.”
“I understand, but I want to meet this young Ensign Daly first, before I talk to them. I’d appreciate it if you’d let them know I’ll be at Sky City to talk to them in a couple of hours. But first order of business, I want to personally thank Ensign Daly for a job well done.”
Landing any military force from orbit is a demanding undertaking made more complicated and difficult by great size of the force, poor conditions on the ground where it is to be landed, or both. Such operations are rarely explained in novels or vids because it would be a crashing bore to anyone but a professional logistician. Instead, the onscreen admiral simply says, “Mr. Hawkins, land the landing force,” and the action moves on.
Planning for landing the XVIII Corps on Haulover had begun weeks before the force left Arsenault. Task Force Aguinaldo’s logisticians had spent many sleepless nights devising and revising the disembarkation plan. That is how they earned their pay. The task force’s generals and admirals earned theirs by making the operation work according to the plan.
To make their work even more difficult, what the planners had to do for the XVIII Corps also had to accommodate the landing of the XXX Corps, which was to follow the XVIII into orbit around Haulover. That required the efficient and timely movement of tens of thousands of men and millions of metric tons of equipment and materiel.
Bottlenecks had to be anticipated and eliminated, landing schedules had to be coordinated to the second, ground accommodations had to be prepared in advance, and everyone involved had to remain alert and flexible because every plan develops glitches and when they happen they must be fixed immediately or backups begin, troops and materiel are not delivered on time, and, if the landin
g is opposed by an enemy, disaster can result. A task force commander cannot afford to have his troops languishing in orbit, waiting for ground clearance because things have stacked up on the surface and there is nowhere for them to deploy—or nothing to deploy with. Likewise, when they do land, they need to have everything required to live and fight in a hostile environment. It spells disaster to have sixty thousand men on the ground without their vehicles, fuel, spare parts, weapons, ammunition, rations, and the wherewithal they need to sustain themselves in a battle.
For instance, how much water would fully loaded combat infantrymen need to sustain themselves in heavy fighting in the kind of terrain and climate that prevailed on Haulover? All that water would have to come down with them and sustain them until engineers could discover natural sources and establish purification plants to sanitize the supply. All units carry with them a basic load of everything they would need to sustain themselves in battle, but how long would those loads hold out? What would the anticipated casualty rates be among the fighting units and how much medical support would they need to handle those casualties? What about replacements and reinforcements? They would have to be available and ready to fight when needed.
Military logisticians have ways to calculate all these apparently imponderable requirements with amazing accuracy.
But the initial landing is only the beginning of the military logistician’s nightmare. Once on the ground, the force has to be kept supplied and the longer the fighting lasts, the more supplies the troops will need and they have to be unloaded quickly and efficiently and then distributed to the fighting units to be in their hands before they’re needed. Often those units are hundreds of kilometers from the depots, so safe and efficient means have to be available to move them to the forward battle area where other depots are established, a very important and difficult task on a fluid battlefield. So, even if an initial landing is accomplished perfectly, keeping the force adequately supplied requires a tremendous effort. And bear in mind, resupply of the force must take place over a distance of light-years.
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