The Seeds of Man

by William C. Dietz

  Tre turned and was about leave when Crow spoke. “Leave the notebook.”

  So Tre placed the binder on the ground and left.

  After a meager dinner, Tre hit the sack. He wasn’t slated for guard duty that night but slept poorly and awoke tired. Breakfast consisted of herbal tea and a small serving of oatmeal. Crow took a moment to address the bandits once they were on their horses. “We’re headed for a town called Pauline. Then it’s on to Soda Springs, Wayan, and back home. Keep your eyes peeled. We could use some grub.”

  So in spite of his comments the day before, Crow had chosen to swing through Pauline. But there was no mention of the military supply container that might or might not be there. Was that a strategy calculated to prevent morale from slipping further? Tre thought so but kept his thoughts to himself as they rode north, turned onto a secondary road, and followed it south.

  They saw one inn and some fortified farmhouses, but most people lived well back from the road with only the occasional wisp of smoke to indicate that they were there. All the bandits had permission to forage, but the need to keep going made that difficult. Still, the scouts came up with a couple of free-range chickens, and Bones scored a hatful of apples by riding through an ancient orchard.

  As evening approached, Crow began to busy himself with a compass. Tre figured he was working with the coordinates Nulty had written on the map. And that was how they wound up on an overgrown farm a short distance from Bannock Creek.

  It consisted of a half-burned house, a dilapidated barn, and a pond out front. As they set up camp and Hog went to work plucking the chickens, Crow roamed the farm, seemingly at random. Except Tre knew what the other man was looking for and knew it wasn’t there. How could it be? According to the information contained in the binder, the plan was to drop Wolverine Packages into wilderness areas. And the farm didn’t qualify.

  Tre felt his already low spirits descend even further as he took a couple of horses down to the pond. He was riding Willie and leading a horse named Betty. As Willie put his head down, Tre found himself looking down into the murky water. That was when he saw the shadow. A rock? No, rocks didn’t have corners.

  Tre felt a sudden surge of excitement, urged Willie forward, and felt the cold water rise. Then they were there, circling what was clearly a large container of some kind. “Crow!” Tre shouted. “Over here!”

  Crow came, as did the rest of them, and Tre took the measurements. That meant going neck deep in the water, but he didn’t care. Not if the container was what he hoped it was. And the results were promising. The box was ten feet long, eight feet wide, and something like eight feet high. It was hard to tell because the object was sitting on a bed of soft mud. The dimensions were consistent with what the military called a bicon. But what was it doing there? Tre had a theory. The farm was only miles from the Bannock mountain range. Perhaps that was where the package was supposed to go, only something had gone wrong and the helicopter had been forced to drop the bicon into the pond. Maybe they planned to come back for it . . . or maybe anything. There was no way to be certain.

  “This could be what we’ve been looking for,” Crow said cautiously. “But don’t get excited. There may or may not be supplies inside. And who knows . . . maybe it’s full of water.” Tre hadn’t thought of that and felt his hopes plummet.

  “That raises another problem,” Bones put in. “We can’t open it. Not underwater.”

  “How ‘bout we drain the pond?” Smoke suggested. “All we have to do is block the inflow from the creek.”

  “More digging,” the Deacon said sourly.

  Tre had started to shiver. Freak threw a horse blanket over his shoulders. “The sun won’t set for an hour yet. Let’s get started.”

  The rest of them looked at Crow. He nodded. “You heard the man . . . Let’s get started.”

  Tre heard the word “man” and looked at Crow. Their eyes met and Crow gave an infinitesimal nod. Tre felt a sudden sense of warmth. Regardless of what was or wasn’t in the container, something important had been won.

  Tre thought two or three hours’ worth of hard work would be sufficient to block the inflow. He was wrong. Each time the bandits built a dam, the combined forces of erosion and water pressure caused a break. By the time the task was completed, a day and a half had been spent on it. And with food running out, time was critical.

  Then they were on day two of the effort, watching the water level drop, waiting to find out what, if anything, they had. The draining process took two hours, and once it was over, more than a foot of water still remained in the pond. In addition to the bicon, other objects had been revealed as well, including a rusty bedspring, a couple of tires, and a golf club.

