War World X: Takeover Page 7

  Brodski, watching them with his binoculars from Harp’s Sergeant, muttered: “Now it begins,” and picked up his old portable radio.

  Leo Makhno, waiting at the dock, revved up the engine of the River Dragon the moment the shuttle appeared over the lake. By the time it had settled on Splashdown Island and opened its hatch, his trimaran was waiting at the shore. Sure enough, the first people out were ragged transportees. Makhno took as many as the ship could carry in the first load, hauled them back to the new dock and let them off. He noted that the man holding the “Jobs Here” sign stepped forward, smiling.

  As Makhno turned the Dragon around and headed back to the shuttle for the next load, he picked up his radio and reported what he’d seen.

  Little Wilgar, carrying a tray of euph-leaf packets, trotted close enough to the transportees to peddle his goods—and, incidentally, hear all of the sign-holder’s sales pitches.

  It took hours to finish the unloading, and as Makhno brought the last of the cargo to the dock he saw that most of the transportees—hundreds of them—had signed up with the sign-holder. The other men with him had unfolded the carts, and the transportees were stuffing their luggage on them.

  “Who are they, and where are they going?” asked his last passenger, a middle-aged man wearing a better grade of cold weather gear than the sign-holder and his friends.

  “Recruiters from Reynolds mining,” Makhno dutifully replied. He had to bite his lip to keep from asking: How well do you know Max Cole?

  “Mmm,” said the man. “Tell me, where is the communications center for the city?”

  “Oh, that’d be Sam Kilroy’s place.” Makhno pointed, as he surreptitiously signaled to whomever was watching from inside Harp’s Sergeant. “He’s got the only radio that can transmit reliably all over the valley when the atmospheric conditions are just right.”

  “Ah. And the center of whatever government this place has?”

  “That’s Old Man Castell’s office, in the Harmony enclave, inside that palisade.” Makhno obligingly pointed—and signaled—again.

  “Hmm. And where’s the best hotel?”

  “That’d be the Starman’s Inn.” Makhno wasn’t about to steer the CoDo man to Harp’s, or anywhere near it. “Down that street there.”

  “Thank you, uh, Captain.” The man handed him a 5-cred CoDo bill as a tip, picked up his briefcase and strolled away in the indicated direction.

  Makhno watched him walk away in one direction and the gang of freshly recruited laborers in the other, pulled up his radio and called Brodski.

  Word filtered in steadily to the Jane’s Alliance radio network. Max Cole’s replacement had signed in at the Starman’s Inn under the name of Vince Sanchez. After questioning the waitress extensively about the menu, he’d eaten a meal there. Then he’d gone out to Kilroy’s place and paid to send a coded message, which received no reply after half a T-day’s waiting. Much annoyed, Sanchez had then strolled about Docktown studying the busy warehouses and shops. He’d struck up conversations with the assorted Fleet personnel in town and hadn’t seemed too impressed with the results. He had not approached any of the Harmonies, let alone gone into the enclave. At length he made his way to Harp’s Sergeant.

  Brodski was ready for him.

  Sanchez took a seat at the quiet end of the bar and waited until Brodski, moving slowly and leaning heavily on his cane, came close enough to talk to. “So you’re the famous Sgt. Brodski,” Sanchez opened.

  “Retired,” Brodski smiled. “And lucked into a fine retirement plan.”

  “Mostly by defeating Jomo’s army, I hear.”

  “Heh-heh. Well, not all by myself, I admit.”

  “With just a ragtag bunch of farmers? I’d say that’s pretty good strat-and-tac.”

  “Don’t sell farmers short. Anybody who survives here by farming is a pretty tough cookie.”

  “So I hear, so I hear.” Sanchez hitched closer. “So, where’s the real excitement in this town?”

