by David Coy
“They’re not going to know it’s gone,” she said confidently, “until it’s too late.”
“Explain,” he said.
“I’m moving everything in Three to the docks tomorrow. When I get about half of it moved, I’ll open the rear doors where the bomb is and continue from that side. If it comes up, I’ll tell them the lift traffic in front is too heavy and that I’m doing it to split up the work. I’ll tell the guys to make sure they crash some containers into each other—they do that anyway when they get rolling—just to make the point. By the time the assholes catch on, I’ll have the bomb stashed away somewhere else and a mountain of containers on the dock. If they want it back, I’ll tell them the goddamned thing is buried in the stack and that it’ll take hours to dig it out. I’ll dummy up a manifest that shows it in the stack, something like that, and tell them not to worry about the goddamned thing. Besides, I don’t think they want to draw too much attention to it. I’m sure they thought they were bringing it down in secret. Secret from us, that is. That’s why they’ve got it squirreled away like that. I’m sure the Council knows about it.”
“What if they stop you before you get it moved?”
“Then I’ll give it back to them. Hell with ‘em. Nobody told me not to move it. It’s my warehouse, right?”
“You’d better hope they believe you.” Habershaw said.
“Fuck ‘em,” she replied.
“That attitude will get you killed,” he said with sharp edges of both anger and worry in his voice.
“Fuck ‘em,” she repeated.
“What if they want you to dig it out? What if they want to see it?”
“Bill, I’m gonna have so much goddamned activity around that dock and warehouse, they won’t know what the hell is going on. I’ll get it back to them—it just won’t come from the stack. Oh! whoops! Here it is! Damn! I thought it was in this pile of shit. They’re not gonna watch that close anyway.”
“They might. It’s a damned nuke.”
“Then I’m screwed. I’m screwed anyway. What’s the difference?”
Habershaw sighed through his nose. She was a loose cannon. But if anybody could pull it off, Joan could.
The plan was to steal the nuke, hide it where it would do the most damage, then threaten to use it. As long as they had the nuke and the power to detonate it, they’d have some say about what happened next. The bomb would give them back their future by providing more than a little leverage against the Council. If she set it off—she’d tell them—The Sacred Bond of the Fervent Alliance would have to fend for themselves on this hostile planet without benefit of slaves or weapons or human comforts. If they didn’t get their way, Joan would vaporize the last remnants of human technology. The survivors would be forced to live like savages. If it came to it, Joan was sure she could do it. At least it would equalize things. When the bomb atomized the zillion tons of human goods, now collected in one relatively small spot, the contractors would have nothing, the mercenaries would have nothing, and the Sacred Bond would have nothing. People would die; that would be unavoidable. But people died anyway. She had it all thought out.
But the goal wasn’t to set the bomb off and turn the last fragments of human civilization to gas. The goal was to distribute the power. The mercenaries had to go. They could go back to Earth—every last goddamned one of them. Most of them would probably prefer that. The weapons would be destroyed, most of them anyway. Once those goals were achieved, a new collective Council would be formed with representatives from both sides on it. That Council, made jointly of contractors and settlers, would govern the fledgling society on Verde’s Revenge.
No work without representation. Joan had read her history—and no more torture or executions either.
“Be careful, Joan,” Habershaw said.
“Hell with ‘em,” she said.
By three o’clock the next day, Joan Thomas was in possession of a one-half-kiloton, residual-radiation-free, protonuclear exploding device weapon, complete with instructions on how to deploy it, arm it and detonate it. Exploded close enough, it could easily destroy the Bondsmen's entire living cloister. Regardless of where it was detonated, the damage would incapacitate the settlement or wound it mortally. Exploded in the unoccupied storage warehouse compound, the resulting devastation would make living on Verde's Revenge very unappealing proposition. It was the perfect bargaining chip.
The bomb itself was about the size of a lunch box, egg-shaped with a smooth and shiny anodized surface. There was a launcher like a big tube and a suspensor attachment and a guidance system for it, but she wouldn’t be needing those since she wouldn’t be launching it or sending it at anything. The remote detonator was small enough to fit in her shirt pocket. It had three buttons on it. The bomb came with an attachable handle for carrying. The instructions for using it were written on the inside of the container’s lid in language a child could follow. There were big red cautions and Danger! Icons all over everything. She’d seen plenty of those over the years, but none quite so flashy or insistent.
She slid her hands down around the bomb and pried it out of its depression. She turned it around. It was much heavier than she thought it would be. It wouldn’t destroy the entire settlement, but was certainly capable of wreaking substantial damage to it. It was the perfect bargaining chip.
“Wow,” she said.
She sat cross-legged in front of the open container with the nuke in her lap and studied the instructions for a minute longer. Then she put it back, closed the lid, pushed the case across the floor and crammed it between the bed and the wall. She covered it with the dirty clothes from the hamper.
She dialed Bill’s number.
“I’ve got the cookie,” she said when he answered.
“They don’t suspect? It went as planned?”
“Planning is my middle name.”
“Where is it?”
“In the bedroom.”
“In the bedroom?” he almost choked.
“Right.”
