The Seeds of War- Omnibus Edition

by T S Hottle

  ***

  They kept JT overnight in a hotel. Well, technically, it was a hotel, but it lacked many of the amenities JT had come to expect. Humans, not bots, tended the rooms. What bots he saw were models long obsolete on Earth. And the doors. They locked. With metal keys. JT had no idea how to pick them.

  His palm tat did not work, and he tried to find public wireless to tap into. Frustrated, he switched to the room’s display. Only one wall, and none of the tables or countertops, could show video, the sound coming from elsewhere in the room. Even then, his choice of feeds was limited, the news several days old. One piece, about food riots on Jefivah, he had seen almost ten days ago on Earth. The sports feeds were slightly more up to date. The music feeds… JT wondered when his mother’s music had come back into fashion. He felt trapped at an oldies festival.

  Police officers came for him in the morning, clad in the blue jackets and caps of Colonial Law Enforcement. JT thought it looked bumpkinish, like something out of Cascadia’s northern cities in the distant past, back when Canada and America were nations instead of regional divisions of the same superstate. Most police forces used drones for the grunt work now, with uniformed officers clad in distinctive jumpsuits made for field work. Whenever JT interacted with a cop, he or she had been wearing civilian attire. The only drones JT had seen here flew in the air, packages clamped firmly beneath them if they weren’t prowling the streets.

  That was another thing. Cars clogged the streets here. JT had never seen so many manually driven cars in his life. Some of them whined with onboard power supplies. Even the driverless vehicles had passengers behind manual controls. How, JT wondered, did anyone survive trying to get around this place?

  The officers took him down a back alley that reeked of uncollected garbage, another oddity for JT. Shouldn’t bots come by nightly to collect? The smell began to fade as his escorts led him to a white granite building with columns fronted by a manicured grass mall with a tuna-can lander at the center. The lander stood as a monument to the original landing on Amargosa, something JT had heard of, but never seen. He was used to Earth where someone erected a white marble building or left a statue wherever the original settlers first arrived somewhere.

  Inside, his shoes squeaked against the marble floor, the sound echoing off the walls of the archaic building. The boots of the guards made a clacking noise as they walked. Although he doubted they realized it, they walked in time with each other, giving the impression of soldiers advancing down a street. Maybe they were. They effectively boxed him in as they marched him down a long corridor that began with a sign marked “Governor’s Suite.”

  The governor’s office itself looked like something out of antiquity – plush carpet, something called “wallpaper” in place of smart paint, stained wood shelves and furniture. His mother once had a room decorated like this, but with the press of a button, it transformed into something more modern. Need a chair, a bed, a table? Call up a template and tell the room to morph. Maybe this place did not have nano-objects that could be reshaped at will.

  The governor himself sat behind a desk that looked to be the size of an Olympus Mons-class cruiser. It made him look small, but it had the desired effect, intimidating JT despite his cynical attitude toward his mother’s similar trappings at home. The governor rose and came around the front of the desk, revealing himself to be a rather robust man despite the gray hair and wrinkles. JT could not accurately judge his age since the man clearly had not had any rejuvenation treatments. What did gray hair and wrinkles mean in terms of years?

  “Mr. Austin,” he said, his arms folded. “Anton Croix, governor of this colony. You present a very difficult problem for me.”

  This was the part JT enjoyed, dropping the Dasarius and Austin names along with the word “lawyer.” It usually fixed everything. Usually. It hadn’t two nights ago on the orbital resort, but that had to be an exception. Call his mother. The lawyer would arrive and bring the full might of Dasarius Interstellar down on some poor local judge’s head. “I’m sure I have access to a Dasarius attorney on… Where did you say we are again?”

  Croix flashed JT a predator’s smile. “Amargosa, son. Welcome to the frontier. And you are no longer under Earth jurisdiction. We are part of Mars’s colonial network. So don’t think you can bribe your way out of this one.” He took a pen out of his pocket and pointed it at a portrait of some local notable on the wall behind JT. The portrait shifted to black text on a white background. It almost looked like paper. “Austin, John Tybalt Dasarius… Matronymic. So are you Etruscan?”

