Chapter One
She Sure Was Beautiful
Hank
tore his eyes off Polly Morgensen and tried to contribute something to the
discussion.
She sure
was beautiful, though. Her chin came up and she looked his way again. He saw it
in his peripheral vision.
It was like
an illness with him lately.
“Drifters.”
Hank had run across one or two over the years.
They
were little better than the nomads, who at least had purpose, following the
great herds across the unbroken steppe of Third World’s northern hemisphere.
Drifters were just that. Nomads stayed clear of settlement and cultivation,
knowing there was plenty of room in the world. They needed open range, good
grass and water. Drifters sought many things for many reasons. They tended to
gravitate to more settled areas. During harvest, when hands were short, they
were more welcome in some places more than others.
“That’s
what they say. They’re camping up around Marjorie’s Way.” Red glanced around,
but the other shoppers in the general store ignored them. “Word is they’ve been
there a while.”
Perhaps
the other people had already heard the news. Hank came into town once or twice
in a month, usually a Monday but other days as well.
Marjorie’s
Way was a notch in the hills just over the eastern horizon, obscured by the
tops of barren pines, one of the few introduced species to do well on Third
World. On the other side of the hills there was a brackish marsh at the end of
a small run-off that brought a few of the indigenous waterfowl in season. After
that, the trail petered out into a maze of hunting camps and thin ribbons of
water in a vast marsh which had never been properly explored. People thought it
went clear to the Blue Mountains. It was possible.
Drifters
were often desperate, fleeing the law, debt more often. Sometimes it was young
people running away, or just unfortunates looking for a new home someplace
else. Hank had never really thought about it, although he had done it himself
more than once.
“I see.”
Hank Beveridge’s homestead was four kilometres out towards the morning sunrise,
in the rolling hills where the true grasslands began.
He had a
small river, and had painstakingly tanked up the seeps at the base of the hill
where it came down. Hank had a herd of pack, draft and riding animals which he
sold in an emergency, or when all else failed. He needed them for the business,
or he would have done with only one or two animals. In the off season there was
always work or worry.
The men
watched a girl, her name was Polly. She and her mother haggled and fussed over
a bolt of good red broadcloth. It looked like they were after a few things.
Winter was coming and the kids would need shirts and pants and coats for
winter, or even school. Polly was a fresh-faced beauty with a hint of a blush
in her cheeks, almost as if she was aware of their scrutiny. She had long,
straight black hair, with fine pale skin, long curling lashes and big dark eyes
looking at everything in the store with an air of serious intent. She stood up
straight, and that was one of the things he liked about her. It said much. Out
of politeness, Hank took off his most prized possession, a pair of spectacles
framed in thin steel wire. He put them in the case to protect them, as they
were irreplaceable, and stuck them in his side pocket.
Hank’s
purchase wasn’t urgent, but he’d been planning it for some time. Accounts
receivable were one thing, and actually collecting them was another. He waited
for long months on some accounts. The whole trade was predicated on long
turnaround times. When possible, he paid for things in cash, which meant he
owed few people and kept what he earned. It took a little foresight, and he had
some of that.
Red went
on.
“So far
no one’s talked to them.” He looked around, but as long as Peltham was busy, he
wasn’t going to get any cartridges, which was what he had ostensibly come in
for.
Red
could kill a half a day in town on three or four errands. The butter and eggs
were running out and he didn’t do that on his own little plot, although he did
have a respectable vegetable garden. It was something he was good at, and he
could at least walk away from it, for a few days at a time, to go hunting or if
some kind of work came up.
He sold
cabbages and other produce at the end of the year, and Hank always looked him
up as turnips and such kept pretty good over the winter. Red waxed them up real
good. Red called them Swedes, which
was a kind of a joke in these here parts. It really didn’t mean nothing and the
few Swedes around took it in good spirit.
Hank
studied Polly. Women were as scarce as hen’s teeth around here and she looked
to be getting close to marrying age. He thought about it from time to time, her
and one or two others. He fantasized about a few other ones, married as they
were and so unattainable except in a daydream…at his present age of forty or
thereabouts, it was pretty much all fantasy.
Red
cleared his throat.
“You’re
pretty close to Marjorie’s Way.”
Hank
nodded.
“It’s
about two and a half kilometres from my place.” It was to the north of his
homestead, the sides of the hills and banks were very steep along there.
The
valleys ran all east and west.
