The Seeds of Man

by William C. Dietz

  That was what Howard wanted. Clarity, confidence, and orders to follow. Voss eyed the man as he rode away. If only there had been someone to tell him what to do. But there wasn’t, so all he could do was watch as the graves were dug and say some awkward words as the bodies were lowered into them. It took a long time to bury that many people, so it was midafternoon by the time the column rode north.

  Voss was lost in thought as Odin carried him north. What would Hashi do? Send drones to track him? No, they didn’t have enough range. Had it been otherwise, the miniature planes would have been spotted up in the Star Valley.

  His thoughts circled back. What would Hashi do? What would he do? After giving the matter some thought, Voss came up with what he hoped was the correct answer. Hashi would send scouts to make sure that the column was no longer in her territory. That suggested an opportunity of sorts, a chance to gain something and to salve his wounded pride as well.

  So Voss brought the column to a halt, told Howard what he had in mind, and went looking for Boss Jones. The merc was about halfway back and busy examining his mount’s right rear hoof when Voss arrived. Jones looked up as Voss spoke. “I need you, plus twenty-five men, and enough supplies for seven days.”

  Jones touched the brim of his hat, swung up into the saddle, and began to bawl orders. It took fifteen minutes to get ready. Then, as the column pulled away, Voss spoke to Jones. “I figure Hashi will send scouts to make sure we’re gone. If we could capture them we would learn a lot. The kind of stuff that would help us even the score.”

  Jones nodded. “Sounds good. What’s the plan?”

  “We look for the right spot, set up a round-the-clock watch, and grab the bastards.”

  Jones looked thoughtful. “There isn’t much cover out here. Remember the last bridge? The one over the dry riverbed? We could hide the horses and the wagon underneath it.”

  Voss nodded. “Good idea . . . Let’s get to work.”

  It was dark by the time they returned to the bridge, found a path down to the riverbed, and began the process of establishing a camp. Voss toyed with the idea of setting up a roadblock on the chance that Hashi’s scouts would travel at night but decided against it. It would be difficult to see who they were dealing with, for one thing, plus his men were exhausted and likely to make mistakes. So he had Jones post guards, gave orders for them to be relieved every two hours, and volunteered to take part in the rotation.

  Since a fire couldn’t be seen from anyplace but down in the riverbed, Voss allowed the mercs to build one, knowing it would provide warmth and help lift their spirits. Then he stood two hours of guard duty before slipping into his sleeping bag and falling asleep.

  Dawn came quickly and with it the need to establish lookouts. Once the men had some breakfast in their bellies, Voss detailed seven of them to go south and establish hides on the north side of the first rise they came to. “Don’t break the skyline, and leave those hats here,” Voss instructed as the party got ready to depart. “Wear knit caps if you have them—or wrap strips of cloth around your heads. They’ll spot you if you don’t.”

  Having shed their hats in favor of other coverings, the squad left. They had strict instructions to stay on the highway, where their boot prints would be lost among the tracks the column had left the day before.

  With that accomplished, all Voss could do was wait. The fire had been extinguished so that the smoke wouldn’t give their presence away. All the mercs could do was tend to their horses and work on their gear as time dragged by.

  Finally, after a couple of hours had passed, the radio Voss was carrying burped static. “Laraby here . . . Two people are coming our way.”

  Voss frowned. Two didn’t sound right. He was expecting four or five. “Are they on horses?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Okay, keep an eye on them and give me another report when they get closer.”

  The better part of fifteen minutes passed before Laraby called again. “They’re pretty close now. A man and a woman. Both armed.”

  The couple sounded like everyday travelers to Voss. He could be wrong, though. Either way it would be a good idea to talk to them. “Wait until they pass over the rise and can’t be seen from the south. Then reveal yourself, tell them I’d like to speak to them, and will pay to do so.”

  “And if they refuse?”

  Voss thought about that. Gunshots could be heard a long way off, and if Hashi’s scouts were close enough to hear, that could ruin the plan. “If they refuse to speak with me, let them go,” Voss said. “I don’t want any gunfire.”