  Because of the water and the mud below it, a causeway had been constructed. It was made out of boards and nails salvaged from the barn. The bandits pushed the construct up into the air and dropped it into position. There was a tremendous splash, and water flew in every direction.

  Then a two-man team comprised of Tre and Knife went to work on the container. Doors were located at one end of the bicon, but they were locked and blocked by at least a foot of mud. Besides, even if it had been possible to open the box, the last thing they wanted to do was let water get inside—assuming it wasn’t there already.

  So Tre and Knife had to make a new opening by drilling four widely spaced holes on top of the metal-clad container and sawing holes between them. It was very difficult since all they had to work with was a fistful of hacksaw blades. The sun was low in the western sky by the time the final cut was completed.

  Tre was ashore by then, nursing a sore hand, and held his breath as Hog lifted the two-by-two-foot square of metal and Crow aimed a flashlight into the hole. That was followed by what seemed like an interminable wait before he stood and a big grin appeared on his face. “It’s dry! And it’s full. Let’s see what we have.”

  Once they’d started, none of them wanted to quit, so they worked into the night. And as case after case came ashore, Tre was astonished and thrilled by what he saw. Machine guns, assault rifles, grenade launchers, and a fortune in ammo. But that wasn’t all . . . There were medical supplies, MREs, radios, and crates of explosives. Stuff none of them knew how to use but were eager to figure out.

  Finally, after the last box had been carried to the barn, those who weren’t on guard duty celebrated by opening two boxes of MREs. After tossing the stuff that looked iffy, they had a feast. A small fire was burning at the center of the dirt floor and lit their faces from below. Crow looked around. His voice was serious. “The good news is stacked over there . . . But there’s some bad news too.”

  Tre knew what Crow was going to say, or thought he did, but chose to remain silent. Fade took the bait. “What’s that?”

  “We’ve got what?” Crow demanded. “Maybe eight tons’ worth of stuff? How are we going to get it home?” That was a very good question—and none of them had an answer.

  Chapter Ten

  Afton, Wyoming, USA

  There were rules. Lots of rules. The most important of which was, “Do what you’re told.” The corollary being, “Don’t ask questions.” Both of which were difficult for a person like Lora to follow. Especially when stupid people were doing stupid things. And that was how she got into trouble.

  Lora had been at Station 2 for a week by then. Both she and Sissy had been ordered to work in Greenhouse 7. And, being new, they were assigned to pull weeds, an activity that was not only boring but largely unnecessary. Or that’s how Lora saw it. The problem was that each “house” was controlled by an overseer. And in their case that person was a dullard named Ponty. Word had it that he’d been a slave himself and had risen to his present rank by dint of hard work, stoic suffering, and unquestioning obedience. And that included an acceptance of the methodologies in place when he took over. Even if they were stupid. So when Lora suggested ways in which the operation could be improved, they fell on deaf ears. Safety, for Ponty at least, lay in keeping everything exactly the
way it was.

  The obvious solution was to go over Ponty’s head to Slave Master Rahman, a stern disciplinarian who liked to tour the houses immediately after lunch. Knowing that, Lora kept an eye on the door as she worked, and sure enough, Rahman arrived about ten minutes after work began. Ponty was there to greet him.

  The slave master stood well over six feet tall. He had a shaved head, eyebrows so bushy they looked like caterpillars, and sensuous lips. Unlike the overseers, who typically wore bib overalls, Rahman affected a white suit.

  Lora worked up her courage as Rahman and Ponty made their way down the main aisle. Then, as the men drew abreast of her, she stood. “Permission to speak, master.”

  Ponty looked alarmed and was about to object when Rahman raised an imperious hand. “Permission granted.”

  Lora felt light-headed. All the surrounding slaves were staring at her. The decision to speak had been a mistake. She knew that now, but it was too late. “W-w-weeding,” she stuttered. “There is n-n-o need to do so much of it.”

  Ponty’s face turned white. The statement was tantamount to rebellion. The slave would be punished and so would he. Perhaps he could silence her and save himself. Ponty drew his arm back and was about to flick the whip forward when Rahman stopped him. His voice was stern. “What do you mean?”