The
hollows were full of scrub and there was no easy way through, so he hardly ever
went up there. It was easier to get there from town, as the northeast trail ran
through from here. They might even be camped on a corner of his land. Not that
it mattered, they could do little harm as the first grass fire season was over
and the land was lush and surprisingly damp this year. The odds were they would
move on.
Cold
grey clouds had dominated the weather for weeks.
Drifters
were nothing new. One heard stories of course.
***
“Gentlemen.”
The beaming proprietor, Abe Peltham, having made a good sale apparently, stood
at the counter beside them.
Cheerful
talk came from the ladies, for spending money was always exciting, and the
slamming of the front door bore this impression out. Their hard boots thumped
on the shaded boardwalk and then they stepped out into a rare shaft of sunlight
and started across the rutted, muddy hell that was Main Street. Hank forced his
attention back to the counter again.
Putting
an elbow down and settling in for a long talk, Red leaned over to inquire as to
three boxes of .22 long-rifle cartridges. He always claimed to be able to hit
an apple at a hundred yards with the old repeater he owned, but privately Hank
doubted it. He hadn’t seen an apple in twenty-five years, maybe a little more,
maybe a little less. Not since leaving Earth as a boy.
It was
just talk. Talk had its pleasures, its temptations, and its uses. More than anything,
it was unavoidable. Hank pulled his glasses out and put them on again.
He
turned to watch the women cross the street and go into another establishment.
Oak River, the town’s name, was a bit misleading as there were no real oaks on
the planet, although several of the taller indigenous growths bore some
resemblance, at least as far as anyone remembered. Red and Abe would take a
while.
The
place had a population of about four hundred. There were a thousand other
settlers within a twenty-kilometre radius. There were quite a number in town
today, as the conversation droned on behind him.
People
moved up and down the street and draft animals, critters mostly but the odd
horse as well, stood at hitching rails in front of the hastily-erected and
mostly unpainted buildings.
Hank,
starved for company and mental stimulation, found it fascinating enough in its
own way. Turning, he watched in gentle amusement as Red tried to get Peltham to
throw something into the deal.
“Come
on, you got to make this worth my while.”
Abe
shook his head.
“You
know the prices. Besides, you still me owe a little from last month.” He knew
it right down to the penny of course.
Poor old
Red had been enjoying a run of bad luck, just a little saying he had.
Hank
snorted gently in amusement. Part of the charm of the place, he figured. Red
probably knew the total tab right down the penny himself.
Red knew
when he was beaten and took the shells.
“Can you
put that on my bill?” With a nod and a quick grin at Hank, he scooped them up
and turned and stalked out of the store.
If he
had any cash at all, Hank might find him at the Stub, one of three watering
holes and not the best of the bunch. If Hank could see that, so could Peltham.
“Well,
don’t that just beat all.” Abe sighed deeply and lifted an eyebrow in Hank’s
direction.
“It’s a
pretty good bet.”
Abe’s
eyebrows rose.
“What do
you mean?”
“I’m
thinking this will be a bumper year for the hoppers.” They teemed in the
grasslands, burrowing in the earth and subsisting on the greenery. “He’ll do
all right if he gets out there.”
Every
seventeen years they just seemed to go nuts, or so the old-timers said.
In
Hank’s opinion their legendary fecundity was to make up for a high mortality
rate among the young and newborns. Brownish on top and white on the belly, they
were long-haired animals with floppy wrinkled ears. He shot one when he could
himself, as they made a good stew, their small size precluding roast or steaks
or anything like that. They had extensive colonies scattered at set distances
and moved burrows frequently. The thing was to find a fresh group that had
never been hunted, a whole colony, and then you could lay in a supply of meat.
Properly smoked and salted, it would fetch a good price. Red had the best
recipe on the planet for jugging them, or so he said.
Red had
been known to do it from time to time, but hunting was always uncertain and had
costs, including ammunition.
“Well, I
suppose he has to feed himself, at least long enough to be able to pay me
back.” Abe bit his lip and then grinned at Hank. “What can I get you?”
Hank had
been saving a set amount, month in and month out, for a full year and yet his
idea might be crazy, or merely unsuccessful. He was keeping it to himself for
just that reason.
Taking a
deep breath, knowing that it was bound to cause a certain amount of talk, he
placed his order. He could almost justify it. He kept talking as Peltham moved
in and out of the back room.
