by John F. Carr
“Are they bringing more transportees?” he asked the former Marine.
“Let’s hope so. Otherwise, we’re in real trouble.”
The other miners looked at each other nervously, then at the ground. Two had pistols, the others were armed with pickaxes and tramping irons.
A moment later a searchlight from above sent a tunnel of light down to illuminate the small party. The former Marine brought up his rifle, as if it had its own will, and fired at the chopper. A hail of bullets were fired in return, knocking the man around as if he were caught in a twister. Bronstein felt the blood splatter-wash his face.
There were screams of terror and pain as some of the other miners were hit.
Bronstein dropped his flashlight, making a mad dash for the cave entrance, while at the same time realizing that was the stupidest move he could make. It didn’t matter what he thought; his body was moving on its own.
*
*
*
“What’s down there?” one of the Marines asked.
Everyone peered through the inky-blackness with their infra-reds. Martin could see a dozen or more greenish figures moving away from a small cliff.
“Turn off your night vision!” cried one of the Marines. “Some of those bastards have rifles.”
Martin quickly took off his infra-red visor. A finger of light poked out from the lead chopper, illuminating a small party of men in thick parkas. One of the men lifted his rifle and the muzzle shot out a cone of broiling red light.
In answer, he heard the rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat of machine gun fire. When his eyesight had recovered he made out five or six figures splayed on the ground and another bunch running for the bluff.”
“That must be their hideout!” shouted Lieutenant Frasier. “Take that door out with a stinger missile.”
The men reached the open door only seconds before the missile followed them inside. The sudden blowback from the explosion inside the cave left Martin temporarily blind. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“A lot of smoke and fire pouring out of that cave, sir. Sorry, I didn’t think to warn you about the blowback flash.”
“It’s okay, Lieutenant. You were rightly more concerned with doing your job. I’m just an observer.”
The thwoop-thwoop was louder now. They must be hovering over the hillock and the striker’s cave.
*
*
*
Bronstein threw open the cave door and plunged in. Anything to get away from the death and horror that hovered outside!
Moments later he was scorched and knocked down as a rocket swished past him and exploded at the back of the cave, filling the world with a blast of light so intense his eyes went to black….He was deaf, too.
Slowly his hearing came back filled with the cries and screams of the wounded men, women and children. Did I do this? he asked himself over and over….
“Help us!” someone cried.
“Stop ’em!” another voice yelled.
“MY BABY!” a woman shouted. “WHERE IS SHE?”
Louie Jablonski grabbed him by the shoulder. “What the hell happened out there!”
“Some Marine choppers came in right after we exited the cave. When they shined their search lights on us, Ward lost it. He shot at one of the helicopters.” He paused to catch his breath.
“That blood isn’t yours?”
“No, no. It’s Ward’s and somebody else’s. I didn’t get hit until I opened the door and that damn missile followed me inside.”
Louie patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself. That missile would have torn through that door like toilet paper with you or without you opening it. Actually, you may have saved lives. The machine gun fire brought everyone up close to the door to see what was happening. The missile shot all the way to the back of the cave. If it had blown-up at the entrance, half the party would be dead. Still, lots of shrapnel and fire damage. Plus, too many, way too many, dead and wounded….”
“Thank you, Louie,” he said. He felt as if a five hundred pound weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
Outside the cave they could hear the thwoop-thwoop grow louder as the choppers landed. Spotlights were throwing their beams into the cave, lighting up the inside like a Broadway stage.
“Try to get up, Jack. We really need you. I’m in bad shape, my leg is spasming.”
Bronstein tried to get up. Jablonski gave him a hand. His right leg felt as if it were broken, but it held his weight. Vision was coming back, too. “I guess we’d better get a team together to go out and do some negotiating.”
Jablonski made a hacking sound that might have started as a laugh, but ended as a rasping cough. “Jack, you’re a funny guy! Negotiate—and just what kind of cards are we holding, besides a hand full of jokers?”
“This is a massacre. Kennicott doesn’t want its shareholders thinking that the company uses CoDominium Marines to kill civilians.”
Jablonski shook his head. “You just don’t get it, do you? Haven isn’t the CoDominium. It’s a bloody hell-hole that no one—and I mean no one—gives a shit about. It’s a prison world. The Company could kill all two hundred of us and toss our bodies back into the cave and blow it up. Who would ever know? Archaeologists ten thousand years from now…? Maybe. Probably not.”
*
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*
Martin and the Lieutenant, his handgun at the ready, exited the helicopter. The dead strikers were splayed out in the snow. Screams and shouts of pain were coming from the cave. “My baby!”
“Sweet Jesus, I didn’t know there were women and children in there,” Lieutenant Frasier said, looking at him as if seeing Martin for the first time. His eyes hardened. “Why didn’t you tell me? I thought these strikers were miners…”
“Look Lieutenant, I didn’t expect you to shoot a missile into that cave. Why would I, I’m no military man? It’s his fault,” he finished, pointing to the dead striker with his rifle.”
“I’m well and truly fucked once word of this reaches Luna Base or Earth….”
