by John F. Carr
“You mean Hot-Wire Brodski?! We hid him all the way out here! I served with him in Belize and the Sudan, in the old 2nd Division. You say he’s got a bar down there?”
“Bar and grill, probably the best food and booze on the planet. Drop in and see us when you hit dirt.”
“Sure will, Mr. Van Damm! Say, did he ever tell you about the time in Belize, when the Guat’s were kickin’ up, and him and me was on this hill….”
Forty-eight hours to wait for the next shuttle, Van Damm considered. Oh well, I can listen to a combat story or two till then, seeing as I’m to ride down with the troops.
“I hereby bring this meeting of the Fraternal order of Hibernians and Caledonians to order,” Himself in his green coat announced with three bangs of his fist on a piece of plank. “So all of yahs, shut up.”
The motley crowd obligingly shut up.
“First order of business will be a committee of constitution, since we have no committee, with the exceptions of Black Jim who’s takin’ notes and meself who’s the best man of yous all. And we have no constitution so we have no laws as of yet. But since yous here you all seem to think that some sort of law is in order: I appoint the scholarly Robert of the heathen land of Milwaukee as head, and Peter Flowers of Arizona as his Deputy, since he has the best fists of the bunch of all of yah. They can pick the rest.
“I appoint as medical board two others that Doc Schaffer picks, and I want all of yah to go to him wit any hurts that yah got. He’s got a good survival rate.
“Some of yahs don’t understand what we’s about here at Hell’s-A-Comin’, so I’ll explain it to yahs. We help each other…even if yah wasn’t lucky enough to come from Ireland, Or Scotland, or Wales. Yah’s miners, and we’s the older of all miners’ unions. We help each other out when we’s outside and on surface, yah understand? If ya got food, ya don’t let a brother go hungry. Ya help him in a fight. Ya protect his claim when he asks ya, and he’ll do the same for yahs.
“All of ya’s Brothers now…so as ya line up at the beer, look at each other’s faces so ya’ll know each odder. And with the tappin’ of the keg I call the meeting adjourned.”
And he hit the plank once more.
As the others were turning toward the bar, an older miner came limping up to him. “Hey, Irish,” he almost whispered. “A word in private, if you please?”
Himself studied the older man for a moment, heart thudding as he recognized him. At last, this was the man he’d waited so long to see. He looked left and right, then strolled out of the dugout and into the windswept street. The old miner followed.
“This should be far enough t’avoid unwelcome ears—Mr. Bronstein,” he said quietly.
Bronstein winced, but then smiled. “You’ve done your homework,” he admitted.
“What’s left o’ the unions on Earth ain’t fools,” Himself grinned. “We’ve taken a page from you Wobblies, and learned ta study well—an’ keep good records.”
“Knowledge isn’t exactly power,” Bronstein admitted, “But it’s way the hell out in front of raw ignorance.”
“It ain’t power, but it damn-well is survival. That’s the mistake your First Union made.”
“We had knowledge,” Bronstein growled. “It wasn’t enough. Why do you think you can do better?”
“First Union had only the one cave-complex,” Himself said carefully. “We’ve got several already, and we’re workin’ at diggin’ more. We’ve spread further up and down the river, and we’re makin’ settlements a good ways inland from it. We’ve already got connections with the farmers, and we make more—and we also help ’em by digging, uh, storm cellars for the lot of ’em, if ya know what I mean.”
“It’ll take you a lot of work to connect them.”
“So we take our time. First Union, well, ya jumped too fast: didn’t get enough bolt-holes an’ supplies before ya made yer move.”
“Hell, we thought we had to make our move before Kenny-Co brought in the next load of transportees for scabs. We didn’t think the company could hold out for much more than two hundred days.” Bronstein laughed bitterly. “We also thought, miners being rare then, that we were too valuable to shoot. Honest mistake.”
“Well, we gotta big population down here now.” Himself glanced up and down the dirt street, just making sure. “Aye, and we got no illusions about what the companies will do if we challenge ’em straight out. Nah, we don’t just strike; we use a different tactic.”
“Such as?”
