Death's Head Rebellion
CoDominium – War World 09 Anthology9
(1990)*
John F. Carr

Contents

CHRONOLOGY
THE LOST AND THE FOUNDER—E.R. Stewart
DISCOVERY—Jerry Pournelle
THE GARDEN SPOT—Don Hawthorne
IN CONCERT—E.R. Stewart
THE SHIMMER STONE SCAM—John E. Carr
NOTHING IN COMMON—Leslie Fish
HELL'S-A-COMMIN'—John E. Carr
COUNTERPOINT—A. Brown
ASTRONOMY LESSON—Steve Shervais
ON JORDAN'S STORMY BANKS—A. Brown
JANESFORT WAR—Frank Gasperik & Leslie Fish
LAST CHANCE—Stephen Shervais
STEPPESTONE—William F. Wu
DOWN THE RABID HOLE—Charles E. Gannon

CHRONOLOGY

1969 	Neil Armstrong sets foot on Earth's moon.

1990-2000	Series of treaties between the United States and the Soviet Union creates the CoDominium. Military research and development outlawed.

1995	Nationalist movements intensify.

1996	French Foreign Legion forms the basic element of the CoDominium Armed Services.

1998	The Church of New Universal Harmony founded.

2004	Charles Castell is born.

2010-2100	CoDominium Intelligence Services engage in serious effort to suppress all research into technologies with military applications. They are aided by zero-growth organizations.

2010	Habitable planets discovered in other star systems. Commercial exploitation of new worlds begins.

2020	First interstellar colonies are founded. The CoDominium Space Navy and Marines are created, absorbing the original CoDominium Armed Services.

2020	Great Exodus period of colonization begins. First colonists are dissidents, malcontents and voluntary adventurers.

2028	Creation the Humanity League. Sponsored by the ACLU, Sierra Club and Zero Population groups.

2032	Haven is discovered.

2040	CoDominium Population Control under the aegis of the Bureau of Relocation and Bureau of Corrections begins mass out system shipments of involuntary colonists.

2043	John Christian Falkenberg, III is born in Rome.

2043	The 26th Marines, Company C, Third Battalion is dispatched to Haven to stop the criminal gangs from taking over the colony.

 

THE LOST AND THE FOUNDER
E R Stewart

1998 A.D., Earth

	"Call me Bill," Garner Castell said as the cop lifted him off his duff and chucked him into the paddy wagon, which in this case was an ancient Ford Econoline 150 with no seats at all in the back and a wall of metal mesh separating prisoners from the driver and his shotgun-rider. Garner "Bill" Castell told everyone to call him Bill, and often added, "I'm a walking list of debts."

	He clunked down on the corrugated steel floor and slid toward the front of the van. He slid toward the back when it accelerated. The charge was vagrancy, but Castell enjoyed the ride, his first in weeks. The van had been converted to electric so it was a quiet ride, and he was able to think.

	Tall, with bushy brown hair, bushy white eyebrows, piercing gray eyes, an ice-breaker of a nose, stern lips, and a strong, cleft chin, Garner "Bill" Castell, when he stood straight and inflated his chest and widened his eyes and boomed his big, resonant voice, could intimidate. When the cop yanked him down from the van, Castell went into what he called his Posture Act, which was nothing less than a graduate-level crash course in body language and public speaking. "How dare you, officer?" he boomed.

	The cop actually jumped back for an instant, startled by the transformation. A second ago this guy had been a quiet little vagrant. Now here was this strutting, command-voiced evangelist. Anger surged in the cop, as it so often does, and he grabbed Castell's nearest bicep with renewed strength.

	Castell ignored the grip and scanned the crowd of passersby who had paused on the sidewalk outside Austins downtown police station to watch some of the fun. To each and every one of the members of that crowd, who were mostly young people from the colleges around town, Castell said, "They create bad feelings the way a bad singer can ruin the hymns of a fine choir. They persecute those who, like myself, wish only to get along and be left alone. Having sought no trouble, I am beset by troublers."

	Someone called out, and although Castell showed no signs of having heard, he said, "Yes, exactly, we must learn to harmonize, we must become notes of the grand song called life, existence."

	The cop holding Castell's arm shoved him. At once cries of protest rose from the crowd. Some scuffling broke out, and the van's driver tried to help his partner hustle the rabble-rouser into the station house. Their way was blocked.

	"I've never resisted authority, when it deserved its due," Castell said. "And yet they resist my very existence, even in this mild, pleasant climate, where a soul can live simply and at peace, in harmony with gentle surroundings."

	At the word "gentle" a few college boys came forward and tried to pry loose the cops' grips. This caused profanity and elbowing, and before anyone knew it Castell was loose, but headed up the station house stairs on his own power.

	And power was the word, because he fairly bounded to the top. "I shall pay their penalty for simply being here, and then I shall go. In three days, if you care, please meet me here, please show them that we can gather and part peaceably, in harmony."

	And then he turned and entered the station house, where he was incarcerated for three days on a self-confessed charge of vagrancy.

	When Castell came out of the cell, his life had changed, and he knew it. He signed for his few belongings, thanked the sergeant on duty for his force's hospitality, and then walked out between the swinging doors to the cheers of a friendly, happy crowd of supporters.

	"That simple," one of the police officers said, snapping his finger in front of his partner's face. His partner said, "Bull, nothing's that simple," and was soon proven right.

	Garner "Bill" Castell walked with the celebrating kids, who grabbed at his release as an excuse for revelry just as they grabbed at virtually any other excuse. He walked downtown, let them buy him a simple meal of chili con came and beer (an Austin college kid's staple, be it noted), then followed them back to the campus of the University of Texas. There he lived for a few days, but soon he moved into the hills surrounding Austin, and groups of young people trekked out to find and talk with him almost every day. Some never went back and soon those kind multiplied in every possible way, including live births.

	The sight of gentle, well-spoken Harmonies seeking alms became common around Austin and surrounding towns and cities. And they were not beggars because they always did helpful things before accepting any money, such as wash windows, paint houses, clear streets of trash and that sort of thing. Soon they were taking in huge amounts of money from a populace generally glad to see them, generally glad to take advantage of their bargain prices and cheerful work habits.

	When youths were reported lost, they most often turned out to have joined the Harmonies in the Hills. This led to the kids being called, even by themselves for a while, The Lost.

	Meanwhile Garner "Bill" Castell refined his ideas around the central concept of Seeking Harmony with All, and his rhetorical abilities grew with his wealth and influence. Strangely to some, he paid taxes on all income, which was recorded scrupulously, and sought no exceptions from any secular rule or law on religious or other grounds. He simply harmonized.

	Eventually he bought land, then more land, and more. Soon he controlled several thousand acres of the scrub-pine hills outside Austin, and he began designing buildings. He always had them approved by reputable local architectural firms, to whom he paid generous fees.

	Questions about his past Castell answered with shrugs and laughs, jokes and dares. "Find out if you can," he told one reporter who, seeking a human interest story if not an expose of a new guru, had come all the way from New York City itself. The televised interview only served to bolster Castell's standing and increase his popularity.