“What happens on Haven, stays on Haven,” Martin replied.
“What about the witnesses?” the Lieutenant asked.
“They’re not going anywhere, but back to work. Either that or we’ll pull up stakes and they can starve to death or freeze. There are lots of possible mine sites, what with Haven’s history of volcanism. This location was one of our first choices because the hafnium ore is spectacularly rich and because of its proximity to the Xanadu River.”
“Hey!” cried one of the Marines. “They’re comin’ out!”
Martin watched as the ragtag mob of strikers slowly edged their way out of the cave. Some were holding up white shirts, while others had their hands raised. He assumed the two men leading the pack were the two union organizers. Their names, Jack Bronstein and Louis Jablonski, popped into his head.
Suddenly, one of the men dropped to his knees and made a move toward his pockets.
“Look out!” a Marine shouted.
A shot rang out!
A bright red blossom suddenly appeared on his chest. The man cried out and then toppled over.
The strikers ran and stumbled back into the cave which was still smoking.
The other man shouted, “Why did you kill him? He was just bending over because of the pain!”
One of the Marines shouted, “Bullshit! He was going for a pistol or a knife.”
“Quiet in the ranks!” The Lieutenant shrugged, saying under his breath, “A complete cluster-fuck, that’s what this is.”
The strikers were all back inside the shadows of the cave.
Martin stepped forward, motioning to the Lieutenant to hold his men in position.
He pointed to the man, kneeling beside his fallen comrade. “It’s time we have a talk, before this gets any more out of hand.”
The man rose to his feet. He was almost Martin’s size, but a lot thinner—probably the short rations. He suspected the whole lot of
them would cave-in for a good meal.
He went over to the man, holding out his hand. “I’m Martin Peltz, Mining Officer, Kennicott Metals, Inc.” He knew from the man’s features he wasn’t Jablonski. “And you are Jack Bronstein.”
“How did you know my name?” Bronstein asked, ignoring the proffered hand.
“Ship’s manifest. I ran an ID check on everyone. You and Jablonski”—he pointed to the bleeding man—“were the only union organizers on the ship.”
“Guilty as charged. Now, did you come down here to meet our demands. Because if you did, you have a strange way of negotiating.”
Martin laughed, he couldn’t help himself. The Lieutenant and the other Marines looked at him strangely.
“First of all, I did not come umpteen light years to negotiate anything with you or your fellow strikers. Director Waddell will take the fall for your sins. Tell your people to come out of the cave.”
“And if I don’t, you’ll do what?”
Martin shook his head in weariness. “There’s been enough death here today, for all of our sakes. Just call them out. The Company has something to say.”
“Will anybody be hurt?”
Martin shook his head. “I just want to talk with them.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, you have my word.”
Bronstein turned and shouted. “They want you to come out. Leave all your weapons behind and keep your hands in sight.”
The strikers slowly straggled out of the cave. Their eyes were big and some individuals were visibly shaking, as they took in the squad of Marines with rifles in hand.
Big Mama shouted, “Hell’s a Comin’!”
Some of the other women began to cry and the children began whimpering.
Martin held his arms out signaling them to quiet down. “My name is Martin Peltz, Personal Assistant to Stephen DeSilva, Chief Executive Officer of Kennicott Mining. I want you to know that so you’ll understand any agreement that I make will have his full backing. I want this strike ended and I want it ended now! Is that understood?”
Bronstein stood as still as the statue, ignoring the raging winds. Most of the others nodded or muttered “yes.”
He pointed to the cave. “I know you have to be tired of living in that freezing cold tomb you call a cave.”
“You got that, mutherfo,” yelled a voice.
“I’m also certain that none of you have had a decent meal in some time.”
“Amen!” Big Mama shouted to a rising chorus of agreement.
“Here’s the deal. I want you to lay down your arms, leave that cave and go back to your huts and get back to work. All misdemeanors and other sins will be forgotten as long as you do your jobs. There’s only one catch. The people responsible for this strike have to be punished. Is that understood?”
A ragged chorus of “yeahs” came back in reply.
He pointed to the corpses littering the snowy ground. “These men have paid the ultimate penalty. “However”—he paused to point out Bronstein—“not everyone has paid their bill. I’ll leave it to you people to provide the punishment he deserves for putting you in this mess and for the deaths of your friends and family.”
An angry murmur passed through the crowd.
Martin signaled the Marines back to their choppers. Meanwhile, several of the strikers grabbed Bronstein and forced him back into the cave with the rest of the strikers.
“What do you think they’re going to do to him?” Lieutenant Frasier asked.
“I don’t know, and don’t care. They need someone to blame for their troubles and what happened here today. So I just provided them with a scapegoat.”
The Lieutenant shook his head. “Remind me, never to get on your bad side.”
“Keep doing your job, as you’ve done here today without any kibitzing, and I guarantee you’ll never have any problems with me. In fact, I’m willing to bet that you have a very promising future before you.”
Several screams, loud enough to be heard inside the chopper and over the heating fans pierced the air.
“Let’s get out of here. It appears the people have spoken.”