One
thing he’d learned was to keep as much twine on hand as possible. It was mostly
used for tying bundles of bracken-bush, the pods of which were a prized
commodity on the home worlds. The pods were a tart, spicy thickener in a
variety of soups and sauces that for the most part he had never heard of, never
partaken of, and by the sounds of things, didn’t ever want to try. The leaves
were dried and crushed and added to various products in an endless industrial
food production chain. Elite chefs on a hundred worlds liked using the pods
with the leaves still on the branches for presentation, whatever the hell that
meant.
Hank
didn’t much like the taste of it himself, and never used it in his own kitchen.
***
Hank
wasn’t much for worship. While he had no particular reason not to go, the fact
was that he hadn’t been to worship in ten or eleven years. The last time he’d
been there, a friend was getting married. Not so much a friend as a cousin,
which amounted to the same thing around here. He never really saw them two
anymore.
The
trouble was, they’d staked out a homestead clear twelve kilometres out on the
other side of town and he rarely got up that way. Last he heard, they were
doing well enough though. The land was flatter up there, more open, and they
were growing fifteen or twenty acres of grain.
The pews
in the church were made of piss-elm, an old name for a new cultivar but no one
had any other ideas.
Hank
looked around for people he knew, politely nodding when he made eye contact
with old lady Stern, who in spite of the name was always just a little too
friendly and agreeable, laughing too much at the lamest of jokes. Maybe she was
just lonely.
A name
is a name, but the seat was painfully hard under his butt. It was one of
several reminders of why he never came anymore. The room was hot and fliers
buzzed loudly in the small windows, letting a dim light in from a sky still a
milky, dull bluish colour with the moisture. The air was so thick lately that
you could cut it with a knife, bite a chunk off and chew it for a while.
Maybe
that was why he never came anymore. Marty, the preacher, was surely one of the
most fussy, prim and proper speakers he’d ever heard. He was…he was didactic
and pedantic. The old familiar words came harder now, it’s not like you heard
them at all anymore. It was clunky as all hell, there was no other way to
describe it. There was just a hint of the effeminate in it, although Marty was
married and had eight kids, all under twelve years of age.
The
thought of this man teaching schoolchildren might in some small way account for
their persistent and habitual truancy. It explained a lot. The last guy, Aldwin
Notherman, was a lot better but he just up and died one day in the prime of
life. It seemed so sad, and his wife and two daughters had moved back to
Emerald City, six hundred kilometres to the south.
“Go in
God’s name, and with peace and love in your hearts, my brothers and sisters and
children of God.”
The
words were familiar, but the sigh of collective relief that went through the
assembly, as there must have been a hundred-fifty people in there, was a sign
that maybe Hank wasn’t the only one that missed poor old Aldwin.
***
“Good
morning, Missus Morgensen. Good morning, Polly.”
“Good
morning, Hank.” Andrea Morgensen smiled up at Hank, looking distinctly
uncomfortable and out of place despite the black suit, looking a bit thin in
the derriere but still serviceable, and the wet cowlick that managed to stick
up and out in spite of his best effort to keep it down.
His big
hands were doing minor damage to the hat he held in his hands. Lucky to have
two, this was his best one although he hadn’t worn it in a while.
“Good
morning, Mister Beveridge.” Polly looked bright and fresh and perhaps a little
younger than her nineteen-and-a-half years.
They
stood in a huddle as other worshippers came down the stairs and into the light,
getting brighter now as the day wore on. Hank had been at the very back and
they were four rows up on the other side, where he had an opportunity to study
Polly and wonder a bit, and not just about her either. But he had to wonder at
himself as well. Men were fools, or so they said. He wasn’t smiling now,
though. Thoughtfully, he put his hat back on. He had never learned to really
fake a smile, not when he was scared, anyways.
“With a
little luck, we might see some sunshine later on.”
“Oh,
that would be lovely.” Polly smiled up at him, making eye contact, but Hank
just tried to stand his ground.
He was
tempted to bolt and run, that was for sure.
“Hank!”
They
turned.
“Hank!
It’s good to see you.” Marty, his open face lighting up, beamed at him from the
top of the stairs.
He was
almost glad to see him, for the sheer interruption. Marty was in his late
twenties, with boyish lean features and a fervent faith in his mission, which
made up for a lot of failings of organization. He meant well and took an
interest, which was about all that was called for in this neck of the woods.
A bit of
a blush crept into Hank’s features, reddened by the outdoors enough to begin
with. Marty took the stairs two at a time, possibly as relieved as anyone to be
over and done with duty. The other folks were all regulars and Hank realized he
probably talked their ears off most any given Sunday. Hank tugged at the brim
of his hat and the ladies curtsied awkwardly, the sudden demand taking Polly by
surprise by the look of it. He would think more on that later. The reverend was
at his side, face wreathed in a smile. Hank was, morally at least, a long-lost
brother. The reverend thought in those terms, and while Hank understood what he
was talking about, usually, it was an unusually abstract way of looking at things.
