The Seeds of Man

by William C. Dietz

  “Ornery as ever.”

  “Good. Would you like a cigar?”

  Winthrop eyed the box greedily. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  “Take a fistful,” Voss said. “They’re from an island called Cuba. Each one of them is worth a box of .45s.”

  Winthrop hurried to accept the invitation, and after sticking four cigars in an inside pocket, bit the end off a fifth and spit it onto the floor. Voss smiled indulgently as he leaned forward to provide Winthrop with a light. Once the cigar was drawing properly, Voss smiled. “So, Charlie, what have you got for me?“

  “Well,” Charlie began, “I went down past Kemmerer just like you told me to. The good news is that outside of the usual patrols, I didn’t see anything that could be described as a major troop movement.”

  Voss made a steeple with his fingers. “And the bad news?”

  Charlie released a stream of pungent blue-black smoke. “The bad news is that there’s a lot of territory I didn’t see. Couldn’t see without getting my ass shot off. Hashi has established a number of no-go zones since the last time I was down that way. And the locals tell me that her people don’t take prisoners.”

  Voss considered that. Haya Hashi was a tech lord by virtue of the fact that she controlled the wind turbines located outside Evanston, Wyoming. And since Voss’s solar farms weren’t able to produce enough electricity to meet his needs, he was forced to buy power from Hashi—and it was expensive. Up to twenty percent of the nonperishable food Voss Enterprises produced was shipped south each month, and the bandits knew that. So although his mercenaries were able to protect most of the caravans most of the time, there were losses—losses he had to make up.

  That was bad enough, but six days earlier, an emissary had arrived carrying a letter from Hashi. It was replete with all sorts of flowery crap, but the so-what was clear. The bitch was raising her prices again. That left Voss with two choices. Pay, or invade Hashi’s wind-generated empire and take over. He preferred the second alternative and had prepared for it. But what if the price increase was part of an elaborate plan to lure him out of the Star Valley? What if Hashi wanted war—and wanted to fight it on her ground? Such was the dilemma that faced him. “Okay,” Voss said, “there were places you couldn’t go—and things you couldn’t see. But what’s your guess? Is Hashi preparing for war?”

  Charlie took in some smoke, held it for a second or two, and blew a perfect ring. The halo lost its shape before it could reach Voss. “I’d rather not guess. But if I have to, I’d say it’s business as usual down in Hashi-land. Rumor has it that she’s butt deep in an effort to construct more wind machines.”

  “That could explain why she raised her prices,” Trenton said, speaking for the first time. He was standing in front of the fireplace with both hands behind his back.

  Voss nodded. Hashi would need gold for something like that—gold she could bring in by selling some of the food he sent her. “Thank you, Charlie. Stay in touch. Trenton will take care of your pay.”

  Winthrop had been dismissed and knew it. He rose and said, “Thank you, Mr. Voss,” and Trenton led him out into the hall. A cloud of smoke remained behind as the door closed after them. Snow had begun to fall beyond the window. An omen, perhaps? And, if so, what did it mean? There was one person who might know, but she hated him. Voss smiled. Dinner would be interesting.

  Voss had a lot to do, not the least of which was to make sure that his mercenaries were ready to leave on six hours’ notice. And that was a complicated matter because they were mercenaries—and mercenaries couldn’t be trusted. Making the situation even more complex was the fact that the mercenaries were paid with the very thing required to fight, and that was ammunition. Give them too little and a critical battle could be lost. Issue too much and they would take their riches and run. But by insisting that that his soldiers take wives, he could hold their families hostage. It was an effective policy for the most part, but only if he enforced the rules.

  So, having lost a “runner” the week before, he was forced to visit the merc compound located north of his home, wait for the troops to be assembled, and watch while the deserter’s family was put to death. Not a pleasant way to spend the afternoon and one that put him in a foul mood.

  It was getting dark and the snow was falling more thickly by the time Voss and his bodyguards returned to the manor. Once Odin had been taken away, Voss entered the house and went up to his quarters. The hot shower felt wonderful and went a long way toward restoring his spirits. After donning a white shirt, black trousers, and a matching jacket, he went down to dinner.