	He married a young woman of American Indian and Mexican heritage who'd been brought to him by some of The Lost. They'd found her beaten and abandoned in a clump of creosote bushes by a dirt road, and it was said that Castell never once asked her about her past, either. They were apparently a monogamous, contented couple. Castell abused neither his position, nor his power to evoke enthusiasm.

	He argued, swore, smoked occasional cigars, drank moonshine, played poker and could plug the selected eyeball of a sidewinder at a hundred paces at dusk with a handgun. He displayed several accents in the course of even a single sentence, and spoke at least rudiments of English, Spanish and German. He also kept his word, and earned respect daily.

	The Church of New Universal Harmony was incorporated, but continued voluntarily to pay taxes and fees from which religions were officially exempt. He rendered unto Caesar, and Caesar liked that just fine. The business deals, connections and the virtuosity displayed by Castell's structuring of the Church's finances, holdings and such led many to believe that their founder had once been a hugely successful businessman who had suffered a crisis of conscience. He had, they thought, wandered for a few years, until he understood about Harmony, and then he started organizing things again, this rime along Harmonic principles.

	Castell died from a stress-induced cardiac infarction during the negotiations for the license and actual purchase of colonizing rights to a new world, which he called Haven. Many rumors at the time linked him with CoDominium Intelligence, but such rumors never specified whether he was supposed to have been a member or simply talked to them as he'd talked to so many other groups of self-interested authorities. Certainly selective harmonizing, or Choosing the Right Song, as he called it, would be a likely route for him to have chosen in such a bitter battle to secure a new place for his Harmonies. Except for his jailhouse epiphany, he always tried to sing along with the loudest.

	He left behind him a son, Charles, who proved a reluctant but eventually very able leader of a Church that has withstood the test of time despite many transformations.

 

DISCOVERY
Jerry E. Pournelle

2032 a.d., Deep Space

	CDSS Ranger was not a happy ship. It wasn't that there was anything wrong with her. Ranger wasn't new, far from it—she'd been one of the first exploratory ships built after the discovery of the Alderson Drive made star flight possible—but she was well maintained. Captain Jed Byers saw to that. No, Allan Wu thought, that wasn't the problem. It wasn't even the food. That was getting pretty monotonous after ten months in space, but Allan had been brought up on rice and whatever could be found to cook with it. He didn't need variety, he simply wanted enough to eat, and Ranger provided that, even if the rest of the crew made jokes about Purina Monkey Chow.

	It wasn't the ship. It wasn't even the crew, not really. The problem was that they weren't accomplishing anything. No one was going to get rich on Rangers discoveries, least of all Allan Wu, and Allan needed the money.

	It was Captain Byers' fault. Byers was fine at running a ship, but he didn't know beans about negotiating with the Bofors Company and the CoDominium. None of the systems he'd been given the right to explore had inhabitable planets. That was to be expected, habitable planets were rare, but the systems hadn't anything else either. One did have an asteroid belt with plenty of carbon, and even water ice—but no inhabitable planets, and no gas giant in the whole system. No place for merchantmen to get cheap hydrogen fuel. Belters could live without planets, but they couldn't live without some trade with Earth. Byers could file claims, but Bofors wasn't going to pay any bonuses for that find.

	Probably not for the one coming up, either. Allan frowned and stared at the computer screen. It didn't tell him anything he didn't already know. A G2 star four light-years away and some twenty parsecs, over sixty light years from Earth. Not that the distance mattered so much. There were two star systems nearby that could be reached by two Alderson Jumps. Not this one. "It's a bear to get to, and there's nothing when you get there."

	"You can't know that," Linda said. "We know there are planets—"

	"At least one planet," Allan agreed. "Maybe more. Pity the bloody telescope fritzed or we'd know more about that planet. I think it's a big one."

	"A gas giant and a Belt," Linda mused. "And a habitable planet, green, about—what? Point 7 A.U. out—?"

	"That would do it," Allan said. "Riches in plenty. But it's pipe dreams."

	"We still have to go look," Linda said. "And maybe we'll get lucky." She grinned, and Allan caught his breath as he always did when she smiled. He wondered if he'd ever get over that, and hoped he wouldn't.

	"Read the contract lately?" she asked.

	"Which one? Mine, yours, or ours?"

	"Ours." She patted her stomach. "Just in time, too. Mother will be pleased ... "

	"HEAR THIS. PREPARE FOR ALDERSON JUMP. SECURE FOR ALDERSON JUMP."

	Linda shuddered and began strapping herself into the seat in front of her console.

	"I saw that," Allan said. "Still worried about Jumps?"

	"Well, some. Aren't you?"

	He nodded slowly. No one had any information on the effects of the Alderson Drive on pregnant women or their unborn children. "Damn, I wish we weren't going on with—"

	"Don't be silly," Linda said. "Two more Jumps can't matter."

	"Sure," he said, but he didn't believe it. Alderson Jumps had unpredictably unpleasant effects on healthy adults. They couldn't be good for fetuses. Allan didn't care about their child, or at least could convince himself that he didn't, but the thought of something happening to Linda turned him to jelly.

	"ALDERSON JUMP PLOTTED. INITIATING COUNTDOWN."

	Allan checked his straps, then looked to be sure Linda's were properly fastened. All correct.

	"STATION CHECK. BIOLOGICAL SECTION REPORT READY FOR JUMP."

	"BIOLOGY READY AYE AYE."

	"Biology," Allan snorted.

	"Sounds nicer than waste disposal."

	"ENGINEERING REPORT READY FOR JUMP."

	"ENGINEERING READY AYE AYE."

	"SCIENCE SECTION REPORT READY FOR JUMP."

	Allan touched a switch, and his computer screen went blank. He glanced at the status lights on his console. "SCIENCE READY AYE AYE," he reported.

	"QUARTERMASTER SECTION REPORT READY FOR JUMP."

	The station check continued. Then the speakers said, "ALDERSON JUMP IN ONE MINUTE. ONE MINUTE AND COUNTING."

	"Science section," Allan said. There was contempt in his voice. "If I was a real scientist, I'd be investigating things. Why does the Alderson Jump rack people up?"

	"Nobody knows that—"

	"Exactly. I should be finding out—"

	"STAND BY FOR JUMP."

	There was a moment of silence, and the universe exploded around them.

	Allan hung limply from the straps. He felt drool run down his chin, but for the moment he was too sick to care. His thoughts spun wildly.

	For a moment—

	For a moment he had known everything. He was sure of it. During that moment, when he, and Linda, and CDSS Ranger had ceased to exist in the normal universe, he had known, known with utter certainty, how planets formed, how the universe began, why the Alderson Drive worked. Now he couldn't remember any of it, only that he'd once known.

	It was a common experience. Probably half the people who had made Jumps had felt it at least once. It was also an odd experience, because no experiment ever devised had measured the time a Jump took. To the best anyone could measure, it took literally no time at all. Yet during that zero interval, humans had thoughts and dreams while computers went mad, so that it was routine to shut down all computers except the ones needed for the Jump, and to have those on timers set to cut power as soon as the Jump was made.

	"Linda?" he croaked.

	"I'm fine."

	She didn't sound fine, but at first it was hard to care about her or anything else, and after he began to recover from Jump Lag he had work to do. He started the power-up sequences on his computers.