  “Depends on what your pleasure is.” Brodski leaned nearer too. “For booze, euph-leaf and not-bad food, don’t move an inch. We also get the occasional music band, but the best place for that is the Dance Palace, up the road and to the left. If it’s female companionship you want, well, any lady wearing a red scarf—like that handsome gal over there by the front table—will be happy to oblige you. For a good game of cards, probably the bar at Starman’s Inn is your best bet. Cards and dice are about all you’ll find here; roulette wheels aren’t exactly worth the cost of importing all the way out to Haven. Cards and dice are portable, but they wear out and can’t be replaced locally. There’s the Sports Palace if you’re into watching big goons wrestle and punch each other around. A lot of the Marines like that. There’s no racetrack yet: not enough spare horses, and nobody’s imported greyhounds. That’s about it.”

  “Hmm. Where do the miners go to blow off steam?”

  “Not here to Castell City. They’re all over Redemption and Last Chance, or down river in Kenny-Camp or Hell’s-A-Comin’.”

  “Hmm.” Sanchez rattled his fingers on his beer-mug. “This is a pretty quiet town for a port. I haven’t even seen any drunks on the streets.”

  “They tend to stay inside, where it’s warm.” Brodski chuckled. “Besides, there isn’t much going on here when the ships aren’t in. This is mostly a farming town, with a little manufacturing thrown in. The mining, and most of the shimmer stone hunting, is down or up river. You can follow the Xanadu down to Kenny-Camp or go south up the Alf toward Redemption and Last Chance.”

  “Hmm. And that ‘euph-leaf’ doesn’t cause any problems?”

  “Nah. People smoke it and just bliss out. It doesn’t exactly encourage belligerence.”

  Sanchez frowned briefly and took a swig of his beer. “No problems with the Holy Joes, then?”

  “Nah.” Brodski loaded his pipe, silently thanking whoever had thought to import kinnikinnick—primitive tobacco—to Haven. “They finally figured out that there was more profit to be made by, ahh, ‘harmonizing’ with the newcomers. It doesn’t hurt that the Church has more off-world money than anybody else—except the mining companies, of course. You need something imported? Talk to Castell. The mining companies aren’t nearly as helpful.”

  “Ah, I take it nobody likes the companies, then.”

  “No way.” Brodski lit his pipe with a little more flourish than necessary. “They’re practicing something close to slavery, you know, with their ’indentures’. And everybody knows about how they broke up the miners’ strike ten years ago. And any miner can tell you not to trade shimmer stones—or anything else—at those company stores. Everybody knows how they loot the planet and don’t give anything back. Take my advice, young fella; don’t have anything to do with the companies. You want to hunt shimmer stones? Buy your gear here in town, head off into the hills and do your own digging. You come across anything useful, come trade it here in Castell City. Don’t go to Kenny-Camp.”

  “Still….” A brief grin flickered across Sanchez’ face. “It sounds like that’s where the money is.”

  “Money and trouble,” Brodski gloomed, inwardly holding back a laugh.

  “Hmm. And what’s the quickest way to Kenny-Camp?”

  Brodski rolled his eyes theatrically. “The River Dragon should be coming in soon; she’s for hire, and makes regular runs down there. But just remember, young fella; you’ve been warned.”

  Sanchez nodded agreeably, saluted Brodski with his glass and drained it. Then he got up and strolled, not too quickly, toward the table near the front of the bar where the red-scarved lady sat awaiting customers, his intentions plain.

  Brodski wished him the joy of her. If Sanchez was hoping to pump her for information, he’d be sorely disappointed; everyone else knew that Alzora spoke only Arabic and bad Russian, and her conversation was limited to the list of her fees and services.

  Brodski waved a signal to Flora and took himself off to the back room. Once there, he clicked on the rad
io and cut through the chatter with: “Breaker! Breaker! Heads up, Leo. Codo-Boy’s heading for Kenny-Camp as fast as he can get there, and he’ll want your boat.”

  “Got it,” Makhno’s voice replied. “I’ll keep him from seeing the radio.”

  “Let’s keep him from seein’ the Queen, too.” Irish’s voice was staticky with distance. “Likewise the Princess.”

  An even more staticky voice, still recognizable as Van Damm’s, growled: “Can you stall him for two weeks? We need time to set up the mess with Reynolds’ camp, not to mention clearing some of the floating beggars out of your path. We don’t want Cole’s replacement to see them and get ideas.”