  Fifteen minutes later Laraby and two others brought the couple down into the riverbed. Hot water was available thanks to a can of Sterno, so Voss was able to offer both visitors a mug of tea. They were understandably cautious at first but began to loosen up after a while as Voss encouraged them to talk. The man’s name was Joe, his wife’s name was Clair, and they were on their way to Afton. They didn’t say why and Voss didn’t ask.

  Could they be spies sent by Hashi? Yes, but Voss didn’t think so. Still, it would pay to take whatever they said with a grain of salt, and he did. When asked to describe conditions to the southwest, they said that the only people who had electricity were the mercenaries that Hashi called the Ronin. And they could be vicious. On the other hand, Joe said that while food was in short supply, rumor had it that shipments of produce were arriving from the south, so maybe things would improve.

  That bit of news was of particular interest to Voss since it meant that Hashi had secured a secondary source of food prior to raising prices on him—a wise move and one that would force him to compete or try to market his food elsewhere.

  Voss sent the couple north with six rounds of .45 ammo to speed them on their way. Then the waiting began anew. Voss figured the Ronin would come that day or not at all, and he was right. The lookouts had been rotated numerous times by the time the radio call came in from a merc named Obey. “There’s five riders coming our way, Mr. Voss, and they look like Ronin.”

  Voss had been eating his lunch, but he put the plate aside to grab his rifle. “I’m on the way.”

  After telling Jones to stand by, Voss scrambled up onto the road and began to run. He was out of breath by the time he plopped down next to Obey. The merc handed him a pair of glasses. “They’re straight ahead,” the merc said. “You can’t miss ‘em.” And he was right.

  The Ronin were wearing armor that looked similar to what Voss had seen in history books. It was uniformly black and consisted of a fierce-looking helmet, armor that flapped slightly as the mercs rode, and bulky boots. He could see what looked like rifles stored in western-style scabbards, and swords as well, all slung across their backs. Would the armor stop bullets? No, of course it wouldn’t. It was for show, a uniform of sorts that was meant to instill fear. Voss’s thoughts were interrupted as Obey spoke. “Uh-oh . . . they brought some friends.”

  Voss raised the binoculars slightly and felt something akin to ice water trickle into his veins. There, galloping along behind the scouts, were more Ronin, all riding hell-for-leather. Voss brought the radio to his lips. “Jones . . . bring everyone forward. And hurry.”

  “Okay,” Voss said to the men on either side of him, “get ready. And remember . . . shoot the horses first. Don’t even think about potting a Ronin until all the mounts are down. We don’t want any of them running home to momma.”

  That got a laugh, as it was meant to. “One more thing,” Voss said as he slid his weapon forward. “I need prisoners. Don’t fire until I do.”

  Voss owned automatic weapons, including some heavy machine guns, but couldn’t afford to fire them in anything less than dire circumstances. One of his long-term goals was to construct an arms factory, but that was a long way off. In the meantime he had armed his mercs with Model 70 bolt-action Winchesters. The 70 had long been a favorite among prewar deer hunters because it was sturdy, reliable, and accurate.

  Some of the mercs preferred lever-action .30-30s for use on hors
eback, but Voss had chosen bolt-action rifles because of the kind of situation that he and his men faced now. It was damned near impossible to use a lever-action rifle in the prone position without rising, taking your weapon off target, or both. His Winchester was equipped with a scope, and the Ronin seemed to leap forward as the crosshairs settled on them.

  In keeping with his own orders, Voss tilted the Winchester down until the scope’s reticule was centered on the lead horse. He squeezed the trigger, heard a loud report, and felt the recoil. The bullet hit the animal dead center and it went down as if poleaxed. The rider was thrown clear, but Voss ignored him as the others fired. “Switch to those in the rear!” Voss bellowed as a second horse tripped on the first and went down in a sprawl of kicking hooves. “Hit them before they can run!”