“So
what’s been happening?” With the wind lifting a long tuft of thin black hair,
revealing a good chunk of a prematurely bald skull, Marty took a proprietary
grip on Hank’s upper arm.
***
Hank
lived in a cabin on a bench overlooking the river that ran through his
property. Built entirely with his own hands, he had set up a small sawmill,
wheel-driven by a short stretch of white water where it bunched up over a shelf
of underlying limestone. Every so often someone would look him up and contract
for this and that and the other thing, big beams and the like mostly, although
he could cut smaller stock for the right price. The mill had paid for itself
within a few years and was easy enough to maintain. It was helpful in combating
boredom, and he could bring in money during the winter.
The
biggest job was damming the creek, but he’d picked the spot very carefully and
there were plenty of boulders available.
The pond
above the mill was stocked with Terran fish including rainbow trout, which
seemed to do well on Third World, and several of the pan-fish species. They
were brought in on their one and only road, under the care of the drover, and
hideously expensive. In a few years, they were feeding old Hank pretty regular.
There
was other stuff in there, but the local water creatures rarely appealed to the
taste. There were one or two plants in there that he used from time to time.
Since
the growing season was just underway, and bracken was a naturally-occurring
resource, Hank was at home and trying his hand at making a net. He had to take
a day off once in a while.
This was
something he had wanted to do for a long while.
The most
abundant local species of bird-like creatures, for they could fly short
distances when they wanted to, were flocking animals that from time to time
he’d observed eating corn and other grain spilled by the roadside. They came
out into the fields to graze, and they seemed to tolerate humans although dogs
chased them and caught them sometimes.
Hank was
thinking of catching some birds, with a combination of corn for bait and some
non-threatening system of fencing them in, perhaps at first gradually. He
didn’t even have to box them in at first, merely direct them a bit. See what they did and how they reacted over
time.
He was
almost sure it could be done with a minimum of help, which would of course have
to be paid for or otherwise provided for. The ones he was after even laid eggs.
He found a nest every so often in the long grass, and they tasted fine. In
fact, if you hadn’t had the regular kind in a while, they were pretty much
indistinguishable.
Otherwise,
real eggs were sort of expensive, a luxury when he had them.
He had
two stout poles planted in the ground. At about three metres apart they were
good for making a net that was maybe a bit more than he could chew. But if it
worked well, he wanted to make a really big net, or maybe a bunch of smaller
ones. If he could do it, he wanted to make more than just one at a time. If
they were nice and light, he could push stakes into soft ground and herd a
flock just where he wanted them. They tended to run along the ground on
well-defined pathways through the long grass when disturbed.
Shooting
at them from afar only scattered the flocks and got you a meal or two. The
birds had to get used to him just like chickens, or ducks or geese.
Hank had
it worked out to some extent, but with no knowledge or experience, only trial
and error could teach him the best way. He had a couple of strings of the
heavy, synthetic black twine going across at a convenient working height. The
two strands had long tails left on them after being tied to the poles in case
it worked. Then he would be able to set up the net, tie it to things, et cetera.
Tying
another end on, with the spool handled carefully to avoid dropping it and
creating a real mess, he brought it up on a forty-five degree angle and tried
to tie it to the upper cross line. Uniform lengths on the angles was crucial.
Then he brought it down on forty-five degrees and tied it to the lower cross
line.
“Only
another fifty thousand knots to go.” Of course Hank had second thoughts.
Wasting
twine was wasting cash money. He might as well give it a proper shot. Working
more quickly now, he went up and down, up and down, until he reached the far
end.
He
looked up at the sun, climbing higher in the sky as the morning wore on and a
welcome sight after weeks of overcast. In the last few days, the weather had
been generally improving. Yet the season was well advanced and he didn’t
remember anything like this in years past.
“Oh, boy.”
There was still plenty of material on the spool, and he hadn’t dropped it or
anything yet, so he went straight up in a vertical side-line, tied it off, and
then zigzagged back the other way.
He knew
it was possible. He just hadn’t done it before. The day was young and Hank had
a little time on his hands.
Chapter Two
Hank’s Glasses Were Stained
With Sweat
The
black dot at the end of the track where it came out of the brush down by the
ford eventually resolved itself into a two-wheeled cart pulled by an animal out
of Stanislaus’ Livery, one of the longer-lived establishments in the vicinity.