	"All right, damn-it, so what do we do now?" Captain Byers demanded. He reached into a sideboard and took out a bulb of scotch whiskey, popped the top, and squeezed a shot into his mouth.

	"I'm looking," Allan protested. "Look, it takes time. First I have to establish the plane of the ecliptic. That means I have to find more than two planets, or wait long enough for one to move."

	"Yeah, I understand that," Byers said. "I don't suppose it will hurt your search if I mosey on over to the gas giant?"

	"Not a bit," Allan said. "I was going to suggest that. It looks interesting. Hey— "

	"Yeah?"

	"Moons," Allan said. "The giant's got some. Ten anyway. They'll be in the ecliptic plane."

	"Well, hell, of course they'll be in the ecliptic," Byers said. He looked critically at Allan, then shook his head.

	"Sir?" Allan asked.

	"I keep forgetting," Jed Byers said. "Not your fault. Mine."

	"Captain, I don't understand at all," Allan Wu pleaded.

	Jed Byers shrugged and reached into the cabinet. "Have a beer?"

	"Well, thank you, sir—"

	"By way of apology," Byers said. "Look, you can't help it if they deliberately crippled your education."

	Allan frowned. "Captain, I—"

	"You've got a PhD, from Cornell, and you're a licensed scientist," Byers said. "That what you were going to say?"

	"Well—"

	"And it don't mean beans," Byers said. "Not your fault. Look, nobody knows anything nowadays. It's all in the computers, so there's no point in knowing anything, right?"

	"Well—it's not worthwhile memorizing facts," Allan said. "It's easier to learn where to find them—"

	"Where to find them. In the computer. Ever think the computers might be wrong?" Sir?

	Jed Byers sighed. "Look, maybe I've had too much to drink." He eyed Allan carefully. "No recorders. Maybe you got one built into your teeth—the hell with it. Look, Dr. Wu, there was a time when 'scientist' meant somebody who knew something, who thought for himself—"

	"Yes, sir," Allan said. "I know, and I don't measure up. I know that; I was just telling Linda. They don't let us do real research—"

	"Maybe it's worse than that," Byers said. "Think on it, laddie. The CoDominium Treaty is supposed to stop the arms race, right? So if the CoDominium powers abide by it, everybody else has to, or one of the little guys might get ahead of the CoDominium. Only one problem. Any scientific discovery is likely to have military value. Better to stop it all. So tell me, if you were in CoDominium Intelligence, how would you stop scientific discovery?"

	"Well—"

	"Get control of everybody's research budget, every country and every company, not just the U.S. and the Sov world, all of them, Swiss and Swedes and the other neutrals. Put your people on the editorial boards of all the journals. Take over in the faculty and administration of the big universities. Elementary stuff. But how can you stop people from thinking? And putting what they think into computer networks?"

	Byers laughed bitterly. "When I was a kid—Wu, do you know how old I am?"

	"No sir—"

	"Older than God. I've heard you say it," Byers said. "Oh, yeah, Ranger's wired up pretty good. And I know her. I took her out on her first run—"

	"Sir? But that was—"

	"A long time ago. Yep. Making me old enough to remember when 'scientist' meant something, which is the point. When I was a kid, we used to think the computer networks would end censorship forever. How can you censor on-line communications? Hah. You don't. What you do is corrupt them." Byers swigged hard at the bulb of scotch. "Think about it. Control research, control publications, and feed false data into the system. Know what Planck's Constant is? No? Look it up in your machine. Maybe you get the right answer. Maybe you don't."

	"Sir—" Allan was interrupted by three chirps from his comcard.

	"PLANET DETECTED, POINT SIX THREE AU FROM PRIMARY."

	"Hey, a good distance," Allan said. "Maybe we're lucky after all. Sir, if you'll excuse me ... "

	"Excuse hell! Doctor Wu, go find out if we're rich, and be quick about it!"

	Five minutes later Allan knew the worst. The planet was barren. So was the only other one in the Habitable Zone. There couldn't be any life in the system.

	"That's the story," Geoffrey Wu said. He signaled to the waiter for another platter of pot stickers. "A new planetary system, with a gas giant. No Belt, though."

	"I suppose that's why I'm buying the dinner," Bill Garrick said. "Pity. But how'd you end up coming to an expensive school like this?"

	Jeff grinned and fished in the pocket of his tunic, found a pink slip of paper, and laid it on the table. "No Belt, but there was something else."

	Garrick looked at the check and whistled.

	"Peanuts," Mary Hassimpton snorted.

	"Yeah, well maybe to you, Miss Imperial Banks, but not to Dad," Jeff said.

	"Lighten up, Mary," Garrick said. He drained his Chinese beer and lit a pipe of borloi.

	"You're still grinning," Elayne van Stapleton said.

	"And you've got money. Tell us about it."

	"Now who's turn to lighten up?" Mary demanded.

	"Aw, let Elayne be," Bill Garrick said. "Somebody's got to study. Why not her? So, Jeff, where did the money come from?"

	Jeff grinned even wider. "Well, none of the real planets were of any use, but they found a good planet after all. It's a moon of the gas giant."

	"Oh, for heaven's sake," Mary said.

	"Yeah, I heard about that," Garrick said, "Haven, right?"

	"Right. Not what Captain Byers named it, but it's official now that the Holy Joes bought it."

	"So. Your old man did all right after all." Garrick took the check and held it out for Jeff. "So you pay for the Peking Duck."

	"Well, all right," Jeff said. "But I can tell you, nobody got rich—not real rich—from selling out to Garner Castell."

Luna Base, 2034

	CoDominium Colonial Bureau Chief John Albert Overton IV, stared at the pile of files, discs and wafers that blanketed his desk, wondering how-in-the-hell he was ever going to catch up. With over thirty worlds to administer and oversee, the Colonial Bureau was drowning in paperwork and reports. And now some underling from the Bureau of Intelligence wanted a chunk of his time ...

	Chief Overton removed a cigarette from its pack and put it in his mouth. A flick of his finger ignited the Qwik-Lite and he sucked smoke into his lungs. Tobacco was forbidden throughout space except for in the CoDominium's headquarters on Luna Base; after all, who was going to tell a Grand Senator he had to give up smoking—no matter how much oxygen it wasted.

	The Senate chamber and government officers were buried so deep into the moon's crust that not even a direct strike by a nuclear weapon could destroy the underground chambers. To cover the basalt-like stone walls and help dampen the claustrophobia that was endemic to Luna Base, his office had wall-to-wall 3-Vee screens showing the beaches of Southern California, breaking waves and bright sunshine, He released a smoke ring and watched as it slowly drifted across the chamber due to the Luna's lesser gravity. If undisturbed, the ring would remain floating slowly through the room until it collided with the screen showing the La Jolla shores.

	It was bad enough that last year he'd had to waste several months of his time helping to organize and setup the new Bureau of ReLocation, fighting the Bureau of Corrections every step of the way. It was the Colonial Bureau's hope that the Bureau of ReLocation, or BuReloc as it was starting to be called, would help administer the movement of Earth's unwanted to the many undeveloped worlds that awaited her huddled masses—whether they knew it or not, whether they wanted them or not. It was immaterial. Earth was too overpopulated for her resource base and contained far too many fractious minorities. Every day there were new requests demanding the deportation of hundreds to tens of thousands of unwanted bodies.