“First, we don’t call ourselves a union. Nobody mentions the Industrial Workers o’ the Worlds, nobody quotes the old sayings, and nobody gives any hints the Kenny-Co ears might pick up. By the way, how did ya get alive out o’ that cave?”
The old miner winced. “When the survivors saw that the Marines weren’t going to follow us into the cave, we put on a little performance for them. They bought it and we kept our heads down afterward. How did you guess?”
“People talk, and I’m good at listenin’. But you get the idea we’re playin’ at here? We’re just the Fraternal Order of Hibernians and Caledonians, and we’re just a social an’ charitable organization. Ya got that, too?”
“Starting slow, then.”
“An’ as a charitable organization, it makes sense we should make deals and ties an’ all with the settlers. All the settlers.”
“Even the Harmonies?”
“Especially the Harmonies.” Himself fixed Bronstein with an impaling glare. “Who do ya think’s got the biggest supply o’ seeds an’ livestock?”
“The ‘Workers’ and Peasants’ League’,” Bronstein laughed. “That used to be a joke, outdated even when we were founded, and that was 1905.”
“It wasn’t a joke a good half-century earlier,” Himself said, straight-faced.
Bronstein frowned. “There are no surviving unions from that far back,” he noted.
“Not survivin’, no.” Himself looked innocently up at the stars. “Reborn, at need. Conditions here are more primitive than they were on Earth, even in 1905, so we go back to something’ earlier.”
Bronstein gave him a long look. “Don’t tell me,” he said slowly, “That your real name is Maguire.”
“No,” Himself laughed, “An’ me mother’s name wasn’t Molly, eyther, but the ideas are the same. Unify the farmers an’ small shopkeepers an’ miners—aye, an’ even the Harmonies—because there’s really only two classes here: the mining companies, with their CoDo troops for harness-bulls—”
Bronstein smiled thinly.
“—an’ everybody else. That means we got ta unify all o’ that everybody else. Organize everybody who isn’t the Ruling Class. Build ’em up so they can run the whole planet by themselves, even if another ship never comes. That’s what we got ta do first.”
“And now we’ve got enough population to do it.” Bronstein took a deep breath. “Knowledge can be power, after all.”
“How d’ye mean?”
“You know, we organizers of the First Union had a couple of good computers with us, part of our ‘traveling organizer packs’. When Kenny-Co called in the Marines to smash the strike, they never imagined—and never looked for—anything like those computers. Those jobs had plutonium batteries that can last a century and more if they aren’t smashed. Jablonski’s long past needing his. You want it?”
“Jaysus,” Himself breathed. “What a difference that could make!”
“Come along with me, up to the old cave complex, to the one furthest from the river, and I’ll show you a corner that the Marines never found. That’s where I’ve been keeping it for all these years.”
Jane paced back and forth across the tower room, chewing her lip. “Is that everything Vann Damm said, Leo?” she asked.
“All I can remember. I’m no expert on politics, Jane, but it all makes ugly good sense.”
“Too good. Everybody wants to steal Haven from the Harmonies. Kennicott wants it for the hafnium, Dover for the shimmer stones, the other mining companies
want it for whatever they can get, BuReloc wants it for a dumping ground and everybody else wants it for the shimmer stones. That means CoDo has to takeover and run the place itself. The Harmonies won’t be able to hold out forever, no matter what we do.”
“I never thought I’d feel sorry for the arrogant bastards,” said Makhno.
“But there’s plenty we can do to slow down the takeover, slow it down until we’ve got our own population strong enough to deal with the CoDominium. It can be done….” She cast a long look out of the tower window, taking in the view of the island, the river, and the land beyond. “Ever hear of a guy named Thomas Jefferson, Leo?”
“Sure, in basic history. American revolutionary: wrote the Declaration of Independence and a few other things. Why?”
“He also had this idea that if every person has their own turf, their own way of making a living by themselves—and the means of defending it—then they’re not dependent on anybody. They’re hard to kill, hard to rule, harder to takeover, and…they tend to have this egalitarian attitude. They don’t fall into pecking orders. There was another guy, I think his name was Hine-line or something like that, who listed all the things a competent human being should be able to do. ‘Specialization is for insects’, he said. I don’t know who said ‘jack of all trades, master of none’, but that’s our basic strategy, Leo. Whatever their specialty is, we make everybody self-sufficient, then independent. That’s how we can beat CoDo, first and last.”
