War World X: Takeover (12 page)

“If we don’t reach Chang’s landing before Full-Dark,” he commented, “We’ll have to spend it on the water. That won’t be fun, but it’s safer than being on land without a roof and walls.”

“Why aren’t there more fueling stops along the river?” Sanchez wanted to know.

“Bad harvests, nasty wildlife, robbers,” said Makhno with a shrug. “A lot of shimmer stone prospectors wind up broke and take to piracy. None of these settlements can survive on river trade alone; they have to farm and that’s a risky business. The mining companies have no interest in helping settlers.”

The silent miner laughed.

Makhno turned on the engine, and the
Dragon
sailed on.

As Cat’s Eye set and the light grew steadily dimmer, Makhno piloted slower and slower. Sanchez noted odd ripplings on the water, and didn’t ask about them. Finally, as the last dim light stretched low across the water, Makhno turned off the engine and threw out the anchor. There was no landing, nor even a hint of a path through the forest, visible anywhere.

“All right,” said the captain, pulling up a waterproof lantern. “We didn’t reach Chang’s, so we’re stuck here for the duration. I’m taking the first sleep-shift, so both of you stay awake and alert. If you hear anything splashing near the boat, turn on the lantern and shine the light on it; the critters that come up during Full-Dark don’t like the light. But don’t leave it on all the time, or you’ll drain the batteries. You don’t want to be stuck out here with no light, believe me. Don’t wake me up unless it’s important. See you in a few.”

With that, he rolled up in his blanket and lay down. Almost at once his breathing grew deep and steady. The miner pulled out his tin-whistle again and began playing. The sweet lonely notes echoed out over the dark water.

Sanchez hitched to the center of the main hull and set the lantern in his lap, wondering if the odd river sounds were growing any louder. He was sure that the noises from the forest were changing. Something far off roared like a lion.
Cliff lion,
he guessed. Everything he’d read about the wildlife on Haven was unpleasant. Even the river smelled of sour spices—gods only knew what caused that.

There was a nearby splashing, then a faint thump and the slightest feel of vibration. Sanchez flicked on the light and turned it to where he’d heard the sound.

For an instant he saw the thing clearly, perched on the port gunwale; it looked like a cross between a boiled crab and a pink octopus, as big as a seat cushion, holding onto the slick wood with its suckers. The light made it retract its eyestalks quickly, and then it slid off the raft and back into the water. It was, Sanchez, reflected, one of the ugliest creatures he’d ever seen.

“What the hell was that?!” he couldn’t help saying. “Was that a riverjack?”

“Nah,” said the miner, around the mouthpiece of his tin-whistle. “Just a crawler.”

That was as much as Sanchez had heard out of him in the past two days of travel. Unwilling to let the chance slip, Sanchez asked: “Do they attack humans?”

“Nah, they can’t eat us.” The miner shrugged. “But then, we can’t eat them, either. Turn off the light. Save batteries.” Before Sanchez could think to ask anything more, the miner put the tin-whistle back in his mouth and resumed his playing.

A dedicated musician,
Sanchez thought, dutifully turning out the light. It occurred to him to wonder just what the hell he was doing, sitting out here in a wooden boat in total darkness on a river full of unknown dangers, with no companionship but a near-mute primitive and a sleeping sailor who probably doubled as a smuggler. He should have made Van Damm come to him, instead of going there. Why the hell wasn’t the man in Castell City, anyway?

But the answer to that was too obvious. The city had been cleaned up; it was prosperous, clean and peaceful. The Harmonies and the settlers were getting along well and there was no chance to stir up any serious trouble between them. The only possible hot-spot was at Kenny-Camp, so of course Van Damm had gone there. Unfortunately, the only space-capable radio in the valley was back in Castell City—except for those in the hands of the mining companies’ local managers, who were mostly in Kenny-Camp. For long minutes Sanchez pondered whether it was worth the security risk to send a message through Kennicott’s radio—which would necessarily involve the company managers—assuming that the radio staff even knew who and where Van Damm was.

Then another splash and thump drew his attention, and he turned on the light to see another damned crawler climbing up the other side of the craft. Again, it fled the moment the light touched it. The miner played on, not pausing for a second.

Sanchez huddled down in his blanket, clutched the lamp close to him, and settled in for a very long night.

The attack came in the middle of Full-Dark: A series of explosions that shook the Reynolds’ Camp awake, followed by merrily burning chemical fires that wreathed the main digger in a halo of flame. The newly recruited miners scrambled out of their tents and got out of range, stopping only at the edge of the light. The company safety-crew turned out with fire-extinguishers and hosed down the flame-wrapped machine, but it took them nearly half an hour to kill the blaze.

The engineers, searching the smoking metal with hand-lamps, declared that the damage was minimal—nothing that couldn’t be repaired in a turn or two—but was definitely caused by enemy action: well-made incendiary bombs, propelled from a distance—by rockets, perhaps. Who, the hastily-wakened managers considered, had the resources to get such weapons and the motivation to use them?