“No,” he said. “Get it out of there. If they suspect it’s been stolen, that’s the first place they’ll look.”
“Bullshit. It’s the last place. Think about it, Bill.”
He did. “Okay. How big is it? The bomb itself?”
“With a little work, I could hide it up your ass,” she said. “That’s not funny.”
“Sure it is.”
Christ, he thought. She’s a wild hair. She’s perfect for this shit.
“So where do we plant it?” he asked.
“Guess.”
“Joan,” he said solemnly. “This is serious. Please don’t screw around.”
She huffed into the phone. “Fine. We put it under the transmitter between warehouse Three and the dock,” she said. “It’s an unlikely spot, kind of out in the open, but there're plenty of vegetation in between the supports to hide it in. The transmitter is right in the middle of everything. If it goes from there, it’ll take out ninety-nine percent of everything they own, mostly the storage warehouses.”
That wouldn’t be all it took out. If the bomb went off anywhere near the settlement, people—perhaps a great number of people—were going to die. As far as he knew, the blast could destroy the warehouses, the contractor’s shelters and the cloister, too.
“Joan?” he asked.
“What?”
“Would you set that damn thing off—if it came to it?”
He expected some hesitation, a moment’s reflection based on the gravity of such a decision.
“You bet,” she said instantly. “Look it’s a big bomb but it’s not going to destroy everything. Just what we want to blow up.”
“You’re sure?” he said with relief.
“Yes. I’m sure.” Her voice was strained tight, and the words came a little fast, propelled by a manic urgency. “We shouldn’t be living like this, Bill. None of us should. It’s twisted.”
She was right of course.
At that precise moment, he realized Joan and no
ne other was the one to hold the bomb’s key. She was the one to negotiate with the Council. She would be tough; tougher than anybody because deep, deep down she really didn’t give a shit. The authenticity of that sentiment would show itself plainly. If they suspected weakness or a failure of resolve, the entire thing would go to Hell. There would be no deficiency of strength in Joan Thomas to suspect. When they sniffed the air around her, for some trace of fear, they’d find nothing but the scent of anger, frustration and the strong musk of an iron will. Some of their number—those with the right noses for it—would detect the odd, sickly stench of madness, as well. She would emit the perfect bouquet.
“You’d do it,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“I’d do it,” she replied.
“Then if we don’t screw up, we can’t lose.”
“We win either way,” she said.
Habershaw thought about it and swallowed. “Yeah. I guess we do.”
9
“Yo Katz,” Donna said with a grin, “Why don’t you just turn your back and let us walk out of here. You could say we grabbed your rifle, got the drop on you and Bukowski, and got away.”
“You tried that one already,” Katz told her, tired of her lame attempts to manipulate him. “Forget it.”
They were on their daily walk, some distance from the jail and just at the jungle’s edge. It was mid-morning, and the red sun pounded on them. Donna looked into the thick, dark jungle with a sense of longing. The irony of that emotion made her want to laugh. Could she do it again? Could she live in the jungle? It was better than this. At least she’d be free and the chances of survival were at least as good.
“Okay then, how about we do it like this,” she said. “We fake like we clobber you with something then tie you up and . . .”
“No,” Katz said. “I’d get Vilaroosed. You get away, I get Vilaroosed.” His brown eyes were steady, and Donna saw his square hands tighten on his rifle. She’d gone a little too far today. Katz was a full head taller than she was, athletic and strong. She knew if she ever made a grab for his rifle, he’d easily overpower her or even John. She didn’t think he would kill her; he wasn’t allowed to do that. But he could make life harder on her in any number of ways or perhaps clobber her with something.
Katz’s face was odd to her, not in an ugly way, but odd, as if the sunbaked wrinkles in it weren’t quite in the right place. He turned away slightly toward the sun, just to ignore her, and she saw why. When he squinted, his eyes turned way down at the corners. His eyes weren’t totally lacking in compassion, but he was a soldier through and through. Joan imagined that it was all the fighting and killing that changed him, transformed him from what might have been a reasonable man into the murderous bastard he was. Katz and Bukowski were men you could trifle with somewhat because they were bored with the duty and had a sense of humor still buried somewhere. But step over the line—and they might kill you out of reflex, out of instinct, like family dogs killing pet rabbits.
“Hey, it was worth a shot,” she sighed.
“Forget it,” he replied and drifted away from her. There was caution in the maneuver. It frustrated her.
“I’ll try to think of something you can live with,” she said as a parting shot.
“Not likely,” he said from a distance.
“You never know . . .” she said with a lilt.
“Yeah ya do,” he said in the other direction.
The funny-bunny talk about escape had just about used up its usefulness and her cute persistence about it was starting to grate on him, she could tell. Chatter wasn’t doing it. She’d have to think of something else. She didn’t like the options.
The plan wasn’t to trifle with Katz, but to kill him if necessary. The ploy was simple on the surface: relax them. Getting familiar, friendly with them, seemed the best way to achieve it.