	His intercom buzzed and his assistants voice announced, "Chief, I've got Under-Secretary Marshall Wainwright from BuInt in my office."

	"Right on time. Send him in, Josh."

	Wainwright, a tall man with stooped shoulders, a nearly bald head with a bad comb-over and a thin nose, shuffled into the room. At first glance, he appeared a non-entity; however, no one who looked into the dark depths of his brown eyes ever thought that again. Besides, nobody without a solid core of ambition and ruthlessness ever rose to even a secretary-ship within the CD Bureau of Intelligence.

	"What can I do for you, Under-Secretary?" he asked.

	"Call me, Wain." His eyes searched the room and upon seeing the smoke ring asked, "Can I light up?"

	The Chief nodded. "Now, is there anything I can do for you, Wain?"

	Wainwright pulled out a small electronic device, about the size of a pack of cigarettes, and waved it in a circle. When there was no tell-tale screech, he nodded. "I like a man who keeps a clean house."

	"It's swept every time I leave or re-enter."

	"This matter that I am about to relay is a delicate one. There's a new habitable world, moon actually, that is of interest to the Bureau."

	Overton nodded. He could think of half a dozen "interesting" worlds, right off the top of his head, that might be of interest to BuInt. No moons though. "Which world?" he asked.

	"The world hasn't got a name yet. It's officially designated as the fourth moon of the gas giant Byers II in the Byers System. There's a big squabble over its designation as a habitable world. The discoverers, Captain Byers and his crew, are threatening to bring a breach-of-contract against the MIT/CalTech Consortium and we do not want to see this case go before the CD Council for adjudication."

	Overton was about to ask why not, but thought better of it. "It's out of our jurisdiction. What does BuInt want me to do about it?"

	Wainwright's eyes searched the room as though hunting for a hidden camera. When they came to rest, he said, "We have need for an isolated world, far from Earth's eyes for a number of reasons—most of which I won't burden you with. It has been brought to our attention that this moon might be such a place. We have plans for one of our former agents, who is now the leader of a small cult, to 'purchase' this world as an enclave for his New Church of Universal Harmony."

	"I've heard of the Harmonies. Dateline did a report on them recently. They don't appear to be the type of group that would advance BuInt's purposes."

	"They're not, Chief. However, we need a Potemkin Village as a cover and the Harmonies will do just fine. This world-let has certain advantages that make it ideal."

	He nodded, waiting for Wainwright to continue.

	"This moon is at the edge of habitable space and so many Alderson Jumps from the nearest habitable planet that there will be few unexpected visitors. Nor are we the only ones interested in this moon. The Bureau of Corrections has been looking for a world where the opportunities of returning to Earth are just about nil. One where the air is thin enough that few babies will be born without expensive birth chambers. We don't want to be inhumane but, on the other hand, these are criminals who have rejected civilized society and the cost of their continued incarceration on Earth is a growing problem."

	Overton nodded. "As we've discovered at BuColonial, new colonies aren't anxious to accept them either. The Bureau of Corrections has made the CoDominium quite a few enemies. What can I do to help?"

	Wainwright smiled. "I would like you to contact the University Consortium's attorney, William Fahran, and tell them that as far as the Colonial Bureau is concerned Byers II, Moon 4 is a habitable world, and that you will send supporting data to support that assertion to the Civil or CoDominium Judiciary—should that become necessary  ... "

	Overton tried to keep the surprise out of his voice. "Bill Fahran and I went to law school together at Cal Berkeley, but I suspect you knew that."

	The Under Secretary nodded. "We want this case settled as soon as possible and a survey ship sent to Byers System."

	"It sounds like you already know a lot about this moon."

	"We have our sources."

	Overton nodded. He would talk with Fahran and give him the word. No one got ahead on Earth by thwarting BuInt.

	"We can supply you with whatever you need to get the job done, Chief. The Bureau will consider this a favor and ..." His words trailed off.

	Wainwright didn't have to finish since he knew that having Buint in one's debt was a thing of great value. No one could predict the direction of the political winds as the Americans and Russians played their continual push-me pull-me game with the CoDominium.

	"I'll have a talk with Bill this evening. I'm sure he'll play ball."

	Wainwright smiled. "Thank you, Chief."

 

THE GARDEN SPOT
Don Hawthorne

2034 a.d., Wayforth Station

	A class action suit filed by the crew of a CoDominium exploration vessel was upheld today after six weeks' review of the case by CoDo arbitrators. The suit will now proceed to CoDominium Civil Court for eventual resolution.

	Captain Jed Byers of the CDSS Ranger and his crew were prepared to bring suit against the MIT/CalTech University Consortium for breach-of-contract regarding the Ranger's claim of a discovery bonus for the Byers' Star System. Though no habitable worlds exist in this system, the primary gas giant does possess a marginally habitable moon. The Ranger's master and crew admit that this moon's qualifications for colonial use are barely within the parameters established by CoDominium law, but it was the University Consortium's position that the very fact of its being a moon rather than a planet rendered any discovery bonus clauses in their contract null and void. In addition, reaching the new system is by no means easy; it lies at the end of several awkwardly linked Alderson Points, and travel time from Earth is over a standard year. Even so, CoDo arbitrators, perhaps fearing to set a precedent that might discourage initiative among exploratory vessels, passed the case upward in the Civil Judiciary, which is expected to hand down a ruling in favor of Captain Byers and his crew.

	When asked his opinion on the future of the system which now bears his name, Captain Byers shrugged and said: "That's not my problem anymore. We found it. Now it's up to the Survey boys."

	Willard Fahran, attorney for the University Consortium had little to say beyond this: "We don't see much point in pursuing this any further. The moon isn't much more than a rock, but the more time we waste on litigation, the less time the Survey groups have to find some shred of value in it."

	Mr. Fahran would not comment on a statement by Allan Wu, Science Officer of the Ranger, that "ownership" of an entire planetary body for personal exploitation allows very little chance of bankruptcy."

2035 A. D., Byers System

	"Geez, this place doesn't look too good." Frank Owens, the Navigator, grunted as he hunched over his screen in a posture that would bring misery to his back in years to come.

	"What it looks like is borderline quality dog food," Brian Connolly, the First Officer, concurred. His voice had that fruity uppah-crust British drawl, and even in the gloom of the bridge, you could tell from its modulation that his posture was correct; his spine would never dare be otherwise.

	"Cold dog food," Owens continued. He sat up and turned toward Captain Emmett Potter. "Christ, Captain; people are gonna try to live here?"

	"Most likely." Potter was the end product often generations of Narragansett Bay fisherfolk. Though unusually loquacious for a Wet Yankee, he had to be in the right mood, and right now, that mood was not on him. There was too much work to do. He finished tweaking a circuit board and plugged it back into the sensor module. The ship's master, Farrow, had very little money to spend, and in the months since leaving Wayforth Station Potter had become something of an expert in making do.

	"Well, then, they're for sure gonna die here, I can tell you that right now." Owens grabbed his floating keypad and began making notes.

	"Well, pickings have been pretty slim, lately," Potter continued. Which was something of an understatement.