  The door to the wood-paneled dining room was open, candles glowed, and the twelve-person table was set for two. Sara Silverton was already there. She had shoulder-length brown hair, large luminous eyes, and a heart-shaped face. The dress she wore was decorated with hundreds of hand-sewn beads and glittered as she stood, a sign of respect she was reluctant to give but Voss insisted on. He smiled. “Good evening, Sara. You look beautiful.”

  Sara made a face. “I wish it were otherwise. Then someone else could decorate your dining room.”

  “Ah, but I value more than your looks.”

  A slave held the chair positioned at the head of the table and Voss sat on it. That was the cue for a second slave to seat Sara—and there was no mistaking the rattle of chains as he did so. The shackles had been added in the wake of her latest escape attempt. “So,” Voss said as the wine was poured. “How was your day?”

  “Like every other day. Boring.”

  Voss shrugged. “It doesn’t have to be that way. You could swear your allegiance to me.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And you would believe that?”

  Sara never told Voss what he wanted to hear, and that was part of the attraction. He took a sip of wine. “No, of course not.”

  “So we’re back to where we started.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Voss broke the ensuing silence. “A man came to visit me today.”

  “So?”

  “So he says that Hashi is building more wind turbines—and that’s why she raised her prices.”

  Sara’s eyes flashed. “He’s wrong.”

  “In what way?”

  “She wants everything you have.”

  Voss eyed his prisoner from the other end of the table. “And how do you feel about that?”

  “I’m all for it. Maybe she will free me.”

  Voss considered that. “I don’t think so. Hashi would use you as I do.”

  Sara shrugged. “Perhaps . . . The outcome is unclear.”

  “And if I invade her territory? What then?”

  Sara’s eyes took on the faraway look he’d seen many times before. Sara was a psychic, or claimed to be, although he wasn’t sure what to believe. Maybe she was and maybe she wasn’t. But whatever the source, the advice she gave him was right more often than it was wrong. And that gave him an edge—a small edge, but an edge nevertheless. “If you invade you’ll be sorry,” Sara said. “I see bodies, hundreds of them, all killed by Hashi.”

  “Is my corpse among them?”

  “No,” Sara said and smiled.

  Was she telling the truth? Or lying in hopes that he would be killed? That was part of the game they played. “I should shoot you.”

  “I would welcome that.”

  “Then I won’t.”

  “I know.”

  Voss laughed, and as he looked the length of the table at Sara, he saw what might have been the beginnings of a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. The salad arrived and they ate in silence. It was better than dining alone.

  The mercenaries departed at dawn. There were a thousand of them, all riding horses, and all dressed cowboy-style. There were ten companies of one hundred men, each having a boss and a flag to rally to. They rode in a column of twos with dusters over multiple layers of clothing and hats pulled low. The snow had stopped during the night, but it was cold, and the entire formation was enveloped by a fog of lung-warmed air. Th
e wagons came next. There were ten of them, all heavily loaded with tents, tools, food, ammo, medical supplies, and slaves. It took a lot of resources to start a war. They rattled, creaked, and squealed.

  Voss and his bodyguards rode at the front. That was something Voss insisted on because he knew the mercs were more likely to put their hearts into a fight if they could see that he was taking the same chances they did.

  But appearances were deceiving. In spite of Voss’s determination to look brave, he was terrified, not because of the possibility that he would be killed—he couldn’t conceive of that—but because he might fail. Just like Sara said he would. But, Voss reminded himself, remember what Charlie said. He thinks Hashi is busy building wind turbines.

  The thought made him feel better, as did the news a scout radioed back half an hour later. The way was clear. There were no tracks in the snow, no unusual radio traffic, and no suspicious riders in the distance. Nor should there be that close to Afton. But Kemmerer, which lay a hundred miles to the south, was at the northern boundary of what Hashi considered to be her territory. So Voss expected to make contact by the time he and his mercenaries arrived there.