  “I think I can manage,” Makhno chuckled.

  The first problem with hiring the River Dragon was finding her. The rather large Harmony beadle—if you please!—patrolling the dock had no idea when the ship might come in, though he offered several kindly suggestions as to who might know. Trotting from warehouse to warehouse Sanchez garnered no further information, except that the warehouse managers themselves indulged in a bit of primitive banking, evaluating goods for barter, and changing CoDo creds for gold, goods or out-world currencies.

  A visit to the town hospital—likewise guarded by a sturdy beadle—revealed only that it was actually quite a good clinic, employing both off-world techniques and tools and local herbal cures. Another visit around the bars and restaurants likewise revealed nothing new. By the time dim-dark was approaching, Sanchez was beyond impatience and into steaming.

  He finally saw a bizarre-looking riverboat approaching, learned that this was indeed the legendary River Dragon and took care to be waiting on the new dock when the ship came in. He noticed that her captain looked oddly familiar, enough like the pilot of the ferry-raft to be a close relative. Sanchez bothered to ask the man his name, which he couldn’t recall hearing before, and asked when the boat would be heading down river. He was not pleased by the answer.

  “Yes, four T-days,” Makhno repeated, idly scratching his new beard. “I have a lot of trips to and from the shuttle. There are some shimmer stone miners going home this time, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “But four days!”

  “That’s the least I can make it. The ships come in intermittently, you know.”

  “And usually stay in orbit for ninety days! Don’t tell me you’re not taking goods and passengers straight down to Kennicott Camp!”

  “Sure, but they usually wait until I’ve got the full cargo for the town. What’s your hurry, anyway? It’s not like anything’s going to change in four days. Besides, you’ll need to collect your own provisions for the trip, unless you want to stop at local settlements every T-day—which I can’t guarantee, anyway. I’d say, bring two weeks’ provisions—just in case.”

  With that Sanchez had to be content. He went stomping back to the Starman’s Inn, pausing only to buy a cheap packet of euph-leaf and make an offer to another Red-Scarf, one that spoke a civilized language this time. He was already starting to hate this planet. Besides the usual discomforts of gravity that didn’t feel right, air that didn’t smell right and light that didn’t look right, there was something about the people here that turned him off. Even the whores seemed harder and more secretive than usual.

  Makhno found work enough to occupy him for the stated four days, but after that he had no further excuses. He arranged for one of Himself’s crew to come along as unofficial bodyguard, took Sanchez and his gear aboard, and made a short speech about the time and hazards of river travel.

  “Don’t trail your hands in the water; plenty of newcomers have lost fingers, and more, that way. Use the chamber-pots under the seats, and then empty them over the side. Do not, under any circumstances, hang your bare butt out over the water; riverjacks can jump. Once on the water, obey my orders instantly. This is a rough world, and there are a lot of dangers on the river. With any luck, we’ll reach Kenny-Camp in twelve to fourteen T-days.”

  “Twelve days!” fumed Sanchez. “With the speed this craft can make?”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s going to be dim-dark soon. That makes river-traffic risky enough. After that comes truenight, and nobody with any sense travels in that. If we’re lucky, we’ll be near a settlement by then, where we can pull up and spend the night on shore. If not, I put down anchor and we wait it out on the water. When we get light again I’ll start the boat, but we don’t travel fast until full-light when we can see everything around us. That’s the way it is on the river. If you’ve got a problem with that, I’ll pull over to shore and you can walk. Got it?”

  Sanchez grumbled, but agreed to stay put. The Dragon was making fairly good time right now. After a year’s travel to reach this benighted ice-ball world, he could wait another dozen days to confront Van Damm.

  Besides, there were questions he could ask this ornery captain. The big miner coming down river with them spoke only in monosyllables, but Makhno might be made to yield some useful information, better than the scraps he’d gotten from the Red-Scarf.

  “Less than ten years ago, the companies brought in riverboat designs and encouraged building the ships to facilitate river traffic. What happened to them?”