The blaze of red paint on the hind-quarter was a dead giveaway. The cart was
probably from there as well.
Hank’s
glasses were stained with sweat and dirty finger-marks, but as it drew closer
he saw that it was a woman, and he straightened up and wondered who it could
be.
Looking
down at himself, he picked up his shirt and put it on, and then went into the
kitchen to put on a kettle of water just as the cart came in through the gap in
his split-rail fence and entered the yard.
He waved
from the door at the figure inside. She dropped the reins and put her foot out
tentatively as the thing had stopped right in the middle of the biggest muddy
patch and the animal refused to budge another inch.
Stanislaus
knew how to pick them, and it was probably better than a more flighty animal.
“Hello.”
“Hello.”
Mrs. Beynholm was a widow, and had been alone for about four years.
She
stood there grinning up at him, shading her eyes from the glare.
People
were always smiling at Hank and he wondered why. It bothered him a little
sometimes as he couldn’t account for it.
She was
a buxom woman with sturdy hips, thick graying hair that had once been brown and
deep blue eyes. While they were courteous about town and knew each other’s
first names, they really didn’t have a lot of contact and little in common, not
even very many friends in common.
“I’ve
just put the tea on.”
They
clumped inside.
“Oh,
thank you.” She stood just inside the room, hands on her hips, and she
inspected the place, finally giving a slight nod which he interpreted as
approval.
It
wasn’t much to look at, smaller than a typical one-bedroom apartment back home,
and with none of the amenities either. The plank walls were tightly fitted and
the floor was still level, which was saying something for the solidity of the
site as much as his building skills.
With the
shutters thrown back, and the table clean, no dirty dishes lying about, it
conveyed an impression of rugged comfort. Hank had four rooms in total, with
the kitchen being the best, which was on the left coming in the door. Connected
by a sweeping arch supported by a massive log of white cedar to the living room
on her right, it looked bigger in the broad light of day.
He could
hear the water just beginning to bubble.
“So,
what brings you out this way?” He was wondering if Marty had put her up to it.
She was
always into things, he knew that much.
Surely
it had to be something important, or more likely the most trivial of attempts.
“Oh, I
was just in the neighbourhood.” She didn’t elaborate, and he desperately tried
to take it at face value.
He
mentally kicked himself for showing up in church last Sunday. Maybe she just
wanted a donation for something, or worse, volunteers for something.
Of
course! What an idiot he had been. He’d walked right into it this time.
“Oh,
yes, the fields are lovely this time of year.” Hank had no idea of what to say
so he turned and beckoned her to come along, and she seated herself at the
table.
She was
certainly well-dressed, and he was aware that he hadn’t smelled a woman up
close and in a small room with him in a fair while. Other than that, it was all
right. He wondered what she was looking at.
With its
central core dominated by a massive hearth that went from floor to ceiling and
spanned the entire inner wall, the room smelled vaguely of onions, tobacco
smoke and meat, mostly fried.
“I can
see why you have the bedroom right there.”
“Yeah,
it’s warmer in winter.”
She
nodded, still looking around.
The long
front wall faced southeast so as to heat up quickly on the winter mornings when
the sun made its belated appearance, and prevailing breezes in summer would
sweep the air out of it from the kitchen window on the southwest side, blowing
out through the setting room. Hank had a pair of windows on the east side. His
bedroom was behind the setting room, and it had one small window up high on the
east side as well. She took it all in as he led her past the open bedroom door
in a quick tour of the place, her teacup firmly clenched in her hand. She
seemed very impressed with his small office.
The man
probably lived as much on the covered veranda out front, at least in season.
He
opened the door to the rear of the house to allow a flow of fresh air as those
kitchen shutters faced north and he rarely opened them. The pantry was there, a
bit of a mistake on his part as he always used the front door. She nodded at
his quick explanation. He had to lug everything in and through the kitchen,
which meant a lot of sweeping.
She sat
down at the table again and examined the room with care.
“You’re
doing all right, Hank.”
He
nodded modestly, a small grin sneaking over his face as he got out the biscuits
and found a clean plate in the cupboard.
“Yeah, I
guess I’m getting by.”
“What
are you making? A fish net?” As he recalled, she’d been born on Earth.
His mood
brightened, they could always reminisce.
“Ah…”
Not exactly, but he didn’t want to go into it.