When they got back to the shelter and Bukowski had locked them in, Donna pulled her home-made sap out of a leg pocket and tossed it on the table with a clunk. It was nothing more than a flattish, tear-shaped dollop of lead solder about the size of her hand sewn tight into a sleeve of cotton. They’d melted the solder in a pan on the range and, on the counter top, poured it into a form made with dried mud. It had a short and strong, flexible handle made of a strip of plastic molding taped firmly to the business end. Relatively small, flat and concealable, one good whack on the head with it would knock anybody, even Katz, completely senseless. John had one just like it. He smacked it into his open hand.
“Goddamnit,” she said disgusted, “he’s still too uptight— too cautious. What about Bukowski?”
“He’s dumber than Katz,” Rachel said, “but he’s not stupid. I don’t know what to do.”
“I do,” John said.
“What?” Donna asked.
“Seduce the bastards. Make ‘em think you want to fuck. That’ll throw them off guard.”
Donna had thought of it herself days ago, but wasn’t sure it would work. Besides, she just didn’t like the idea. Katz and Bukowski would see right through it, of course; but then again, the male libido being deaf, dumb, blind and unable to reason—could lose the day.
“Eddie,” Donna said to him, “excuse yourself for a while.” Eddie made a face. “I’m not a kid.”
“Yes, you are,” she replied. “Adios. Git.”
He got up with another face and went to his room. There wasn’t much to discuss. Rachel had Bukowski wrapped around her finger already without doing a thing. But Katz was another story.
“How do we know they’ll go for it?” Rachel wanted to know. “I mean, if they really, really wanted me—us—they’d just rape us wouldn’t they?”
“First of all,” Donna said, someone’s given a hands-off order. “They’re not allowed to hurt us . . . But it’s one thing to take someone by force, and another thing to be freely offered what it is you want anyway. Second of all, we may not have to go through with it.”
“She’s right,” John said. “You can distract the hell out of them if you do it right. No problem.”
“You’re speaking as a man of course,” Donna commented. “Well, yeah. I am,” he confessed to the obvious.
“You won’t have to suck them or fuck them either if it comes to it, sooo . . . you don’t have a problem,” she said.
“Better you than me,” John said, showing his impish grin.
Rachel lowered her head. “I don’t think I can do this,” she said.
“Hey,” Donna said ruefully, “maybe what he said about short guys is true.”
Nobody laughed.
“Look, all you have to do is distract the wary bastards,” John said. “That’s all.”
There was a moment of silence as if someone had asked for a prayer.
“What are we doing?” Rachel asked.
“I don’t know,” Donna said numbly. “Trying to escape?”
* * *
On their walks over the next few days, Rachel and Donna began to work on Katz and Bukowski. Rachel made it a point to stay just a little in front of Bukowski and to wear her tightest clothing. The poor bastard didn’t stand a chance when she stretched, bent over or squatted down to look at something. She let him know she was doing it on purpose, letting him have a good look at her full butt and legs. By the end of the walk, it was all he could do to find his way back.
Donna took a more direct approach and decided bold flirtation was her most effective weapon. She never was very good at the oblique stuff; the longing looks and all that. She’d always been very up front when it came to her wishes and sexual desires. She just hoped she wouldn’t come off as being too direct—it had happened in the past.
When she thought the time was right, she ambled over toward Katz, just penetrating his safety perimeter. She was fiddling with a twig and could suddenly feel sweat between her fingers. She cleared her throat.
“I’m very sexual, really,” she said to him frankly.
“Oh, yeah?” Katz asked, completely neutral.
“
Yes. I love to fuck.”
“Nothing like a good fuck,” he said as though unmoved.
“It’s been a while for me. You know . . . John and Rachel are together. Eddie’s a kid. That leaves me . . . you know?”
“Out in the cold . . .”
“Yeah. Out in the cold.”
“I bet you get fucked a lot,” she said. “You’re very handsome.”
“Forget it.”
“What? I can’t talk about it?”
“I don’t give a shit if you talk about it. But you’re wasting your time. Look. You get away; I get Vilaroosed. I fuck you; I get Vilaroosed. You so much as catch a cold, I get Vilaroosed.”
“So I’m not worth it. Is that what you’re saying?”
“You know what?” he said. “We all die. I always thought I’d die a, what you might call, a violent death, probably shot through the head or blown to pieces. But being tortured to death in some little cage by religious freaks doesn’t figure in my grand vision of a meaningful exit. So it’s not that I wouldn’t do it under the right conditions. I would. You’re not bad. But these ain’t the right conditions. That’s about as nice as I can put it.”
His voice still had that practiced wariness, a battle-worn caution woven through it like tough cord. He was immune to sexual distractions. She’d bungled that approach anyway. If anything, he was even more alert than before. Rachel’s words rang in her ears.
What are we doing?
Donna considered him. His nice little speech was the most she’d heard him say at one time since they’d been captured. Surprisingly, it made some sense. The thing behind the ragged uniform could think and talk some.
“I take it you have no love for The Sacred Bond of the Fervent Alliance either,” she said, anxious to hear the answer—and change the subject. He didn’t answer right away, and she was afraid his little diatribe was all she’d get from him for today, this week or forever.
“We follow orders,” he said plainly.
“So why don’t you just kill them all—do us all a favor.”