	There'd been a lucky run of High Desirability planets discovered and placed on the "A" list in the last few years, and Survey Teams were assigned by seniority. The Explorers had been getting rich on discovery bonuses, the senior Survey Teams had been getting richer on all the "Priority: Rush/Habitation Study" orders, and the Companies had been getting richer still on their increased stock values for acquisition of high investment value worlds.

	The only people who hadn't been getting rich were, as usual, the commander and crew of the Fast Eddie.

	The CDSS Edward V her name on the roster, but her first master had been a Canuck drunkard who insisted on calling her Edouard Vee, somebody heard the "vee" in a Montreal accent, thought it was "vite," which meant "quickly" in French, the joke made the rounds and the name stuck like a leftover curse, far outlasting the short and undistinguished career of the ship's first, now dead, master.

	Fast Eddie had a crew of eight: The master, Thomas Farrow, the flight crew, consisting of Captain Potter, First Officer Connolly and Navigator Owens, Chief Engineer William Liu and a black gang comprised of two engineers of indiscriminate but more or less Latin ancestry named Icaorius and Mi'huelo Costanza. Icaorius and Mi'huelo being something of a mouthful, they were known variously as "Ike and Mike," "the Cisco Kids" or more commonly, "those Christless Spaniards." They might actually have been Spaniards for all that the officers could decipher of their bizarre dialect, but in fact, they were Basques, and every reference to them as Spaniards by the rest of the crew was followed by mysterious failures in cabin humidity, air conditioning, and most frequently, the mean temperature of shower water. Consequently or not, as time passed there were fewer and fewer such references.

	Of the eighth man, the less Potter thought about him the better he felt. Robert Miller was very low on his list of favorite people.

	Captain Potter shook his head, thinking about how he had spent the last half of a year, and to what purpose? The ship was a patchwork embarrassment, the crew likewise, and as data began rolling in on the cheesy joke of a habitat beneath them, Potter couldn't help but recall Hogan's words. He'd been with Farrow when the Wayforth Station administrator, Vilmer Hogan, had called them in for the assignment. At the time, he knew the master hadn't had much choice.

	"Fast Eddie is just the ship for the job," Hogan had told them. Potter had noticed that the administrator hadn't met their eyes when he'd said that.

	"It's Edward the Fifth" Farrow had said tiredly. He didn't have much fight left in him, these days.

	Potter had jumped in before the administrator could bully Farrow into submission. "And how can you say that, Hogan? She's been laid up for eight weeks waiting for parts that your service crews claim have to be saved for ships with higher seniority. And you want to send us to a rock that's over a year from Earth? We'll be spending the next six months burning fuel to get from one Alderson Point to the next and another half a year to get back."

	"Your wages will accumulate, same as always. And you'll be reimbursed for your fuel expenditures."

	Potter had given the administrator a sour smile. "Don't insult my intelligence, Hogan. You know as well as I that we can't come out ahead on this deal even if we hit the jackpot on a Survey Bonus." It had seemed like such a good idea for the crew to buy out Fast Eddie once upon a time  ... 

	Hogan had shifted in his chair, and for the first time Potter had noticed the sweat on the fat man's upper lip; he was very nervous about something. "Look, Farrow, Potter. Survey of this moon is very important to certain people. These people are eager to confirm the moon's habitability as soon as possible. I'm authorized to cancel all of the Fast Eddie's outstanding debts, return her to full operational status at no expense to you, and absorb all your operating costs for the duration of the mission."

	Potter remembered listening to the very quiet air conditioning unit in Hogan's office hum for some time.

	"Why?" Farrow had spoken first, surprising them both.

	Hogan turned to the Fast Eddie's master, but Potter felt his attention on himself. "Wayforth Station is a hell-hole; we both know that. It, and places like it, exist only because they sit at intersections of Alderson Points. The CoDominium has written: 'Wherever two or more Alderson Points are gathered together, there also am I.'"

	Potter shifted uncomfortably; he was not a very religious man, but he was pretty sure Farrow was, and he resented Hogan's sarcastic blasphemy in the presence of Fast Eddie's master. Hogan's attitude might also be taken as subversive by certain overzealous CoDo persons.

	"Wayforth sits at the center of six such Alderson Points," Hogan went on, leaning forward over his desk and steepling his fingers. "That makes it valuable, commercially and strategically. It connects to several of those Gold Rush worlds where all the other Survey Teams are even now making maps for the CoDo city planners and the corporate industrial developers. Earth-like worlds, easy to get to; prime stuff for the factions that can afford them, CoDo or otherwise. As for this moon, the Company wants to be sure it's not missing out on some lucrative mining potential; the Universities are still whining about a wildlife preserve; even the religious nuts are rallying under a common banner—Harmonies, they've started calling themselves—for a place to worship away from CoDo interference in their affairs. An out-of-the-way place like this moon appeals to all sorts of people by the very fact of its lack of easy access."

	Hogan leaned back, his bulk making the chair creak even in Wayforth's low gravity. "But there is another value to out-of-the-way places, too, gentlemen," he finished.

	Potter had sighed. "I see," he had said, and he did.

	Out-of-the-way places were for putting things out of the way, and the things that were most often put out-of-the-way in the CoDominium were people. Earth was still crowded, and the better colony worlds were taken, or their lobbyists were still able to resist forced refugee assignment in the Grand Senate.

	You had to put them somewhere, he also knew.

	Enter the CoDominium's newest entity, the Bureau of Relocation, which had been created to find a solution to the increasing numbers of unwanted minorities, religious outcasts and undesirable politicals. The Bureau of Relocation was still in the organizational phase, but was rumored to be up and running by 2040. Meanwhile, the Bureau of Corrections, BuCorrect for short, moved product off Earth like there was no tomorrow, and its product was criminals. Sometimes the colonists were willing; more often they were not. But willing or not, they moved.

	"Poor bastards, Potter had said, as he and Farrow signed the contract for the Survey order.

	"Don't worry about your crew," Hogan had said. "Better they have something to do for two years than sit around idle."

	But Potter hadn't meant the crew of the Fast Eddie. He had read the discovery team's preliminaries on the moon of the Byers' Star gas giant, and he had been thinking about the people who would someday have to live there.

	Now that Fast Eddie had arrived; the crew began the long preparations that would culminate, however reluctantly, with the first extended visit of men to the moon's surface, and Captain Potters mood shifted into the low gear of indigestion.

	"Pack your long underwear, boys," Owens pronounced, and transferred the last of the orbital survey data to the Fast Eddie's shuttle computers. He turned at a chuckle from Connolly. "What?"

	"Oh, just thinking about all the things I've said that wouldn't happen 'til hell froze over.'" The First Officer pointed to a screen rippling with ground images and overlaid with environment data. "They're all down there waiting for us right now."

	"Cheery thought."

	"All right, knock it off." Potter's admonition was quiet, almost weary; but not without a tinge of sincerity. Cat's Eye's moon was a NEW PLACE, words that filled the captain's mind in large block letters, black as death. Too many names were entered in Wayforth's Mariner's Hall as having never returned from NEW PLACES, and Potter had no intention of adding any more familiar names to that list, least of all his own. His temper was short, anyway; it was no longer possible to avoid going and speaking to Miller.