She had
fifteen hectares, right in town on a kind of narrow frontage. Only two or three
hectares had ever been tilled. She was a seamstress, and she had a few goats
and chickens. She hired herself and her two sons out to work in the fields of
others. Her husband went hunting and never showed up again. No one knew where
he went or what happened to him. His name was Alvin or Alan, Hank wasn’t quite
sure which. She sold cheese and butter, some of it on consignment and they
scrounged along all right. Other than that, she was a face in the crowd and he
didn’t know too much about her…some kind of distant cousin of Missus Morgensen,
and Polly.
“You’re
smart, Hank Beveridge. Everyone says that.”
“Huh?”
She smiled, but of course he knew what she was getting at.
Hank had
claimed and filed on twenty thousand hectares a decade before anyone else
thought of any sort of permanence. They said he was mad at first, and then a
few more people turned up, and once one of them innocently asked a few
questions about registration, the panicked herd stampeded towards the
registrar. It’s not that they didn’t build houses and farm the land, but it was
thought to be inexhaustible. You could always move on if it didn’t work out. It
was part of the attraction, in some ways. What he couldn’t explain to her or
anyone else, really, was that he could never use or exploit more than a small
fraction of it alone and by himself. A lot of folks had more reasonably filed
on a few hundred hectares, and all hands contributed to the work. One or two others
in the area had bigger holdings and more grandiose plans for it. They at least
had a reason.
He could
see that much. But Hank just liked the space. Good fences make good neighbours,
but there was no need for that when the nearest house was a couple of
kilometres away. Hank’s place was the end of the line, and that way he didn’t
get much traffic.
As far
as the bracken-pods went, that was just an excuse. You could gather them
anywhere that was public property, and he had wondered a time or two why so few
people did. It took minimal business savvy to gather bracken and sell it to the
brokers when they came through once a year.
All a
man needed was a scythe, and a wagon. That and some twine, and feed for the
working critters.
Hank
just liked the look of the place and wanted to keep the neighbours a little
ways down the road, so to speak…some things were better left unsaid. It had a
way of going around.
The
visit might have been more enjoyable for Hank if only he could have figured out
what brought it on. He had no idea of why she was there and she didn’t see fit
to enlighten him. As things went, they had their tea, passed the time,
exchanged pleasantries, and after a while, they gossiped harmlessly enough
about various local personalities. She brought Hank up to date on any number of
things, which was good as he had little to contribute in that line himself.
Yet for
the life of him, Hank couldn’t figure out what it was about. It was that
unusual to get a visitor.
She’d
been alone a long time and he accepted that, the question was why him?
And why
now?
***
Commander
Jeff Burke of Her Majesty’s Ship Hermes
stood in front of the cupola that let in a spectacular view of space and the
planet below. Third World, named for its position in this system, a name which
had stuck more to eliminate arguments than any other reason, had a population
of over half a million. The tall, athletic Burke had held command of Hermes for four years. His thoughts
congealed.
Settlement
had begun seventy-five or a hundred years ago, but the original plans to export
a half a billion people to the planet had quietly been shelved when the
newcomers had been in place a few years and the complaints started to roll in.
An inquiry had been held, and ultimately it was determined not to be anybody in
particular’s fault, but pioneering was hard work and ultimately even the
best-prepared settlers fell to subsistence level as people spread out and began
to exploit the local environments, about which they had initially known little.
The
Planetary Authority, once established, was understandably eager to perpetuate
itself as bureaucracies will. Perhaps initial reports of the planet’s potential
had been a little too glowing. A half a million in population was not enough to
make a viable and self-sustaining economy, and with recruitment dropping off
quickly it was no longer profitable to send any more colony ships.
The
Commander had a problem, in that things were heating up in the Vega sector and
confrontation with Them seemed
imminent. The Empire and Them had
been bickering for years.
Responsible
for law and order in his sector, he had little jurisdiction on the surface, and
yet he was also charged in recent orders with apprehending and confining known
deserters from Her Majesty’s Service until such time as courts-martial could be
convened and punishments doled out.
The
trouble was, they had only a vague idea of where a few of them were, might be,
or had last been sighted. Combing through the duty roster revealed a grand
total of sixteen or seventeen non-essential personnel available for assignment
to shore duties, none of whom he had a whole lot of confidence in. They were
available for a reason, not unusual in the service. The only person he had to
lead them was Lieutenant Shapiro, who had virtually zero experience on his own.
That, in itself, represented an opportunity of sorts.
Burke
had the funny feeling they would be on the ground and hard to extract in a
hurry if and when the word from above came through. It was worthy of a brief
smile.