The mob of strikers came boiling out of the cave, many of them with hangdog expressions.
A big woman with an air of authority said, “It’s done.”
Martin didn’t ask what. He picked up his pocket com and turned away. He spoke rapidly into the portable unit. Then turned to the crowd, saying, “I’ve just talked with the Camp director. You can return to your huts. Food will be provided as soon as you have all settled in.”
There was a smattering of applause, but most just turned and sprinted towards the huts and the warmth they represented.
“Our work here is done, Lieutenant. Let’s get back to civilization.”
The younger man had to choke back a laugh. “If you can find it on Haven, let me know.” The Lieutenant regained his composure and added, “Are you sure we shouldn’t stay here for a while just to make sure there isn’t any more trouble, sir?”
“There won’t be. I know a bunch of whipped curs when I see them. Strikebreaking, Haven-style. What a mess. I don’t know what those union guys were thinking.”
— 8 —
COUNTERPOINT
A.L. Brown
Earth, 2045 A.D.
Detective Sergeant Harry Davis took another swig of whiskey, glaring at the television. The announcers were yammering on about the big miner’s strike, and the way the situation was spinning out of control. Like Harry needed any reminder. It had been overtime, overtime, overtime lately, hours of booking people, reports, forms, all the drudgery of being a cop with none of the excitement. That’s why he had left the precinct, and headed down here for lunch and some refreshment.
“Isn’t it time you got back to work Harry?”
Harry glared at the bartender. “Christ on a crutch, Ed, I come in here to get away from idiots like the Lieutenant and my ex-wife. Now I have to put up with your nagging, too?”
“Sorry, Harry, just trying to help out.”
Harry pulled out his cell to see what time it was. 1:30 PM. Two missed calls, ringer volume at zero. He growled, and slid off the stool. Yeah, he did have to get out of here.
“Put it on my tab,” he called over his shoulder as he headed for the door, patting to check that his badge and gun were properly in place underneath his tunic.
Behind him, Ed sighed. There was no tab—he had started giving Harry free drinks at lunch to buy some goodwill with the law, but now it was totally out of hand.
At the door, a group of men running down the street almost knocked Harry down.
“Hey,” he yelled, “watch where you’re goin’!” He took off in pursuit, as they cut into an alley. No one treated Harry Davis like that. As he rounded the corner, he saw them bunched up in the alley. There was a commotion on the main street ahead of them, and they looked confused.
Harry walked up and flashed his badge, making sure they also saw his gun. “What the hell is going on here?”
Something hit his head hard from behind, and the world spun.
“Holy shit,” one of the men yelled, “you just clobbered a cop!”
“Get his gun,” another man yelled. One man laughed, “Hell, get his badge and his wallet, too, what more trouble can we get into?”
They ran out of the alley, and turned left. Harry heard shots. He got up on his knees and used the wall to brace himself as he rose to his feet. He staggered to the mouth of the alley, and smelled something nasty and oddly familiar. He came out onto the street, but before he could turn left, he realized that the street to his right was blocked by a phalanx of National Guard.
Not State Police, but National Guard in full battle dress. Their faces were covered with chemical masks, and Harry realized that the smell was CS gas. They were equipped for riot control, military style, not with nightsticks, but with fixed bayonets, and safeties no doubt off.
Harry raised his hands, and yelled, “I’m a cop, I just got assaulted.
”
But if they heard him, they didn’t care, because they kept advancing. This time, Harry saw what hit him, as a rifle butt swung up, caught him in the cheek, and the world went dim.
Haven, 2046 A.D.
“This is my favorite part of the process,” said Deacon Abraham Miller of the Church of New Universal Harmony, as he stood on the wooden piers of Docktown and stared at the sky above Castell City. Beadle Anders Nagel stood at his side. The two men were dressed in long brown robes that flapped around their legs, and both rested their hands on long, chin-high wooden walking sticks.
Anders knew what process the Deacon was talking about. The word had come in from the CoDo officials on Splashdown Island—shuttles were incoming with new transportees. But the rest didn’t make sense. “We’re just standing here,” he said. “Doing nothing.”
Deacon Miller looked down at the shorter man, who was a few years older than he was, but new to the Harmonies, and often missed the points Miller was trying to make.
“Exactly,” the Deacon said, “these will be the last few moments of peace we will have for many hours. And, no matter what the day brings, at this point we can hope for the best, and a good group of cooperative people, who can help make this a better community.”
He saw skepticism in the Beadle’s eyes before he turned his eyes back to the sky. He sighed inside. Perhaps skepticism was called for in this process. He raised his arm and pointed. “There they are, I love how graceful the scoopships look at this point, gliding along with their wings extended.”
The shuttles swooped low over the lake, and touched down lightly, only a plume of spray to indicate they were in contact with the water, sliding as if on ice. Then Nagel laughed out loud as they reversed thrust on their air-breathing engines, and squatted hard into the water, spray going everywhere.
“Not so graceful now,” he said, and Miller laughed in agreement. The tugs, some diesel and a few of the new locally produced steamships, swarmed out from the town docks to tow them in so they could unload the transportees.
*
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