  Except for a brief appearance shortly after noon, the sun was hidden behind the clouds for the rest of the day. And by the time the column pulled into a hamlet called Border Junction, Voss was exhausted. But rather than let that show, he forced himself to make the rounds and even went so far as to help erect a tent, disperse dollops of whiskey from the flasks he kept in his pockets, and chat with the mercs he knew. Small things, really . . . but moments that would be magnified in the telling and would help to keep spirits up.

  Then, dead tired, Voss retreated to the tent that slaves had set up for him. Unlike all the rest, it was equipped with a small wood-burning stove, carpets, and camp furniture. Voss ate a bowl of piping-hot stew as Hawkins delivered a report. He struggled to say all the right things in response, then went to bed a few minutes later. The interior of his sleeping bag was already warm thanks to a couple of hot water bottles, and it wasn’t long before sleep carried him away.

  It took two hours to break camp in the morning and it was all Voss could do to remain aloof. He was, as always, filled with a seething impatience. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the column set off.

  Now, conscious of the fact that Hashi’s territory lay only fifty miles to the south, Voss sent half a company of horsemen ahead to scout the way. Voss didn’t expect to make contact with the enemy so soon but knew such a thing was possible.

  But beyond routine encounters with a few startled travelers, the scouts found nothing other than vast tracts of untouched snow, the bite of the relentless wind, and an empty horizon. Surely they would make contact soon. The suspense was nerve-wracking, but comforting too, because with each passing mile Voss became increasingly convinced that Charlie was right. Hashi’s attention was focused elsewhere.

  That thought helped Voss endure the next eight hours as the column passed through Cokeville and turned east at the hamlet of Sage. It was flat country interrupted by low-lying ridges, perfect for cavalry. But it was a cold, heartless place, and Voss felt lost in it.

  Finally, as the sky began to darken, they arrived in what was once the town of Kemmerer. It had been home to a couple thousand people sixty years earlier. But that was back before the nuclear exchange, sudden climate change, and the second civil war. There had been significant quantities of fuel back then, and a tank battle had been fought in Kemmerer. The hulks of burned-out machines stood as mute testimonials to a period when various states and combinations of states battled one another and ultimately reduced the United States of America to rubble. And now, more than fifty years later, people were fighting over the rubble.

  As the animals were cared for and the tents went up, Voss made the rounds. The mercs weren’t likely to complain to his face, but Voss could tell that morale was still high, and he did what he could to keep it that way. Then he called the bosses into his tent, where he served up cigars and whiskey before getting down to business. A map had been spread out on a sheet of wood supported by two sawhorses. A cloud of blue-black smoke floated above their heads as Voss tapped the name Kemmerer with a grubby index finger. “We’re here, and Hashi’s headquarters are down here, in Evanston. So here’s the plan. Hawkins will take most of our men down Highway 189. At some point Hashi will be forced to respond. That’s when we kick her butt or, failing that, keep most of her people busy while I lead a company of men around to attack her left flank. If we can break through, we’ll turn in on her and attack from behind. Then, having hung her from one of her own windmills, we’ll take control of the power distribution grid. With that in our hands, it will be easy to capture individual wind turbines. If you have questions, speak up.”

  The bosses had questions, but they were tactical rather than strategic. None of them were going to say something like, “Hey, Mr. Voss, why start a war?” Not while he could kill their families.

  Once all the issues had been resolved and the mercenaries were gone, Voss could hit the sack. His bed was warm, but it was hard to fall asleep. Part of that was due to the aches and pains resulting from a long ride, but most if it had to do with a stomach-churning sense of dread. Was he right? Was he wrong? Nothing was certain. And the doubts followed Voss into dreams where armies clashed, men died, and blood stained the snow.

  The mercs were up and working two hours before dawn in keeping with orders from Voss. That meant they were ready to ride at first light. After giving Hawkins some final orders, Voss led a hundred men west. It was cold but clear, conditions that Voss chose to perceive as a good omen. With scouts ranging ahead, the column snaked between snow-clad hills and eventually turned south.