Orders
were orders and this one was unusually succinct. It also came from a long ways
up the ladder, and good officers were long in the development.
Burke
had no choice but to make a stab at it.
Chapter Three
A First Briefing
Lieutenant
Newton Shapiro sat at the head of the table and surveyed the senior members of
the landing party. His eyes swept the faces, all carefully neutral.
They
were gathered for their first briefing and planning session. The enlisted
personnel at his disposal were all the usual suspects, and were the most easily
spared from the ship’s regular routine according to Commander Burke. In his
words, it might even do the odd free spirit among them some good to get off the
ship.
It was
his first meeting with the command team.
A couple
of the troops hadn’t seen planet-side in years, as they were habitually in the
brig by the time the ship actually got anywhere.
As to
why his own name came up at the top of that list was another question, but he
was a junior officer, and while his duties as the vessel’s supply officer were
not unimportant, there were others at least partly trained in his job. He could
be spared, and he recognized that much.
“All
right. Our deserters are last seen in the Port Complex, the usual port of call
for Fleet units. Frankly, we’ve never had occasion to land anywhere else, and
they have the best facilities. If a ship having problems set down elsewhere, it
would cause considerable problems of logistics to set her right and lift off
again. They go on shore leave. The first place they head for is a bar. It’s the
usual sad story. At some point they realize they are absent without leave, and
we figure the usual practice is to get as far away as possible from anything
that smacks of Empire and authority.”
“They’re
fugitives.” Ensign Spaulding nodded. “The punishment is harsh.”
A
willowy blonde in her mid-twenties, Beth was a human resources specialist,
which aboard ship meant everyone got paid. They made the contributions to their
retirement or kid’s schooling. She was a grief counselor when required and
helped in the infirmary with trauma victims, physical and psychological. She
was in charge of all records pertaining to personnel outside of confidential
medical and command security files.
“Right.”
Shapiro went on. “And yet they really didn’t have a plan of action. They’re not
here to emigrate and make a new life. The trouble is, they don’t have any
choice but to try, otherwise they starve, kill themselves, or give themselves
up.”
A few
had ended up incarcerated under criminal statutes. Over the years, one or two
had been apprehended that way. Sometimes people turned themselves in.
One or
two over the years had done just that. They turned themselves in to the
Planetary Authority, who placed them in custody and notified the Fleet. If they
did it quickly enough, the punishment was the usual thing, not desertion but
absent without leave. Desertion was another level of offense, and yet how would
he define it? They probably just got scared. Were they actually intending to
desert? Intent was part of the definition of the desertion offence. Some of
them were just kids, really. As for suicide, there were no statistics.
“Over
the years, fifty-seven men and women have deserted Fleet units of all types, on
Third World, or failed to return after shore leave. Some of them quite
recently, ah, including two of our own.”
Sober
faces watched him silently.
“For all
we know, some might have been murdered, been killed in accidents, or even just
got sick or starved to death.”
The
Fleet took full legal responsibility for people when they signed on.
That
might have been what tripped the Commander into this mission. He wanted them
back for whatever reason, and in disciplinary matters, he would have
considerable discretion in their cases. It would be better to be caught by their
own shipmates, if possible. Of course Burke’s own performance in this unwelcome
duty would be closely scrutinized.
“Okay.
So what do we do?”
Emerson
Faber was a big, capable-looking man with ropy forearms and bulging biceps.
Shapiro was glad to have him along, for he was at least weapons-trained and
their newest recruits would be more of a hazard, considering how seldom they
used their weapons aboard ship.
After
sixteen months of garrison duty, endlessly hovering in the stable point,
providing some kind of moral presence for the colony, people tended to get
rusty. Most didn’t abuse shore leave, but every cruise had its killed and
missing, even on the most mundane of duty. It was a hazardous profession and
Shapiro was trained well enough in that regard. He had a responsibility to
assess and minimize all risks.
Not very
exciting, but it was his job.
“We make
an appearance in the city. We troll through the bars, wearing full kit and
arrayed for battle. And we tell people we’re looking for deserters.”
“And?”
Dave Semanko was a communications specialist, which included linguistics and
even rhetoric.
In his
early thirties, he radiated competence. Perhaps the uniform, crew-cut and trim
build had something to do with it. His intelligent brown eyes looked at Newton.
“Then we
go to a hotel and rustle up some transport, as we have one or two tips to check
out. Other than that, I figure by the time we get back to the port, people have
had a chance to think on it and it’s quite possible some of them will turn
themselves in.”
