War World X: Takeover

by John F. Carr

  Kev dropped to his knees and crawled into the Deacon’s lodge. Smoke stung his eyes. He glanced up, then said, “Someone should clear that smoke-hole,” and when no one moved, he snapped, “Is none of you worthy of such a job?”

  Three Deacons rose from their pallets and shuffled to find a pole or ladder. The central fire-pit glowed red, and someone had propped a clownfruit against a kettle, to heat both near the embers. Nose-less, the clownfruit had split, and its juices sizzled, giving off a metallic smell.

  In one of the study carrels, Kev found Wilgar, nose to a book. From Garner “Bill” had come William Garner, hence Wilgar, a heritage. The boy’s dark complexion, flashing eyes, and winning smile echoed his lineage, for as the Reverend Charles Castell’s son, thirteen-year-old Wilgar had inherited not only his mother’s and father’s genes, but those of Harmony-founder Garner “Bill” Castell, and his mestizo wife, as well. The mixture had produced a boy so handsome he was almost pretty, and so charismatic that he could charm his way out of virtually any punishment.

  “Writings?” Kev asked, sitting down beside the boy.

  Wilgar grinned. “More like readings,” he quipped. He watched Kev’s face intently, then shared the laugh the man granted him. After, he asked, “How’s Dad?”

  Kev glanced at the boy perhaps a bit too sharply. No one impugned the Reverend Castell’s health or mental state, not aloud and certainly not to the First Deacon. “He’s fine, but very busy.”

  The boy looked steadily at Kev, saying nothing. He shut his book, then shrugged. “The Concordance should be updated, you know,” he said. “It only covers the things my father said in the first year or so. Has he said nothing important or noteworthy since?”

  Kev shook his head, a faint grin as good as saying, “And only thirteen.”

  He said, “I’ll appoint a scribe, and have each Harmony submit any wisdom which might have particularly impressed—”

  “I could do it.” A child’s eagerness made the boy bounce. A man’s sober assessment of a bleak future made the boy’s gaze level and deadly serious; he wanted a part of the grand venture his grandfather had begun.

  “You certainly could,” Kev said. He stood and slid the book back in its place on the carrell’s shelf. “Except that you’ve got more important things to do. And maybe we should start right now. Feel like doing some body-work, to balance the mind-work?”

  “Harmony is balance,” the boy said.

  Some tiny element in Wilgar’s tone caused Kev to frown slightly, but he shrugged off any discomfort and walked after the boy, who had already bounded onto the low wall surrounding the fire pit and who was now walking along with his arms out. Kev opened his mouth to scold, then smiled, noticing how rock steady the boy walked on the narrow wall.

  Max Cole cursed, then kicked. The table toppled, spilling the ore samples all over the shack’s loose board floor. “I’m too damned old for this,” he said, glaring at the other man, daring him to contradict. “When you tell me you can do something, you’d better be able to follow through, or so help me, I’ll kill you. That Janesfort uprising was a debacle, a criminal misadventure. As a rebellion it fizzled, damn you, and now here I am two years later back on this stinking planet facing the same kind of incompetence that almost lost me my fucking retirement—”

  “Please, sir,” the merchant said, raising his palms to placate this off-world hothead. “It’s the best I could do at such short notice, and none better can be had—”

  “Do you expect me to pay for this, this mess?” Cole waved a hand at the scattered chunks of rock, clumps of dirt. He then braced himself by placing a hand against a wall. Cole still had transit-pallor and his movements reflected years on ships to and from Earth; he’d only been on Haven little more than the week.

  Cole had previously been on Haven two years earlier, delivering arms and otherwise fomenting revolt. He’d gone back to Earth thinking he’d stirred up enough trouble to enable the CoDominium to take possession of Haven, as per his instructions. A few months after Earthfall, however, he’d been given a choice: ‘Go back and do it right, or fend for yourself on the streets without your pension.’

  The Haven operation had wasted four years of his life thus far and this would be, he promised himself, come hell or high water, his last assignment. At the start, he’d had only six years of service left. That meant spending any more than a year on Haven this time around would end up cutting into his retirement time, and starting one’s retirement with a series of Alderson jumps and long months aboard a cramped, stinking cargo vessel held no appeal at all. Thus, impatience dominated his dealings with semi-competent underlings.