  When midmorning arrived, Voss hadn’t heard anything from Hawkins but hadn’t expected to. The radios they had weren’t much good beyond a few miles. So with a blue sky, and no news from the east, the sound of thunder took Voss by surprise. He turned to look at Boss Jones, a man with dark skin, high cheekbones, and a reputation for being tough. “What the hell was that?“

  Jones frowned. “I don’t know, but it ain’t good. That’s for sure.”

  The sound lasted for half a minute and stopped. Now Voss felt an emptiness where the pit of his stomach was supposed to be. But all he could do was keep going, execute his part of the plan, and trust that Hawkins would do likewise. Hopefully, no matter what had taken place on Highway 189, the sudden attack on Hashi’s flank would take her by surprise.

  But fifteen minutes later Voss heard a high-pitched mosquito-like whine and looked up to see something in the sky. Although Voss had never seen an actual airplane, he had seen pictures of them and realized he was looking at a toy. No, not a toy, but a miniature plane. Why bother? Unless it could take pictures of his mercs! How many such devices did Hashi have? A dozen? No wonder her scouts had never been sighted . . . They could fly! A fact that had escaped Charlie. Or had she bought the traveling medicine man off? Voss felt a rising sense of anger but forced himself to push the thought off. Focus, he told himself. Focus on the situation at hand. “Shoot it down,” he ordered, and the mercs tried. A volley of shots rang out, but the drone was a moving target, none of the mercs were armed with machine guns, and the sun was in their eyes.

  So the tiny aircraft completed a circle unscathed, waggled its wings as if to taunt him, and banked toward the south. At that point Voss faced a real dilemma. The element of surprise had been lost. Should he keep going or turn back? Much as it galled Voss to do so, the obvious choice was to go back, because if he continued, Hashi’s forces would be waiting to crush him. It was humiliating, but Voss had no choice. He looked at Jones. “Turn the column around. We’re going back.”

  Jones shouted orders, the back of the column became the front, and the detachment was soon headed east. They rode hard, so that clods of snow flew away from the horses’ hooves, and jets of what looked like steam shot out of their nostrils. As they ran, Voss was gripped by a sense of dread. The thunder
. . . What had caused the thunder?

  It took a full hour of hard riding to learn the answer. As Voss and his men rounded a hill, he could see his riders—hundreds of them—and that made him feel better. Then, as a section of Highway 189 came into view, a scene of incredible carnage was revealed. Dozens of craters could be seen, along with patches of blood-soaked snow and large chunks of raw meat. Horses? Yes, but as Voss drew closer, he saw that human body parts lay about as well. Boss Howard galloped out to meet him. Both men pulled back on the reins. Voss spoke first. “Hawkins?”

  “Dead.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  “The road was mined. There must have been fifty or sixty of them. We lost all of Company A and half of B. More than a hundred and fifty men altogether. There are wounded too. Some won’t make it.”

  Voss felt light-headed. Sara had been right. Damn, damn, damn. “But how?” Voss demanded. “Surely we weren’t the first people to use the highway since the mines were planted.”

  “They were command detonated,” Howard replied grimly. “Munitions like that were widely available back during the second civil war—and it looks like Hashi found a supply.”

  No wonder the bitch felt free to raise her prices, Voss thought. She was ready for war. “Okay, so she had someone stationed here. Did we get him?”

  Howard said, “Nope,” and pointed upward. And there, flying lazy circles in the sky, was a miniature plane. Having spotted the column, all Hashi had to do was push a button.

  Voss swore. “We ran into one of those as well. That’s why we turned back.”

  “Yes, sir,” Howard acknowledged, “and I’m glad you did. Truth is I wasn’t sure what to do. Who knows? Maybe there are more mines up ahead. We could ride parallel to the highway, but Hashi would be able to see that and respond.”

  “There isn’t much we can do other than bury the dead and get the wounded back to Afton,” Voss said. “Then, next time we come down here, we’ll make Hashi pay.”