  “My grandfather was.” He hoped the combination of “grandfather” and the Dasarius matronymic would invoke the name of Leonidas Dasarius. It frequently softened the moods of police commanders, judges, and prosecutors.

  Instead, Croix simply said, “I see.” He resumed reading the information scrolling inside the picture frame on the wall. “According to this, Interpol’s Low Earth Orbit Division remanded you to your mother’s custody for… Well, you certainly are busy for a fifteen year old. Unlawful presence on a private transport…”

  “It belonged to my mother’s company,” said JT.

  “But not to you personally. Fraudulent entry to the Virgin-Club Med Wheel. Another instance of unlawful presence aboard the Ralan Underhill.” The governor whistled at that one. “Mr. Austin, you are now on a planet of farmers. Try making off with their private property, and they’re likely to shoot you and tell the local constable you wandered off into the woods. Oh, this is interesting: Grand theft watercraft, fraudulent entry to public transportation... By the way, your presence on the Underhill entitles the owners of that freighter to indenture you for five years. Pity your mother’s company didn’t exercise that option. You look like you could use a real job. What else? Oh, yes. Running away.” He clicked the pen, and the rap sheet reverted to the portrait of some official whose name JT would never know. “Want to know my problem?”

  “You’re not summoning a Dasarius lawyer fast enough to get me out of here,” said JT, “and off to Tian?”

  Croix let out a big, booming laugh, his head tipping back as he did so, as though it were the funniest thing he had ever heard. “Mr. Austin, this is as close as you will ever get to Tian in the foreseeable future. The fact is, your mother has abandoned you here, placing you in the custody of the Navy.”

  The Navy. Good, thought JT. He could work with that. “So when do I leave?”

  “In four months,” said Croix. “The Valles Marineris is scheduled to make a stop then. I could have sent you home this week on the U Thant, but that ship is out looking for a missing transport.”

  “Wait, the Navy only shows up once every four months?”

  “This isn’t a core world, kid. The reason we don’t have intra-Compact wars anymore is because there are always at least two or three capital ships in orbit above every core world. Colonies like us don’t rate.” The governor grinned. “But maybe you can ask your father about that when you see him again. I hear he’s coming aboard the Valles Marineris when they call here.”

  His father. Backed by the crew of an Olympus Mons-class cruiser. That meant a contingent of Marines large enough to quell riots in multiple cities if it came to that. His father was bringing one of the largest Mars-built warships and at least two companies of armed soldiers, all to pluck his son off the ass-end of the Compact. Quentin Austin was serious. In four months, JT would be sent to the Parris Island Training and Rehabilitation Center, where Virginia Military Institute sent its wayward cadet candidates before allowing them into the school. Pass, and he would become a student of one of Earth’s finest secondary and university-level military academies. Fail, and he’d be doing basic training with the grunts on some place like…

  Amargosa.

  “So I sit in a jail cell for the next four months?”

  Croix put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Oh, no, Mr. Austin. I need my jail cells for real criminals – smugglers, spouse beaters, thieves, and rapists. You technica
lly fall into two of those categories, but in reality, you’re just the snot-nosed son of a CEO and an admiral. And that’s their assessment of you. So I’m going to place you in custody. You’ll live… and work… on the farm of one of my best constables.”

  “Farm?” JT had visions of the skyscrapers along Chicago’s Wacker Drive and in the Old City in Seattle, their floors bulging with vegetable crops, fruit trees, herds of swine, and flocks of chickens. He did not see any vertical farms sticking up in Lansdorp’s skyline, but then any building could be converted to a farm. Or did Croix mean… “You mean on flat land?” he sneered. “Like some sort of primitive?”

  “Those ‘primitives’ feed two thirds of the Compact, Mr. Austin. And you’re going to work as a hand on one of their farms.”

  “I’ll just leave on my sixteenth birthday.”