  The most recent of which now stooped, snatched at an ore sample a few times before snagging it. A huge belly interfered, and he puffed as he straightened and held out the sample for inspection. “You see the glitter in this one? Harmonies love that—”

  “You speak of them as if they’re simple-minded abo buffoons,” Cole said. “It’s exactly that attitude which threatens to rouse them into open rebellion: I’m here on Charles Castell’s behalf, and I’m telling you, no one knows better than he the need for hammering out a new way of doing business.”

  “Come off it,” the merchant said. He scratched his broken-veined nose, the many rings on his sausage fingers glittering, reflecting the lantern’s yellow glow into his baleful eyes. “Harmonies can’t get tough, it’s not in them. And as for business, we do all right.”

  “You do lousy. Keep the boycott in mind if you think the Harmonies have no power. They can stop the flow of food.”

  “Sure, and they can wake up dead, too, if push comes to shove. You tell Castell if he wants to go poking into what the miners at Hell’s-A-Comin’ dig out of the ground, then maybe he should start digging himself. Dig his own grave is what he’ll do.”

  Cole turned away and marched off as if in a huff, but as he left the shack and splashed through the puddles of Cambiston a glint of glee showed in his eyes, for a moment. He paused to admire a brawl as it spilled from a saloon, then waded through the losers and marched up the slight hill, toward the Harmony compound.

  “A visitor?” Kev asked, letting go of Wilgar’s hand. At once the boy capered across the compound and shimmied up a brace-pole onto the walkway that ran around the inside of the palisade, which he proceeded to do, also. Glancing back to the acolyte who’d accosted him, Kev shook his head at the boy’s energy, then said, “Someone from town?”

  “No, First Deacon Malcolm, an off-worlder. He says he represents a contingent of miners from Hel—I mean, uh, Kennecott’s Vale.”

  Kev dismissed the youth, who walked off with relief showing in every line and motion of his body. Dealing with the Reverend Charles Castell’s right-hand man apparently required a bit of nerve, at least for the new true believers.

  Another glance at Wilgar showed the boy happily battling invisible pirates or other imaginary stormers of the palisade. Kev grinned, but if Wilgar’s father had witnessed the obviously-violent game, there would have been penance to be sung for a week. Although not encouraged, such games among children not yet fully indoctrinated as Harmonies served as vents for natural tendencies and, as Kev and a few others thought, might even come in handy later, if actual training in warrior’s arts became necessary.

  “If ever those walls come down,” Kev muttered, walking toward the rickety city-gate, where the sharp tips of the poles which made up the palisade were reinforced with clumps of ugly barbed wire scavenged from farms outside the Harmony influence.

  Recently, using small computers and data-chips for which he’d traded food-stuffs not exactly his to trade, Kev had been researching the Shao-Lin and other temples, monasteries, and the like, where men of peace had been forced first to take refuge behind walls, then to learn arts of self-defense and re-directed force, in order to survive in relative peace.

  A man slender and tight, with hair cut very short and showing a little gray, with eyes glinting like chips of obsidian, smiled and extended both han
ds, palms upward. “Peace is mine to offer,” he said, voice resonant, pleasant and almost cultured.

  Kev replied, “Seek Harmony in all things. How may I join your song?”

  “My name is Colin Maxwell, and as you no doubt see quite plainly, I’m lately of Earth.”

  “We no longer accept stray notes,” Kev said, regret in his tone, apology beginning on his features.

  Cole smiled and shook his head, the odd combination of expression and gesture giving him, for an instant, a look of innocence.

  That look clashed so discordantly with what one usually saw that Kev’s brows rose slightly, and his eyes narrowed.

  “You misunderstand me,” Cole said. “I’ve been sent here by some of the miners of Hell’s-A-Comin’, to speak with the Reverend Charles Castell on matters of mutual interest and importance.”

  “I’m sorry, the Reverend Castell is meditating, seeking harmony with the universe.”