  The order came just in time, as the mob of Ronin located behind the scouts tried to turn. Voss’s rifle seemed to reload itself as another cartridge slid into the waiting chamber. He fired and fired again. Then, worried that a drone might appear, Voss scanned the sky. Nothing. Maybe the little planes couldn’t fly that far, or maybe Hashi figured there were enough Ronin to handle Voss’s rearguard. Jones and the rest of the mercs had arrived on top of the rise by then, and Voss waved them forward. “Hunt them down! And remember, I need prisoners!”

  As the reinforcements swept forward, Voss hollered fresh orders to the men around him. “Watch for friendlies! Shoot horses . . . nothing else.”

  A couple of animals were still on their feet but quickly went down in the carefully aimed fire. Then Voss led his group forward and was pleased to see that Jones had taken three prisoners. They were seated on the ground with their hands locked behind their necks.

  There were more Ronin up ahead, however, some of whom were determined to fight to the death rather than suffer whatever fate might await in captivity. They fought desperately, ran out of ammo, and left cover with their swords drawn. They fell to a quick volley of shots, and the battle was over. Thirty-six Ronin had been killed, seven had been taken prisoner, and none had escaped. Two of Voss’s men had been killed, and three were wounded, but none seriously. So it was a victory, although a Pyrrhic one, given the losses suffered earlier.

  Rather than leave the dead Ronin where they were, Voss ordered his men to drag all the bodies to a ravine and cover them with loose rocks. The sky was dark. Hopefully it would snow. If it did, all the signs of battle would be obliterated. Then it would seem as if the Ronin had disappeared into thin air. Except that Hashi would know better and think twice before sending more of her men north. Or so he hoped. He had no use for the prisoners so their bodies joined the rest.

  As Voss led his people north, the first flakes came twirling down. Gradually, as the snowfall intensified, the flakes combined to form a shroud of white. Blood had been shed, lives had been lost, and the land was unchanged.

  Chapter Six

  Near Red Deer, Alberta, Canada

  L ora made a clucking sound as she guided her pony up onto a rise. A mule loaded with two bundles of firewood followed at the end of a rope. Once on top of the hill, Lora pulled back on the reins so she could pause and look out over the tepees that had been set up on the plain below. There were at least a thousand of them, all leaking smoke into the hazy air as adults took care of chores and children chased one another through the maze of cone-shaped dwellings. Some were covered with animal skins while others were wrapped in patched tent fabric or clad in multicolored tarps. It was a fantastic scene, and even though the trip south had been terrifying at times, Lora was glad to be where she was.

  The better part of two weeks had passed since the battle at the bridge, but it seemed like much longer. During that time the leavers had traveled hundreds of miles while under the protection of the warrior named Twolakes. And Lora had learned how to ride a horse, how to live off the land, and how to deal with a different culture.

  A gentle kick was sufficient to put the pony into motion. The mule was nibbling at a tuft of prairie grass by then, and Lora had to jerk on the rope in order to bring the recalcitrant animal along. A maze of interwoven trails led down into the camp, and Lora followed one of them to the main thoroughfare, which paralleled the river flowing through the center of the encampment. Water sparkled as teenagers led horses down to drink. The youngsters laughed as they splashed one another.

  In fact, everywhere Lora looked, people were in high spirits because, after days of lead-up, the big celebration was scheduled to take place that night and promised to be a big event indeed. Something like two thousand people were expected to attend the ceremony, which would be held in the natural amphitheater located half a mile away. And from what Lora had heard, there would be speeches and a variety of entertainments, all leading up to a traditional dance.

  Then, within a matter of two days, the entire village would be dismantled and everyone would depart. Not because they were tired of one another—but because no one area could sustain that number of hunter-gatherers for very long. Firewood provided a good example; Lora had traveled for two miles before finding enough for a full load.

  So it would be necessary for the Blackfoot people to scatter, return to their various lands, and begin the process of preparing for winter. A year later the village would spring back to life. Where will I be? Lora wondered. She hoped it would be someplace nice.