  Once again, Croix shook his head. “You really don’t get it, do you, Son? You’re not a free man. You might turn sixteen while you’re here, but you still have charges pending against you. Try to leave, and I’ll be forced to send you to Mars. It’ll save your parents a trip out here to get you.” He clicked his pen, and the four police escorts appeared once again. “Boys, you’ve got a day trip ahead of you. Take him on the next run to Riverside and drop him off at the Harlan-Dagar stop. I’ll have someone there waiting for him.” He fixed his gaze on JT. “Enjoy the fresh air and sunshine, Mr. Austin. I’m sure the Virgin Military Institute will appreciate you arriving fit and tanned.”

  Virginia, you stupid hick, JT thought but didn’t say. The four armed officers boxing him in convinced him to hold his tongue.

  “In the meantime, be good to your new guardian. He’s one of my best constables.”

  Who, JT wondered, could that be on this godforsaken rock?

  ***

  Constable John Parker showed up at Kray’s office, which confused him. Parker almost never stopped by the office. They might meet in taverns or at the maglev station on the border with Parker’s Harlan Township. But in his office?

  Saja’s expression became severe when Parker, a lean man with leathery tan skin and white hair, began chatting with the deputy on duty. Kray, however, put on his best politician’s smile as he advanced toward his colleague. Besides, if another constable showed up in his office, it had to be serious.

  “John,” he said, bringing his hand around in a wide arc to offer it to Parker. “What can I do for you?”

  Parker took Kray’s hand and pumped it. “Oh, nothing major. Was up in the foothills, and I’m on my way to the maglev station to pick up a runaway. But I wanted to stop by and talk to you if you have a second. Do you mind?”

  Kray swept his arm toward the back office. Saja’s look of disapproval amused him. Anything that appeared to encroach on Kray’s authority angered Saja, even his own wife. “This way.”

  In Kray’s small personal office, he took an unlabeled bottle of amber liquid out of his desk, along with two glasses. “I ‘confiscated’ this from that Hashem guy up in the foothills for his ‘combustible fuel’ process.” He poured them each a drink and handed one to Parker. “For testing purposes, of course.”

  Parker sipped from his glass and nodded with approval. “Corn distillation. Looks like his playing with the flavors now. How old is this?”

  “I don’t know. I’m thinking he’s got a cellar up there. Damn shame I can’t spare the drones to go check, but that’s not my priority right now. Is it?”

  “What Mars or Governor Croix don’t know won’t hurt us.”

  Kray took a big swallow and was surprised to find the whiskey much smoother than expected. “Hell, I sent Croix a case of this stuff last week. So what can I do for you, John? And what’s this about a runaway? Why not just pack him or her back to Riverside or Arcanum or wherever they came from?”

  “He’s from Earth,” said Parker, “and the governor wants me to put him to work on my farm.”

  Kray snorted. “Rich kid from a backward planet.”

  “Sounds like it. Anyway, on the way up, I noticed a couple of farmers in this township were digging up their crops. You guys having blight problems?”

  There it was. Soon, half the farms of Dagar Township would be covered in Leitman’s creeper. Time to plant the story before other people began to ask too many questions. “No, we just reached a deal to try out a new GMO for trial. Seems the new Jefivan colonies are too skittish to try it themselves. Why? Your people interested? I can set them up.”

  “Are you kidding? We’re less than three months from harvest, and you know what the droughts are like in the Plains during winter.”

  “I don’t think that will be a problem,” said Kray. “This plant is supposed to grow fast and sustain itself in heavy drought conditions. At least that’s what the permit says.” There was no permit of course, but if Parker thought Kray had read it, as every constable was required to do, then he wouldn’t question it. “So what are your people doing for the winter?”

  “A lot of hay,” said Parker. “A lot of livestock.” He smiled. “Sarah and Lizzy are making gosalope jerky.”

  The mention of the Plains animal gave Kray an idea how to cover training with the assault weapons, but he pushed it quickly from his mind. There was plenty of time to work out the particulars. He refocused on Parker and they talked for a few more minutes about crop prices and of rumors coming out of the orbital station.