	The eighth man of the Fast Eddie's complement was not, strictly speaking, a crew member. Robert Miller was listed on the Fast Eddy's first-ever passenger manifest as a "CoDominium Xeno-Geologist." While not welcomed by anyone since the day Hogan had forced him upon the Fast Eddies crew, Miller had made himself as unobtrusive as possible during the long flight from Wayforth, earning a grudging acceptance from the others that was best described as belligerent neutrality. Besides a gift for chess, he contributed nothing to the ship's activities and took what Potter considered to be more than his share of food and oxygen; Miller was an irredeemable athlete, given to spending eight hours or more in the Fast Eddies centrifuge ring and eating like a horse afterward.

	Half-a-G seemed never to be enough for Miller, and Potter had three times found the rotation setting increased beyond its long-term design limits. He'd finally ordered Liu to program a lock-out on the ring's controls, and Miller had sullenly acquiesced.

	Gripping the handholds above his seat, Potter picked himself up and kicked off in the direction of the bridge door, continuing the zero-G acrobatics as he proceeded down the corridor to the living quarters module of the Fast Eddie. At the last door he floated to a stop and tapped the button.

	"Yes?" The voice from within was no less flat for being filtered through a wall speaker.

	Don't say "come in" or anything civil, Potter thought. Asshole. "We're taking the shuttle down in about an hour. Bring your gear and come to the launch bay when you're rea—"

	Potter was cut off by the rapidly opened hatch, revealing in all his glory Robert Miller, Company Man. Miller was already wearing E-Suit underwear and had a golfbag sized canvas carry-all slung over his shoulder. "Excuse me," he said as he moved past Potter into the corridor.

	Potter noticed the slippery grace with which the man moved as he insinuated himself into the gangway and moved off in the direction of the launch bay. "Insinuated" himself, Potter thought. That's a good word for it; that's what he's done since the first day we laid eyes on him.

	"He's a part of your contract." Hogan was adamant.

	"Then the contract's broken; no non-union, non-essential civilian personnel on Survey vessels, for their own safety and that of the crew." Potter felt his blood pressure rising; he was doing all of Farrow's fighting for him again, and it always gave him a migraine.

	"You'll bear no responsibility for him."

	"Damn right, 'cause he's not going to be aboard."

	Hogan sighed deeply. "Potter, there are Company operatives aboard every ship in the Survey Fleet. You and I both know that, so let's cut the bull, shall we? At least this way you know who yours is. Miller goes with you."

	"What the hell for, Hogan? We're a Survey vessel, we can't file any claims if something valuable is found anyway."

	"You're forgetting the most important thing about the Byers' Star moon. Its value as a dumping ground for undesirables. What happens if those undesirables turn over a rock one day and find a vein of gold?"

	"You've got a lot of rich undesirables, so what?"

	"Money is commerce, and commerce means representation in the CoDominium Senate."

	Potter rubbed his eyes in weariness. "Rich undesirables who vote, right, I get it. Can't be having that, now, can we?"

	Hogan shook his head and pressed a button on his desk. "I'm glad we understand each other. Eve, send in Mister Miller."

	When Miller entered, Hogan had introduced him to Potter and Farrow, each man had nodded, and none of them had spoken another word to each other.

	With few exceptions, their first meeting with Miller that day had set the tone for all Potter's future conversations with the man. Which, he considered, watching Miller's back receding down the corridor, was just the way he liked it.

	Potter returned to the bridge, allowing First Officer Connolly and Navigator Owens to head for the shuttle bay to make the pre-flight check.

	He sat down with a surly grunt as they left, thinking how glad he would be when this was all over.

	"Shuttle One to Bridge."

	Potter acknowledged. From the shuttle bay, Connolly and Owens began calling off the pre-launch checklist in bored tones that belied their interest in the shuttles operating status.

	Alone among Fast Eddies accoutrements, at least one of her two shuttles was always kept in perfect working order. They had to be: Fast Eddie might not be much, but it was the only way home, and getting back to the lumbering Survey ship waiting in orbit was only slightly less important than landing in one piece after leaving her.

	Giving them the final green light, Potter threw the switches which detached the shuttle from its umbilicals. The squat, ungainly form dropped away slowly from Fast Eddies forward ventral bay, dwindling in the dark distance, finally backlit by the bright flare of its engines as it moved into its descent pattern.

	"Godspeed," Captain Potter said quietly. But for himself, the bridge was empty now, and lonely. Along with the First Officer and Navigator, the shuttle carried Ike, several hundred pounds of survey equipment, and Miller himself, stuffed unceremoniously and uncomplaining into an emergency deceleration hammock. Potter found himself envying the Company man even that. It would have been reckless to leave Farrow to oversee the operations of the vessel, and Chief Engineer Liu had enough to keep him and his remaining engineering lackey busy for months.

	Potter sat back in the command seat, considering how much he hated being left behind, and how lonely the long trip home would be if anything went wrong down there.

	The idea of things going wrong inevitably brought Potter's thoughts back to Miller.

	The man was no more than a Company spy, Hogan had admitted as much; had admitted too that Miller's job was to be sure that Byers' Star's moon had nothing of sufficient value to prevent its designation as a future relocation site for the Bureau of Relocation, BuReloc.

	Potter, rubbed his chin. All debts forgiven and a free ride for the Fast Eddie; if Hogan's on the level. BuReloc is putting an awful lot of effort into getting a man out here just to verify that a place is worthless to the CoDominium government.

	"Right," Potter grunted. But in the last year, he'd had many opportunities to go over the available data on the moon, and there was nothing there to imply that it was anything more than an interesting exception in the Biosphere Rulebook.

	Still ... 

	He was nervously chewing the inside of one cheek when the shuttle crashed.

	"Fast Eddie, this is Shuttle One down, mayday."

	"Give it a rest for a moment, won't you?' Connolly's voice was weary as he massaged his temples, eyes closed.

	Owens stared at his screens in tightly controlled terror. "Fast Eddie's probably in farside orbit from us right now; goddamn-it, I must've told Potter a hundred times to recheck those relay satellites."

	"Well, he didn't, we don't have them, so if Fast Eddie's in farside orbit right now, we can't talk to them." Connolly opened a panel on his own console and distractedly pushed a few buttons.

	"It's dead, for chrissakes," Owens surrendered in disgust. "Leave it alone." His own board confirmed his judgment that all the shuttle's port side controls were inoperative. They'd landed very hard and with a lot of noise, and every screen monitoring the port systems had gone dark the same moment that the shuttle had developed an ominous, sickly list.

	Ike arrived with the results of his inboard systems inspection; the shuttle was small, and it hadn't taken him long to ascertain that an outside inspection was necessary.

	"Christ on a crutch." Owens' voice tightened by the minute as he struggled out of his seat against the unfamiliar gravity. "Well, that should make Miller happy."

	"Miller?" Connolly frowned. "We've an emergency here, Owens; we can't have him toddling outside on a whim while we're trying to perform damage assessments."

	"Oh? Why the hell not? He's going to be useless as tits on a bull, and it'll keep him out of the way while we work."

	Owens was at the door when Connolly added: "Look, Owens, I can't say I've much use for the fellow myself; but we can't spare anyone to buddy with him; what happens if he wanders off and gets lost, or hurt?"

	"Who cares?" Owens mumbled without turning around.