  “Well…” Makhno scratched his chin. “The Rosie’s engine blew up. The Putty Princess just plain sank. The Rockhammer was sunk in a storm. The Elisabet got her guts ripped out on the rocks near shore, and nobody could agree on how much money and labor to spend on salvage. The Last Resort… Well, I expect you heard what happened to her.”

  “No, I hadn’t.”

  “A thug named Jomo commandeered her to take his army upstream and rob the farms. The farmers shot back, and sank her in shallow water a good ways upstream, and they salvaged her afterward. There’s talk of building another boat from the pieces, but I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting.” Makhno frowned. “Kenny-Co promised it would bring in supplies for half a dozen more, but they never arrived: something about ‘production shortfalls’ and ‘restricted budgets’ and crap like that. So anyway, everybody built what they could from their own designs, from local wood and metal-scrap and bits brought in from the off-world trade.”

  Sanchez fell silent, wondering if the companies could be pressured into footing the bill for a few more boats. It would be a damn-sight cheaper than building roads around the valley, even after the CoDominium took over.

  The T-day ended with dim-dark descending. Makhno scanned the shore, found no settlements close, shut off the engine and put out the anchor. The miner emptied out the chamber-pots, washed his hands with what smelled like rotgut whiskey, pulled a wrapped sandwich out of the basket he’d brought with him, and ate silently. Sanchez had no choice but to copy him as the captain seemed to be doing. When Makhno finished, rolled up in a foil-and-plastic blanket and stretched out to sleep, the miner pulled out a battered old tin flute and began playing it. Sanchez fell asleep to the notes of what sounded like Danny Boy echoing across the water.

  He woke at the sound of the engine starting, raised his head and saw the miner put away his tin-whistle and wrap himself up in a blanket.

  “Stay awake,” the captain said, obviously meaning Sanchez. “I’ll make as good speed as I can, but I’ll need you to help scan the river. Some creatures come close to surface during dim-dark, and we’ll need to watch for them. And that’s not counting tree-snags fallen in from the bank.”

  Sanchez duly watched, noting that the raft was moving at half-speed now. He also noted that the captain steered away from certain long barrel-like waves that rolled across the water. “What are those—” he started to ask.

  Makhno cut him off. “Don’t distract me,” he snapped, peering at the water ahead. “Just sing out if you see anything approaching from either side.”

  The next several hours were tense, wet, cold and nerve-wracking. Only twice did Sanchez actually see what the captain was dodging: once the crown of a half-submerged tree, once a snakelike head rearing out of the water several meters off. The miner slept like a log thro
ugh the maneuvering, and Sanchez wondered how he managed. Half a dozen times he saw small docks along the bank, leading to roads that were barely openings in the forest wall. Makhno didn’t stop at any of them, but drove his meandering course onward down the river.

  Finally, on a completely isolated stretch of the river, the captain cut the engine and tossed out the anchor. The miner promptly woke up, yawned, stretched and reached for his basket again. Sanchez gratefully made use of the chamber-pot, dumped it and rinsed the pot quickly in the water. He was obliged to ask the miner for the use of his rotgut hand-washing fluid before he dared open his own satchel and bring out a thermos bottle and a pair of Fleet-issue ration-bars. Makhno pulled a hefty sandwich out of his own basket, and kept scanning the river as he ate.

  “If we don’t reach Chang’s landing before Full-Dark,” he commented, “We’ll have to spend it on the water. That won’t be fun, but it’s safer than being on land without a roof and walls.”

  “Why aren’t there more fueling stops along the river?” Sanchez wanted to know.

  “Bad harvests, nasty wildlife, robbers,” said Makhno with a shrug. “A lot of shimmer stone prospectors wind up broke and take to piracy. None of these settlements can survive on river trade alone; they have to farm and that’s a risky business. The mining companies have no interest in helping settlers.”

  The silent miner laughed.

  Makhno turned on the engine, and the Dragon sailed on.

  As Cat’s Eye set and the light grew steadily dimmer, Makhno piloted slower and slower. Sanchez noted odd ripplings on the water, and didn’t ask about them. Finally, as the last dim light stretched low across the water, Makhno turned off the engine and threw out the anchor. There was no landing, nor even a hint of a path through the forest, visible anywhere.