  Lora had seen the interplay between the men and felt a little more confident. “I mean that weeds are allowed to grow around the greenhouses. They produce seeds, which we bring inside on our clothes and shoes.”

  Rahman stared at her. “That is a very interesting observation. Where did you learn that?”

  Lora couldn’t tell the truth. Not without mentioning the Sanctuary. “I lived at the Morningstar commune before the Crusaders destroyed it.”

  Rahman nodded. “You may return to your work.”

  Lora knelt on the edge of the raised planter box and went back to pulling weeds. Nothing was likely to change. She knew that. But trying made her feel better.

  The rest of the day was a long, dreary affair capped off by the one thing Lora looked forward to, and that was dinner. Not because of the way the food was prepared but because there were plenty of fresh vegetables. And after weeks on the road, she was hungry for them.

  Nights were spent in a locked dormitory with the women who worked in Greenhouses 6, 7, and 8. There were forty-five of them, and Lora was still in the process of putting names with faces. A strict curfew was enforced by an overseer whom everyone referred to as “the Hag.” Fortunately the Hag had three dorms to monitor and was absent two-thirds of the time.

  Lora slipped between the thin cotton sheets, pulled the wool blanket up around her neck, and waited for the lanterns to go out. The building was wired for electricity but didn’t have any. According to the rumors Lora had heard, the lack of power had something to do with a war between Voss and a tech lord named Hashi. Finally the lights went off one by one. That was followed by the familiar clomp, clomp, clomp of the Hag’s footsteps and the sound of a door closing.

  Then Lora had to listen to the usual coughing fits, prayers that never produced results, and the sound of a crying child. In addition to Sissy’s daughter, Cristi, the dorm was home to two other children, both under the age of six. Once their sixth birthdays arrived, they would be taken from their mothers to be sold or raised separately, a prospect that haunted Sissy’s every waking hour.

  As the coughing stopped and the prayers came to an end, some of the women began to snore. That was when Lora drifted off to sleep. But not for long. Suddenly a heavy weight fell across Lora’s thighs, a hand covered her mouth, and a voice whispered in her ear. “Good morning, suck-up. Time to rise and shine.”

  Lora struggled as what seemed like a multitude of hands lifted her out of bed, jerked the covers off, and carried her to the bathroom, the only place where there was any privacy. Lora waited for some sort of reaction. Surely the other slaves could see what was happening. Then it came to her . . . Most if not all of them were in on it. Her feet hit the cold floor as a couple of women took hold of her arms.

  A match flared, a lantern was lit, and Lora was forced to squint. That was when a woman named Vicki slapped Lora across the face. Vicki was thirtysomething, stocky, and clearly angry. “The bosses have their rules,” she began, “and we have ours. The first one is, ‘Do enough but no more.’ And you broke that rule. What? You think we’re stupid? You think we don’t know where seeds come from? Use your head. If we help Voss to grow more food, he will sell it, buy more slaves, and make them suffer. So we do enough to survive but no more. Got it?” The question was punctuated with a slap that caused Lora’s head to jerk sideways. She nodded.

  “Good,” Vicki said. “This is your one and only warning. If you step out of line again, the Hag will find you hanging from a pipe in the showers. We’ll cry and say how sad we are. And Ponty will put it down as a suicide.”

  “Time to break it off,” a voice whispered. “The Hag is on her way back by now.”

  Strong hands lifted Lora and half carried her back to bed. She hid under the covers as the Hag reentered the dorm. Lora slept very little that night. A wild mishmash of emotions kept her awake. Embarrassment for being so stupid. Fear of what the other slaves might do to her in the future. And something akin to respect when she realized that the women around her were fighting back to the extent they could.

  Lora knew all eyes were on her the next morning. That stemmed from simple curiosity in part, but there was a more serious aspect to it as well. Would she look scared? Would she try to talk to Ponty? The only person who knew for sure was Lora, and she hid her emotions as she joined the chow line. Sissy was there with Cristi on her hip. She looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Lora. They said they would hurt me if I told you. And I have Cristi to think of.”