“I’m not following you,” Makhno replied.
“I’ll explain later. Where did you leave Van Damm?”
“In Brodski’s bar. He’d brought in a buddy just off the Kennicott Harbinger who needed a job, and he figured ’Ski could get him one.”
“Did this buddy bring anything useful?”
“Possibly. He had a really heavy duffel bag that he wouldn’t let anyone else touch, and it clanked when he set it down.”
“Good. When you get back, tell Brodski to keep an eye on him. And have Van Damm radio me, last channel; we have to make some plans together.”
“How soon?” Makhno grumbled. “I was planning on getting a little shore time here…with you.”
“Not right away,” Jane smiled. “Besides, Benny’s been working on something else that he’d like to show you.”
“Ah, what would that be?”
“You know,” she smiled wider, “That thanks to Jomo’s stupidity—and some generally poor construction techniques—you now have the only boat on the planet that’s fit to run the whole length of the river. That gives you a useful monopoly for right now, but eventually the Black Bitch will wear out beyond our capacity to repair and we’ll be in real trouble.”
“Sooner rather than later if I have to make any more heavy runs the length of the river!” Makhno exploded. “The woodcutters’ stations get fewer at every run, and the kit-boats—Damn-it, half of them were made by rank amateurs, and they’ve been dying ever since. This last trip, I saw the Putty Princess sink—no surprise there—but then Rosie’s engine blew up. The Last Resort was the best built of the lot, and we know what happened to her. And before that… Hell, Jane, The settlers started out with eight steamboats, and now we’re down to three. I wouldn’t bet on their survival for another year. If I let her take up the slack in the trade, the Black Bitch will wear out in another one or two T-years. I won’t do it, Jane. I know I’ve got my share of the fort, but the Bitch is how I’ve always made my living—I won’t lose her.”
Jane smiled. “Understood. We’re going to need more big boats, ones that are built by people who know what they’re doing. So, how would you like to become an admiral?”
Makhno pulled his jaw back up and made a good guess. “What will you do for engines?” were the first words out of his mouth.
“Hermaphrodite. Sails, and… Ever hear of a steam-turbine?”
“Wait—waitaminute! Turbines need high-grade steel; we can’t make that—”
“Depends on how fast you spin it. Benny has a design he’d like to show you, and he says we can make it out of brass or even crude iron. I do believe we could get that from the miners down river.”
“Uh, okay. They’re always hot for our crops…Hmm, what will we use for boat-hulls?”
“Steelwood is a real bitch to cut, but that’s material for another industry.”
“Even so, wooden hulls…. We couldn’t make very big boats that way. What kind of design is Benny thinking about?”
“Ever hear of an arrowhead-trimaran?”
DeCastro was beyond impatience and well into desperation. Captain Makhno had taken the Black Bitch and gone east up the river and hadn’t returned for over a full T-week. The Golden Parrot was out of almost everything, while Harp’s Sergeant was doing excellent business. The Fleet troops were groundside, drinking up a storm and spending money, and all DeCastro saw of it came from the women. His bar had become nothing but a whorehouse, and putting all of one’s eggs in one basket was bad business. He had to get out of here—and soon.
Subsequently, he was overjoyed to hear from his lookouts that the Black Bitch was pulling up at the dock. He almost pulled himself to his feet to run down to the dock himself, but remembered his position in time and sent one of the girls instead.
The waiting was almost intolerable, but eventually Ludmilla returned with the captain in tow. Unexpectedly, that elusive CoDo agent Van Damm was with him. DeCastro invited them into his office, and even shooed out his last bodyguard.
“Well, Capitan,” he almost panted. “I am most delighted to see you. Have you come to take me up on my offer of last turn?”