	Thomas Farrow, Owner and Master Aboard of the Fast Eddie, stared at the screens with great, sad owl eyes. He'd posted himself to the bridge immediately upon hearing of the shuttle crash.

	Pausing only long enough to drop three tabs of Hangover-Be-Gone, Potter uncharitably thought.

	Potter had found his temper shortening with every discovery of a new dimension of his own impotence to affect the crisis. He had just learned that the second shuttle was inoperative; there could be no rescue from that quarter. Farrow had neglected to schedule its hundred-hour check, and Potter had found a dozen problems that were sufficient to ground it for full overhaul. He sighed again. But it wasn't Farrow's fault that they had no relay satellites; Potter had made the mistake of trusting Hogan's word on that one, and his ulcer was exacting payment for that folly, now.

	Shuttle One was out of contact every ninety minutes for an equal amount of time as the Fast Eddies painfully slow orbit carried her around the far side of the Byers' Star's moon. Even when directly over the landing zone—Potter had forced the words "crash site" back from his mind so many times he'd lost count—the static generated by the gas giant, Cat's Eye, was enough to make an unholy mess out of communications.

	"We're coming over the horizon again," Farrow said in a low voice.

	Potter grunted acknowledgment. He had a feeling that Owens and Connolly were tiring of his demand for updates every hour and a half.

	Too bad. He began calling for the shuttle.

	"It's just great, that's all," Owens' voice was borne on a wave of interference, but the communications filters were doing their job well enough. "This place is a regular garden spot. Two hours outside in thin air with thin coats, and what's waiting inside but thin coffee. Anyway, it looks like we put down over a frost heave covered by snow; solid ground beneath one leg and lots of air three feet under the surface beneath the other. This whole area is a swamp marsh frozen solid for the winter. The landing leg collapsed and the whole weight of the shuttle came down on the port lift thrusters. They're half-buried, so I'd guess they're shot. Ike shakes his head a lot when I ask him how we can repair them, then he makes lifting gestures and shrugs."

	"I've got Liu working on the other shuttle," Captain Potter said. "Can't say for sure what we can accomplish, but we'll keep you posted."

	"Yeah, right. Listen, Connolly wants to talk to you."

	"Put him on."

	"Emmett? It's about Miller."

	Potter heard Owens bitching in the background at the mention of the BuReloc man's name. "What is it? What's he done now?"

	"Well, the damn fool's gone off and started his bloody survey on his own. So far he's stayed in sight of the shuttle, but that's not the point."

	Potter shook his head. Miller was utterly inconsequential, now, but he wanted to give Connolly and Owens something to take their minds off the strong likelihood that they would become the moon's first permanent human residents. "Is he any use to you there?" Potter asked. "In the repairs, I mean?"

	He heard Owens shout "No!' in the background.

	"No," Connolly admitted, "but it's damned dangerous. It's cold as a witch's tit out there, with snow to boot. If he falls and kills himself, we'll have to answer to the Bureau of Relocation for it."

	"To hell with the Bureau right now, Brian," Potter said. "And to hell with Miller. Let him play with his drills and ore samples. We'll need all that data anyway, once we get you fellas orbit-capable again and ready to come home."

	And if we don't get you orbit-capable, you won't be coming home, so it won't matter then, either.

	There was a long silence. "Right," Connolly said finally. "Got it, Emmett. See if you can't—" Connelly's voice faded out.

	"Orbital path," Farrow said. "We're losing them again."

	Potter boosted the signal. "Passing on, guys. Talk to you again in an hour and a half. Edward V out."

	He leaned back against the chair's zero-G harness and tapped the console distractedly, looking out at the surreal patterns of the Cat's Eye gas giant. "Tom, what's the latest on that storm front?"

	Farrow turned to another screen. "Weather patterns on this rock are pretty strange, Emmett. Looks like they're tied in closely with the long full-night cycle, when one half of the moon is without light from either the system primary or the gas giant. The valley they're in is due for that night in about ten standard days."

	Potter stared at the sepia-toned mass of gaseous soup outside, the horizon of the satellite a gray crescent along the top of the port. The moon's proximity to its parent world allowed enough radiant heat to compensate for its distance from the system primary, but the heavy gravity of the gas giant denied the Fast Eddie any chance of making geosynchronous orbit over her downed shuttle. They could only circle helplessly and wait.

	"Sit and spin," Potter said.

	And pray.

	A clipboard floated through the bridge hatch, followed by the clambering form of Chief Engineer Liu. "Emmett, we might have a solution to our problem."

	"Well, amen, Chief."

	"Huh?"

	"Nothing, go ahead."

	"Okay, here's a list of what's wrong with Shuttle Two, and here's what I can reasonably expect to fix in the next eight days."

	Potter scrolled through the datapad screens, grunting occasionally as he passed items of interest. "That's great, Chief, but these are all quick fixes, and none of them bring the shuttle up to full spec."

	"Well, no. But all together, they'll get Shuttle Two down in one piece, guaranteed."

	"Well, hell, Chief, we've got one shuttle down there, practically in one piece; our problem is how to get that one back up."

	"Relax, Emmett. The idea is we take the second shuttle down filled with as much repair equipment as it will carry, land it near Shuttle One, and then cannibalize the second shuttle for parts to fix the first. Ditch Shuttle One's ground car to save the weight of the extra crewmen and"—Liu wafted a hand toward the ceiling—"bring our boys home before the snow falls."

	Potter looked at the Engineer for a moment, then went back to the datapad. "Nice work, Bill," he finally said in a small voice. He turned to Farrow. "Tom? You're Master Aboard and we're talking about throwing away several hundred thousand CD credits worth of equipment."

	Farrow shook his head in dismissal. "Don't be ridiculous. Those are our men down there." He gave a faint smile. "Besides, the CoDominium is picking up the bill, right? Let's think of this as an opportunity to stick them for all the taxes they've gouged us for over the years. Go ahead, Chief Engineer Liu and don't spare the horses."

	Robert Miller snatched at his flapping facemask, catching it before the wind could make off with it. He refastened it beneath his hood, and gave Ike a thumbs-up, after which both men returned to the task of lowering the shuttle's bay ramp into the thin snow covering the alien ground.

	The shuttle had come down in the plains in the northeastern corner of a great equatorial valley. Surrounded for thousands of miles by soaring mountains, the resulting large, enclosed land mass was larger than Earth's North American continent, and enjoyed the highest air pressure on the moon; close to that of Earth at fourteen thousand feet above sea level. That made it just about tolerable if you were a mountain climber.

	Which Miller was. He'd been on climbs on a dozen worlds, mostly on BuCorrect business, but frequently for sport. That expertise had been the major reason for his assignment as the CoDominium's man on this survey mission. Thin air was not usually a problem for him, nor cold, but he most definitely did not wish to stay on this moon any longer than necessary; certainly not for the rest of his life. The shuttle crash had inspired his mind into a protective overdrive, and he'd thrown himself into his work with a fierce abandon.

	Still, he'd learned all he could from his samples here on the plains. He needed to get to the foothills to look for exposed ore, and that meant he needed the ground car. Owens and Connolly had shown no interest whatsoever in anything he did, and that was fine with him. This Ike fellow was less obnoxious, and had readily agreed to help him with this much, at least.