  Lora understood but couldn’t forgive her. A friend was someone you could count on no matter what, and Sissy had failed that test. Lora wasn’t surprised, however. One of the things she had learned over the last few months was that a person like Matt could be an enemy and an individual like Cassie could be a friend. So she told Sissy to forget it, made a note that the woman couldn’t be trusted, and elected to eat by herself.

  Once breakfast was over, Ponty was there to lead them to Greenhouse 7. But instead of sending them inside the way he usually did, Ponty pointed to a pile of tools. His voice was even, but Lora could tell he was angry. “You’ll start by working outside,” he said. “And from now on, you will brush all foreign matter off your clothes before entering the greenhouse.”

  Lora knew the slaves were looking at her, hating her, as she went to collect a tool. The tip of the whip stung as it found her back. “Pick up the pace,” Ponty said. “You have a lot of work to do.”

  The next couple of days were very unpleasant. Except for Sissy, none of the other slaves were willing to speak with her, and Ponty rarely missed an opportunity to whip Lora. But then, three days after the short interaction with Rahman, an overseer named Nichols came to collect her. She was eating breakfast at the time and the buzz of conversation ceased as he entered, spoke to the nearest slave, and made his way over to where Lora was seated. The overseer was small, wiry, and dressed in bib overalls. “Are you Larsy?”

  Lora stood. “Yes, master.”

  “My name is Nichols. Follow me.” Every eye in the cafeteria tracked Lora as she was led out into the bright sunshine. She felt a sudden stab of fear. Where was Nichols taking her? The answer was to a horse-drawn wagon that was waiting about fifty yards away. The back was loaded with boxes of fresh produce. “Hop up next to the driver’s seat,” Nichols said, and pointed forward.

  Once Lora was seated next to Nichols and the vehicle was under way, she felt a sense of relief. She wasn’t on her way to some sort of punishment. So where was the wagon going? Lora turned toward Nichols. “Permission to speak?”

  “Shoot,” Nichols said laconically as the reins slapped the horses.

  “Where are we going?”

  Nichols looked surpr
ised. “No one told you?”

  “No, master.”

  “You were selected to work in the big house.”

  “The big house?”

  “Yeah, you know. The house where Mr. Voss lives.”

  Lora didn’t know—but it made sense. Voss had to live somewhere. She had other questions but didn’t dare ask them. She could think about the situation and draw her own conclusions, however. It seemed that the ill-considered interaction with Rahman had resulted in a promotion of sorts, since everyone knew that house slaves lived better than field slaves did. But a slave is a slave.

  Still, she was happy to escape the people who hated her and get a fresh start. But play it smart this time, Lora admonished herself. Keep your mouth shut.

  It felt good to have a plan, no matter how superficial it might be, and Lora allowed herself to relax as the wagon passed through a checkpoint and rattled onto the road. The first thing she noticed was the fact that there was quite a bit of traffic. And even though free people went armed, there was no sense of impending doom. Which made sense. Who would dare attack? Of course, safety came at a price. The locals had to pay the taxes Voss levied.

  The scenery was pleasantly pastoral. There were neatly kept “stations,” all belonging to Voss, and some independently run farms as well, the latter being under contract to Voss. That’s what Nichols said. In addition to the greenhouses used to grow most of the food, Lora could see cows grazing in pastures and plots of healthy-looking corn.

  Eventually they came to Afton, where, instead of being forced to wait in line, the wagon was ushered through a special gate. Such were the privileges associated with the Voss name.

  Their destination appeared half an hour later. There was no need for Nichols to point it out. The fortified manor house was impossible to miss. It sat atop a hill, and as they passed through a heavily guarded gate, Lora saw the weapons emplacements located all around.

  A twisting, turning road led up through landscaped slopes to a Y. One branch of the driveway veered right, but Nichols kept the wagon to the left. Then, as he rounded the house, the overseer brought the conveyance to a stop under the portico that connected the main structure to the building behind it. “See the door over there?” Nichols inquired. “That’s the entrance to the servants’ quarters. Go inside and report to Mrs. Winters.”