  “As should we all. But should we not begin by seeking local harmony?” And Cole smiled even wider, all the while staring into Kev Malcolm’s eyes.

  Without a further word, Kev shut the gate and signaled with a raised hand. At once acolytes appeared, soiled from chores. “Keep an eye on Wilgar, please,” Kev told them. “And find a better lock for this gate.”

  He led the man who’d given him the name Colin Maxwell across the compound, noting that the man’s eyes never remained still, but sopped up every sight as if memorizing things meant daily survival. The structures past which they walked mostly rose only to their waists, being semi-buried for strength, warmth, and durability. Barns and pens and cribs and feeding troughs stood higher, their floors being shallower.

  A group of Harmonies, of both sexes and a wide age range, struggled to run pigs and sheep through a trench full of foul smelling dip of some sort. “From tree-sap, it protects like clothing against cold, radiation, and other Haven hazards,” Kev said, when the stranger paused to watch a moment. Kev’s voice held a note of begrudged generosity, as if he’d just given away a minor trade secret. Given the demand for succulent Harmony-grown food, perhaps he had.

  Kev stopped at his own place, its stone roof glinting with ice from condensation.

  “Please,” Kev said, gesturing at the flagstone ramp leading down to the zigzag tunnel entrance to the home. When the stranger looked puzzled, Kev dropped to his knees and entered first, to demonstrate.

  “Bren, we have an off-world guest,” he said to his wife, who nodded and began preparing Hecate tea at the tiny hearth. Her body moved within the robes like sticks, and her face, although younger than Kev’s, held many wrinkles and worry lines. Her hair held gray and white streaks and her eyes, when not directly animated by conversation, waned dull. She stirred the tea listlessly as it began boiling.

  Kev sat on a pile of muskylope hide, then gestured to another opposite him, where the stranger sat.

  “Warm,” Cole said, needlessly rubbing his hands. “These places remind me of the mines, they protect against weather.”

  The man spoke like a book of foreign phrases, Kev thought. He waited until the tea was served, and watched as the man took his first taste.

  “Pine-needle tea? No, there’s something, I don’t know, like cloves or cinnamon or something.”

  “Hecate tea,” Kev said. “A Haven plant, its leaves uncurl only to the light of Hecate, another of Cat’s Eye’s satellites.”

  “Of course. Delicious.” The man leaned forward, holding his cup of tea in both hands. The plain clay cup, glazed black, warmed his hands even more than rubbing, Kev knew. Already cold weather habits had begun in the man, but Kev certainly didn’t believe any tales of mines.

  The man said, “The miners want an alliance. They remember the food boycott, and know how effective Harmony help can be.”

  “Peace is ours to offer,” Kev said. “Your words ring with the discord of battle.”

  “A just cause, believe me,” Cole said. “Where is the Reverend Castell?”

  “As I said, meditating. He must not be disturbed.”

  “I see.” The man looked up at Kev. “And you are authorized to speak for him, am I right? You’re the First Deacon, Kev Malcolm, aren’t you? And you’ve been putting out feelers, trying to create a better form of trade between the compound and Castell City.”

  Kev held his tongue for a few moments. The man knew much, perhaps more than reasonably possible for a newlie. Kev caught and ignored a look of panic from Bren, who moved quietly through curtains into another room, leaving them to business.

  Cole said, “It’s nothing violent or in any way harmful or, uh, discordant. The miners want places to put aside some of their ores, that’s all. They need secure places, and the only property left more or less alone on this planet are the Harmony farms and compounds.”

  Kev raised a hand. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, seeking harmony, seeking larger chorus. He said, eyes still shut, “Ores mined belong not to miners, but to their employers, Kennicott and others.”

  “True, but it’s in the interest of the entire planet to help preserve the ore. You see, much of it never reaches its rightful owners. Much of it is pirated. And I’ve been sent here to, well, engineer the capture of those pirates, to stop the intercessions of our lawful trade. And I was instructed by Thomas Erhenfeld Bronson himself to include the Harmonies in any plans.”

  “You are an agent of secrecy.” Kev said this as both quotation and statement, then added, “Or of chaos.”