“Happy to,” Makhno smiled. “I’m about due to head down to Hell’s-A-Comin’ anyway. I’ll be piloting the Celia. I’m taking only the light barge, and it’ll be slow running, but if you still want to go—”
“Definitely! But why not the Black Bitch?” He had heard rumors that Vann Damm had bought the Celia from Grubby Marsden for cash on the barrel head. He knew that Vann and Makhno were as thick as thieves and suspected they were setting up a riverboat monopoly. Hell, that’s what I’d do if I was in their shoes.
Makhno shook his head. “I’d have to fill the barge with fuel instead of your stuff and the rest of the cargo. Some of the woodcutter stations used to distill some alch for me, but too many of them have gone out of business or been hit by river pirates. With a steamboat, worse comes to worse, you can chop your own wood for the firebox.”
DeCastro nodded. “Okay. I know we’ve lost a lot of steamboats lately. I thought Kenny-Co might be behind it.”
Makhno laughed. “They don’t need to bother. Those boats have barely made enough money to keep the chop-box full. Most of their fees are in barter. Not enough cash for anything but bare maintenance, and certainly no one can afford to scratch-build one anymore.”
That explains a lot, he thought. If things work out in Kenny-Camp, maybe I’ll bankroll my own fleet.
“Now, I’d like you to show me and my friend here that interesting little garden of yours.”
“Gladly.” DeCastro demonstrated how to open the hidden door, and led them down into the hydroponic garden beyond. “As you can see,” he said with an eloquent gesture, “The poppy-heads are ready for bleeding. Do you wish to observe the technique?” If nothing else, it might give CoDo another excuse….
“Oh, by all means.”
DeCastro picked up a fine-bladed craft knife and shot glass from the nearest table, and proceeded to the planting-bed. “One simply makes a few vertical cuts—like so—and catches the sap as it runs out. One must be careful not to dig too deeply, or the seeds will be injured.”
The three men watched as the milky juice dripped out of the cut seed-pod and into the glass. Van Damm looked up at the overhead light. “The growing-lamps must be hard to come by,” he noted.
“That is why one must always depend on interstellar trade,” DeCastro replied, sweating under the glow lamps. “The lights are especially important. These are tropical plants from Earth,
and cannot thrive in dim light, or cold.”
Van Damm murmured something that sounded like “Frennel lenz?
DeCastro ignored him. “As promised, Capitan—opium. The only source of morphine on the planet, I believe. All yours, as well as the rest of my establishment, in exchange for taking me, my supplies and my compadres to Kenny-Camp. How soon can we depart?”
Makhno and Van Damm exchanged brief looks. “Sign the deed in front of everybody in the bar,” Makhno said, “And we can leave right after. How long will it take you to pack?”
“An hour!” DeCastro enthused. “No more than an hour! Come, let’s go out to the front room and finish the formalities.” With that, he led them back into his office.
“I’ll help,” Van Damm spoke up. “Meanwhile, I’ll get a friend to mind the store while we go down river.” He padded out the door and away, looking unhurried but moving deceptively fast.
“‘We?’” DeCastro worried as he pulled out the paper and a pen. “He means to come with us? Why?”
“Maybe to guard our backs while we sleep.” Makhno shrugged. “Maybe to help make sure that nobody tries to steal the boat. Or maybe he wants to make some deals in Kenny Camp One or Hell’s-A-Comin’. Who knows?”
“You understand, I shall be bringing my, ah, employees too?”
“I knew that,” Makhno smiled, not prettily.
“Aha.” DeCastro guessed that he understood Makhno’s precautions now. “Come, let us go sign the papers in front of everybody.”
Brodski paced slowly up to the gate of the Harmony enclave, noting with approval that the log walls had been raised to an effective height. Wilgar self-importantly rang the bell and pulled himself up a little taller. The tiny barred window in the gate opened, and a suspicious eye showed in the space.
“Brother Wilgar and Cousin Brodski, come to see the Choirmaster,” the boy announced.
The window slammed shut. A moment later the gate creaked open.
“You might want to put a small wheel under the leading edge of that gate,” Brodski noted. “Keep the gate from dragging on the ground and pulling on the hinges. It’ll move a lot easier and last a lot longer.”