He was
betting on word getting around—like wildfire.
“Turn
themselves in?” Faber snorted and slapped his thigh.
He
didn’t impress Shapiro as an idiot, but he might have been mistaken.
“Once
they get out there. Once they’ve gone hungry a while, and seen the prospects.
Once they see what they’re really up against, they’ll be kicking themselves all
over the place for running away.”
Semanko
was studying the field notes for Third World.
“It
doesn’t seem so bad. A mix of indigenous and Terran flora, a few carefully
selected fauna…temperate zone is extensive.” He read on. “Seventy percent of
the surface is landmass, and the biggest ocean is at the southern pole. Huh.”
“Yeah.
And there’s nothing down there.” Shapiro swept their eyes in an
all-encompassing stare.
“Nothing?” If Ensign Spaulding didn’t get it, the others
probably weren’t either.
“Nothing.
Nothing at all, ladies and gentlemen.” He gave them a moment to think about it.
“The
life of a soldier is compensated for by a life of ease and sloth.” Faber
surprised him with that one.
It went
back a thousand years to some historian no one ever read anymore.
“Yes.
And that’s just what they’re not going to get on Third World. First, the
capital city is our city—and it’s only eighteen thousand people. They really
can’t hide there and they know it.”
Because
sooner or later, everybody discovers they need to make a living. That was
another, unspoken compensation for being in the service. It was a living.
“Because
they don’t have the skills or the drive.” The Ensign had nailed it. “It’s
more—a lot more, than they must have bargained for.”
There
were comprehending nods around the table as they looked at him and each other. There
was no lack of confidence, but a little caution would have been preferable. He
wondered if he was just being insecure about his own role in all of this. It
was a command, though. It was an independent command…
“So what
do you think?” Shapiro eyed the lean, dour figure of Jackson at the far end of
the table.
“Nothing,
yet. What are the people like? I mean, outside the, er…cities.” He cleared his
throat and explained. “There are a lot of officials from outside, recent
immigrants, temporary workers. Not everyone in town is a local.”
The city
was at least used for shore leave. They had some familiarity with it. The
hinterland was another story. Newton wondered most about Jackson. At his age,
his rank seemed very low, as if he had hit a dead end for one reason or
another. That was the truth about the service. There were only so many
desirable positions available, and in peacetime manpower withered away as the
brightest people sought a better life in the civilian world. So why had Jackson
stayed?
But
Jackson had hit the nail right on the head. Walter was extremely intelligent,
but was known to hate the service. He looked like he was looking forward to the
duty, unlike one or two others, at least initially. They were putting a better
face on it now. Control over one’s demeanour was a necessary trait in even the
most junior officers in the close-knit community that was the ship. Catching
deserters wasn’t exactly what they had signed up for. Ship-board duties had
their own routine, and it was a comforting one, even a lazy one at times. Faber
was right—it really was a different kind of a life, but one easily gotten used
to.
“That,
is very difficult to say. The traders say they are pretty business-savvy and
harvesting the local commodities is back-breaking work. It’s all done with the
simplest of tools and implements. The communities are very small and
tightly-knit. The old timers still remember their home world, and some of them
are probably better educated than you or I. We’d better remember that. This is
not the time to be patronizing them. Hopefully we can avoid, ah…cultural
pitfalls.”
Life was
simple, brutal, and short on Third World, with its limited nutrition and
medical care.
It was
amazing how fast a new culture would spring up. The company had brought in
twenty or thirty loads of colonists, setting them down here or there as per
some initial study and planning. A lot of promises had been made, and then the
company was affected by a downward turn of the economy. Much of the heavier
equipment and tools never made it to the planet’s surface, being sold elsewhere
in the name of liquidity. The government and the company were consulting and
working on the difficulties.
Again
the nods. There were limits to what power and authority could do. The Empire
claimed that it governed on goodwill and tried to achieve it, in all honesty.
In all honesty, it failed as often as it succeeded. It’s not like the Empire
didn’t care about its social mission,
but funds were always tight and priorities higher elsewhere.
“All
right. Let’s go over this list and see who’s who—and who’s what.” Shapiro was
rewarded with a few grins and chuckles.
The
enlisted men’s files were at least entertaining. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad
after all. His team would be what he made of it.
He’d
read all the books.
END
Not including Core Values, (Sci-fi/horror) this is
my fourth science fiction novel. I’m presently working on the third of the
Maintenon Mystery Series, a series of detective novels set in Paris, France,
during the 1920s and early 1930s.