The answer was obvious.

Sanchez was awakened by the sound of the engine starting and a rough hand shaking his shoulder. He pulled one eye open to see the miner shuffling away to his usual spot, barely visible in the faint glow of long-approaching dawn. Captain Makhno sat at the stern, tinkering with the engine, and the
River Dragon
was beginning to move, slowly but steadily, downstream again.

“We should be a quarter of the way to Kenny-Camp by the end of dim,” the captain announced. “We won’t be able to make any better than half-speed til then, anyway. Go up to the bow and look ahead for snags.”

“Right,” Sanchez muttered, taking the lantern and shuffling forward. “God, another week of this….”

“And remember,” Makhno called after him, “‘Port’ is left. ‘Starboard’ is right.”

The company loudspeaker at Kenny-Camp censored the news, of course, but it took only a few prospectors coming in from the hills to spread the tale. Within a few T-days everyone knew that Kennicott agents had firebombed Reynolds’ Camp, and Reynolds was coming for revenge. It was anyone’s guess what form that vengeance would take, but it would be a good idea to stay away from the mine-pit—and the company offices—for a while. Everyone did so, except for the indentured miners who had no choice in the matter. Even they went to work carrying survival-packs and looking around for handy escape-routes. The company engineers, it was noted, clustered around the landing field and spent an inordinate amount of time checking the company shuttlecrafts. dim-day passed with no lessening of the tension, even though nothing obvious happened.

Almost a T-week later, the
River Dragon
came chuffing up to the dock. Word spread quickly, and buyers came down to crowd the dock for deliveries. Not a few dickered for passage upriver. Vincent Sanchez had trouble getting out of the boat past them. The big miner simply got up and bulled his way through the crowd and headed off in the direction of what appeared to be the nearest bar. Seeing no better objective, Sanchez followed him. He didn’t look back to see Makhno pulling out a small and efficient radio-phone, nor hear what the man reported.

The bar had the look of old company housing gone to seed, but there was a sizeable crowd inside. Sanchez wondered if the furtive looks and general nervousness of the clientele were the usual state of affairs, settled at the far end of the bar and waited to have a word with the bartender. A few hours of drinking not-too-bad beer and asking questions won him directions to a ramshackle grocery store. Once there, the right words—and a CoDo cred-bill—got him entry to a storeroom that doubled as an office.

At a rickety table behind a wall of crates sat Owen Van Damm, drinking more of the local beer and brooding over a stained and ancient map of the valley. He looked up as Sanchez entered, and said only: “I hear you’ve been looking for me.”

“Long and far,” said Sanchez, dropping onto the only other seat, a large and presumably empty crate. “I’m Vincent Sanchez, your new contact from BuIntel.” He flashed his ID, along with the expected hand sign. “You’re a hard man to find.”

“I didn’t think it prudent to make myself known to the Kennicott management.” Van Damm shrugged.

Sanchez frowned. This wasn’t going at all well; he hadn’t impressed the man sufficiently with his position, and why this reluctance to deal with Kennicott? “You had a task to do,” he growled. “You haven’t accomplished it in almost a year and now you say you need to avoid Kennicott. Explain yourself!” He wondered if he’d put enough snap into the order.

Van Damm only gave him a weary look. “The Powers That Be at HQ have very little idea of what the situation is here on Haven. It can’t have escaped your attention that this is a very harsh world, where most of the population is struggling for bare survival. The only people who came here well equipped to deal with the environment are the Harmonies, so the settlers depend on them for supplies, construction, medicine and all other assistance. The mining companies haven’t exactly provided those things.”

Sanchez briefly recalled what he’d seen at Castell City, and on the long voyage down here. “That’s why we have to get the Harmonies under control,” he growled. “With a CoDo administrator—”

“—the mining companies still wouldn’t spend a credit more than they had to on what the settlers need,” Van Damm cut in. “The Harmonies finally had the sense to make deals with the settlers and both of them are profiting from it. The settlers won’t turn on the Harmonies. End of discussion. The only pot that’s likely to boil is right here, in the heart of the mining country. It’s likely to be the companies versus the miners, or companies versus the settlers, or the companies versus each other. In any case, the companies will come off being the bad guys. There’s simply no way around that, Mr. Sanchez. Believe me, I’ve looked.”

“There must be something you can do! Set the miners against the settlers….”

“It cannot be done. The miners need the settlers for such basic things as food.”

“The miners against the Harmonies?”

“Too distant, and the same problem applies.”

Sanchez rattled his fingers irritably on the table-top. “The miners against the companies, then—but make the miners look bad. Arrange for them to commit some atrocity, something the Harmonies can’t prevent, something to justify CoDo interference.”

“That may be taken out of our hands very shortly.” Van Damm gave him a hard look. “Had you not heard? Kennicott agents attacked Reynolds Camp a T-week ago and firebombed the machinery, and everyone knows that Reynolds will strike back soon.”