  By that time Lora had joined the steady stream of horses, mules, and people all headed for the amphitheater, located on the south side of the river. They splashed through a shallow spot, climbed the gently shelving bank on the other side, and followed a well-worn trail into a natural arena. The center of the depression had been cleared many years before, and the surrounding slopes were decorated with a patchwork quilt of blankets, all placed there by people who hoped to secure a good spot.

  As some of the riders peeled away, Lora joined the line leading up to the fire pit located at the center of the open arena. When Lora neared the steadily growing pile of wood stacked at the center of the amphitheater, a child came forward to take the reins so that she could slip to the ground. After that it was a simple matter to unload, lead the animals away, and climb up onto the western-style saddle. Then it was a short trip out to the spot where Lora surrendered her mount and pack animal to a couple of teenage boys.

  They were friendly, and Lora thought one might be trying to flirt with her but wasn’t sure. So rather than risk making a fool of herself, she hurried away. That was the problem with living in another culture. She knew there were rules but hadn’t mastered them yet. The leavers didn’t have tepees but were equipped with tents, all of which were set up at the northwest corner of the Blackfoot encampment. And Lora and the other leavers weren’t the only nontribal individuals camped there. Traders, merchants, medicine men, hucksters, entertainers, and drifters occupied the area as well. The tribal members called the area Ksikk (White) Town. But there had been a lot of interracial marriages during the last two hundred–plus years, which meant lots of Blackfoot Indians had light-colored hair and skin and blue eyes. Or as Twolakes liked to put it, “Being a Blackfoot is a state of mind.”

  Regardless, most of Ksikk Town’s residents were male, nominally unattached, and obnoxious. So as Lora wove her way among tents, tarp-covered lean-tos, and some poorly constructed tepees, she was subjected to whistles, crude comments, and lewd invitations she wasn’t about to acknowledge, much less accept, all of which was new to her and one of the unpleasant aspects of life outside the Sanctuary.

  Having successfully run the gauntlet, Lora entered the circle of tents that belonged to the leavers. As always, a guard was on duty, in this case her father. George had changed a great deal over the last few weeks. He was happier for one thing, a lot leaner, and clearly enjoying his relationship with Cassie Elano. His face lit up as his daughter arrived. “Lora! There you are . . . I was beginning to worry. We need to get ready for tomorrow. Twolakes plans to leave before noon.”

  By that time the leavers, which was to say everyone other than Lora, had agreed to
seek out a commune located near the town of Brooks, a place where, according to Twolakes, about two hundred people were farming the land. Just the sort of folk that George and the others were looking for. Would Lora like it? That remained to be seen, but she was determined to keep an open mind.

  The rest of the day was spent preparing for the trip to Brooks. There was plenty to do, but the most difficult chore was washing their clothes, a task that usually fell to Lora. After getting a packet of precious laundry detergent from Cassie and borrowing two plastic buckets from a trader’s wife, Lora made her way to the river, where others were already hard at work. Some were there to wash clothes while others took sponge baths.

  The first step was to wade out into the freezing-cold water and fill the buckets. After placing the clothes in one of them, Lora added some detergent. After a twenty-minute soak, each item was scrubbed with a brush prior to being rinsed in the river. Once that was accomplished, she had to wring each garment dry—a difficult task for one person. Fortunately a young wife stepped in to help Lora get the last of the water out.

  Having lugged the wet clothes back to the tent, Lora draped each item of clothing on the improvised drying rack located next to the fire and turned them as they dried, the result being that everything Lora wore smelled of wood smoke even before she put it on. Finally the task was complete and Lora could put things away.

  It was getting late by then, and many tribal members were feasting on wild game. Not the leavers, though. Although they were trying to learn they lacked the skills necessary to live off the land and were forced to dine on little more than the dwindling rations they had with them.

  Lora fixed dinner for her father and always gave him some of her food, something he wasn’t aware of and would have objected to had he known. Lora had never gone hungry in the Sanctuary but rarely got enough to eat anymore and knew that was unlikely to change. Millions had died of starvation, and most of those who survived were malnourished.