  “There’s a ConAgra ship stuck in berth,” said Parker. “The captain’s spitting nails and threatening lawsuits because they can’t leave.”

  “Andraste’s not one for detaining ships,” said Kray, referring to the port master. “What’s his deal?”

  “The ship is bound for Farigha. Only Farigha’s hypergate has gone silent, and no one’s been able to find out why for three days now.”

  That, Kray thought, would be the cue to go home and ask directions. One more reason Kray thought Earthers were stupid. Martians, too. There wasn’t much difference between them in his mind.

  “Well,” said Parker, “thanks for the drink. I gotta go pick up that kid and turn him into Corps material in four months.”

  “Good luck with that, buddy.” He walked Parker out to his vehicle, a dusty solar-powered runabout that pulled double duty as both a police vehicle and a farm transport. “You sure I can’t sway some of your people to get on board with this test? No risk to them.”

  Parker climbed into the driver’s seat of his runabout. “I can ask, but I think they’re going to want to ride out the winter and get started planting early next spring.”

  “Your loss.”

  After Parker drove away, Kray walked back into the office. When his eyes locked with Saja’s, he said, “Find us a place to train. The last thing I need is Parker running back to Lansdorp with tales of an illegal militia practicing in sight of his township. No one’s going to believe we’re hunting gosalope or running off lycanths with KR-27s.”

  “He is going to be trouble,” said Saja.

  “That’s what they pay us for,” said Kray. “Unfortunately, that’s what they pay us for.”

  ***

  The maglev was the cleanest JT had ever seen. That might have impressed him if Amargosa had more than one line. He tried to engage his escorts in conversation, but they sat impassively as they passed through station after station. So he contented himself with watching the landscape roll by outside the window.

  At first, the maglev moved through a tunnel beneath Lansdorp, no different than a hundred other underground rail lines throughout the Compact. For about ten minutes, he only saw the dark of the tunnel, no stations or connecting tunnels. So this train did not serve commuters.

  Suddenly, the train emerged into bright sunlight, startling JT. At first, the train rode in a plascrete trench, as featureless as the pitch black of the tunnel. Gradually, the rail rose out of the trench and onto an elevated platform, the city no longer in evidence. Instead, reddish trees, grass, and other vegetation stretched into the distance. Patches of green in perfect squares or circ
les broke up the unending dark red landscape. The red unsettled him. The wild growth outside the fields and the trees should have been green or brown in his mind. Red? Red was supposed to be the color of vegetables, not brush and forests.

  The maglev picked up speed, turning the landscape into a crimson blur. Before long, it climbed into a mountain range not unlike the one outside Seattle. For a few minutes, the maglev plunged into darkness again, slowed, and passed through a wide, well-lit chamber. JT suspected this was a maintenance center. As the train passed back into pure dark, it sped up again, emerging once more into the mountain range’s foothills. Ahead, the reddish landscape stretched to the horizon, this time much flatter with more fields of green visible.

  JT noticed the sun had moved higher in the sky, and that the train was chasing it. He tapped one of the escorts on the shoulder. “Shouldn’t we be heading east?”

  “We are,” said the escort in a dull, flat tone.

  “But the sun…”

  “Amargosa has a retrograde rotation. Get used to it, kid. You’re going to see a lot of it.”

  Two hours after leaving Lansdorp, the maglev slowed and came to a stop. The station appeared to be in the middle of the wilderness. Platforms lined either side of the maglev line, a couple appeared to be for loading and unloading freight. Between them stretched a long platform supporting an equally long shed. Only one person stood waiting. JT got a good look at him.

  He was a euro like JT, but he had skin dark enough to pass for another race of human, perhaps East Asian or even from the Subcontinent. His skin, however, looked weather-beaten, and even from this distance, JT could see deep wrinkles in the man’s face. Another person here who did not do rejuve. Did they even have such things on Armagosa? But where Croix’s wrinkles looked like gravity being cruel, this man appeared to have spent a lot of time exposed to harsh elements. JT’s father had similar skin, though lighter. But his father, should he ever opt for skin reconditioning, would appear not much older than JT.