  “Nothing but peaceful help is required, First Deacon Malcolm. If you agree, simply spread the word that Harmonies are to, what would you call it, harmonize with the few miners who might contact them. All your people need do is accept receipt of a percentage of the ores normally shipped down the Xanadu River and taken off-world by splashship. We’re keeping aside this percentage because it off-sets the ores stolen by the pirates and that means, once we capture them, we’ll be able to resume full trade and make up back-log all the quicker. Everyone benefits, by the way; in honor of your help, contributions to Harmony coffers would increase, I am told, amazingly.”

  “What’s the real game?” Kev asked. His well-modulated Harmony tone slid away, revealing a harder, harsher voice.

  Surprised, Cole sat back and made a show of taking a twist of tobacco from his pocket and chewing it thoughtfully before answering. “Can’t tell you,” he said, his own speech automatically becoming terse.

  “Render unto Caesar,” Kev muttered. Louder he said, “You mentioned a Bronson.”

  “Thomas Erhenfeld Bronson, yes. He’s on Tanith, I believe. Grand tour and all that. He’s one of the family gophers, a scion but he’s going for more than they realize, I think. And the man has skills and guts to match his ambition, if I’m any judge. Met him a few times.”

  “And now you work for him.”

  “Tangentially, perhaps. In point of fact, so do you, if you want to put things in those terms.”

  Kev grimaced. “Would he…” His voice trailed off, he sought for words this time, not harmony. They came. “Would he become aware, specifically, of the Harmony role in such matters?”

  “If you want him to, he’ll know your name as well as he knows mine,” Cole said, coughing, then spitting tobacco juice into the fire. He ignored Kev’s look of distaste and spat again, then said, “Offers to play with the big boys don’t come very often. Repeat offers are rarer still.”

  Kev nodded, then stood. “How soon must you know?”

  “As soon as possible, First Deacon,” Cole said. “And I’d like a word with the Reverend, if he’s—”

  “I don’t think that’ll be possible.” He placed a hand on the stranger’s shoulder. “Or necessary,” he added, as they sank to their knees to crawl back outside.

  “Ah,” Cole said, standing and refastening his collar and cuffs. He looked once more at the Harmonies dipping the young animals. “I see.” He smiled once more at Kev, then shook the startled Harmony Deacon’s hand.

  “Have you
a place to stay?” Kev asked. He glanced toward the acolyte’s lodge, where another pallet could always be found.

  “Many,” Cole said, winking. “Alas, a secret agent is a busy man.”

  Kev neither smiled nor otherwise acknowledged the jest. He walked him to the city gate and discovered a padlock, then signaled for an acolyte to open it. As Cole trudged back into Castell City, Kev asked, “Where’s Wilgar?”

  “He went into your house, just after you and your guest,” the acolyte answered. “Didn’t you see him?”

  Kev said nothing, but he was thinking that the real question was whether or not Wilgar had seen or heard, the conversation which had just ended. Not for the first time had the child’s precocity created a potential problem. On instinct, Kev turned his steps toward the Reverend Castell’s house, hoping he’d find him still alone with his Gordian knots and obsessions.

  Instead, he found the Reverend talking animatedly with his long-dead father, or so it seemed. And there, in the corner, taking it all in, sat Wilgar, a half-smile on his lips, eyes staring in fascination.

  As he walked away from his first encounter with the Haven Harmonies, Cole laughed again, this time needing no cough to cover his delight at having so easily found the First Deacon’s apparent weak spot. So the young man had political ambitions, did he? All the better.

  He walked past entreaties from destitute drunks and brazen whores, ignored threats from bullies, and made it through Cambiston into Docktown proper before the two miners caught up with him.

  Decking shifted underfoot. Cole paused, then shoved an elbow back and up. It connected with a man’s chin, dropped quickly to guard the throat. The man staggered back, while his companion lunged forward, onto Cole’s left arm.

  Cole went with the inertia, falling and curling into a ball. The miner rolled over him and off the dock. The splash and subsequent thrashing gave Cole a grin.

  He rose and glanced at the other opponent. “Well?” he asked.