	Miller had noticed that Ike was largely unaffected by the thin air, and the cold as well. Obviously the fellow was of terrestrial mountain stock, but Miller had make very little to do with anyone on the trip out here, and still less with Ike or Mike. He'd guessed Greece, or perhaps Turkey, but unlike the rest of the crew, Miller had the connection between minor ship malfunctions and implications of Spanish ancestry for Ike and Mike. He might guess at their background, but he said nothing. He wondered if this Ike was the Kennicott Company man aboard the Fast Eddie; his control officer had warned him there was certain to be one, despite the CoDo's efforts to get him out here on a "clean" ship.

	Miller didn't anticipate a problem in any case; the companies and their lobbyists in the CoDominium Senate were powerful, to be sure. But they weren't foolish enough to confront the Bureau of Correction directly over one marginally useful world, whatever its economic potential. The outworld companies had the real power these days, but the CoDominium government still controlled the courts. The courts decided who was sentenced to "remedial colony support services," their euphemism for forced deportation—almost always for life. The companies had a lot of older executives with troublesome young children and grandchildren who frequently made the mistake of thinking themselves above the law. When he thought about it, Miller considered it a rather tawdry system of checks and balances, but it worked, and anyway, he didn't think about it much.

	The ramp was locked in place, exposing the bulky ground car which had been idling within the bay for the last fifteen minutes. Ike helped Miller into the cab, and they drove it down the ramp. Miller was about to drive off when Ike clambered into the seat beside him and shut the door with a grin.

	Miller stared at the engineering crewman with a frown. "You don't need to come with me."

	Ike shrugged. "No work to do; th' shuttle is tota." He waved impatiently toward the mountains. "Let's take a ride."

	Miller decided right then that Ike was just obvious enough to be the Fast Eddie's Kennicott Company spy; still, he was glad for the companionship. He set the inertial navigation computer, put the ground car in gear and rolled off east toward the foothills.

	Inside the shuttle, Owens cursed. "Well, great. That Christless Spaniard just took off for a joyride with the Bureau of Intelligence spook."

	"Oh, terrific. That's bloody swell." Finally losing his temper, Connolly threw a fused circuit board against the wall. After a moment, he calmed down. "Well. It's not like we'd a had a whole lot for them to do here, I suppose."

	The communications panel chimed, and Potter's voice crackled into the cabin. "Shuttle One, acknowledge."

	"Yeah, Emmett, we're here," Owens answered.

	"I think we've got some good news for you."

	Owens and Connolly shared a brief, hunted look. "Roger that, Emmett,"

	Owens fought to control his voice. "What's the scoop?"

	"Liu's been working on the Number Two Shuttle, says he can have it ready in about eight days for a one-way trip to your site."

	A strangled laugh slipped past Owens' lips. "Well—Jesus Christ, Emmett! What good is that going to do us?"

	"Shut up, Owens," Connolly shouted, taking over the communications panel. "What have you got in mind, Emmett?"

	Potter explained Liu 's plan, and the four of them went over the details for the next eighty-five minutes. The Fast Eddies signal was beginning to fade as Potter added: "And please, Brian; be very thorough when you take soundings of that landing area. We don't want to hit another sinkhole like you did and have two busted up elevators in the basement."

	Owens laughed an acknowledgement as he signed off.

	Potter's signal had been gone for a full minute before Connolly put a hand to his forehead in panic. "Oh, my God ... the sounding equipment; it's all in the ground car with Miller and Ike."

	Owens began trying to raise the BuReloc man and their own engineering crewman, to no avail. "Jesus, they haven't been gone more than an hour and a half, how far could they get?"

	Connolly sat back in his chair and closed his eyes.

	"I suppose," he said finally, "that we can take some comfort in the idea that not very much more can go wrong on this trip."

	Owens kept calling Miller and Ike, trying not to think about how wrong Connolly could be.

	Miller and Ike were gone for five days, and the rest of the crew had given them up for dead. Owens and Connolly had begun clearing a landing area a few hundred yards north, taking soundings manually with a metal pole heated by a battery pack, for although there was snow on the ground, the ground frost beneath was quite thin. Despite the moon's miserable cold, it was extremely dry this close to the sheltering mountains that separated the valley from the sea winds. The clearing was done with no tools heavier than makeshift brooms and piled rocks to keep fresh drifts out.

	Owens and Connolly had been sweeping clear the landing zone in a clockwise pattern, and had reached eight-thirty when the Navigator noticed his British First Officer staring off into the distance.

	"Christ, Connolly, you're not snowblind, are you?"

	Connolly dropped his broom and started running past Owens. "It's the ground car; it's Miller and Ike, come on!"

	Powder clouds of dry snow puffed up around their feet as the two men ran toward the ground car, the thin, cold air of the wretched little moon raking their lungs in spite of their facemasks. Owens thought that men might one day learn to run on this forsaken rock, but they would never enjoy it.

	The ground car slowed and turned in their direction when they were within fifty yards, and both of them could see the carcass of some large, shaggy quadruped draped over its hood. Owens and Connolly staggered to a fast walk.

	"What the hell is that?" the Navigator wheezed.

	"Indigenous life form." Connolly too was panting as they closed the distance. "Herbivorous grazer, I suspect; likely inhabitant for this sort of terrain."

	Owens shook his head. "First kill on the new world. Man has arrived."

	Connolly threw him a sidelong glance; Owens was not the sort of fellow who made pronouncements on the morality of his species. And in any, case, something about the animal carcass bothered him. Even as they approached, it looked wrong to him; too—lumpy. "Oh, bloody hell," Connolly said abruptly.

	The ground car had chuffed to a halt as they reached it, and both Connolly and Owens could see all the details of the mooselike animal tied securely to its hood. And tied behind it, giving it the unnatural appearance Connolly had noted, was the body of a man wrapped in plastic. The feet protruded from one end, revealing the thick, CoDo issue explorer's boots of the engineering crewman Icaorius, better known as Ike.

	Miller popped the door and leaned out. "There was an accident," he said. "I'm sorry."

	Neither Owens nor Connolly said anything, and Miller went on "Get in, we'll drive him back to the shuttle."

	Owens turned without answering and headed back for the clearing. After a moment, Connolly followed, leaving Miller standing in the open door of the ground car cab. Finally, the BuReloc man settled back into the cab and drove on to the shuttle. Owens took his hand from his pocket just long enough to casually raise his middle finger to Miller as he passed.

	"What do you think happened?" Captain Potter asked during the next communications cycle.

	Connolly sighed. "I don't know, Emmett. Miller says they were up in the foothills, digging at some crystalline ore, when they saw this musk-ox-antelope thing. Ike apparently thought it would be good eating, so he shot it with one of the rifles from the ground car. Then, when he was climbing down to the carcass, some big predator jumped him out of nowhere, apparently trying to steal the kill. Ike lost his footing, and fell into a defile before Miller could do anything.

	"How did Miller get the carcass away from the predator?"

	"He says he drove it off with the other rifle. Possible, I suppose."

	Potter's silence ate up a good deal of their precious communications time. "Do you believe him?"

	"Hell, no," Owens said firmly in the background.

	Connolly sighed. "I don't know, Emmett. The animal carcass looks pretty torn up, like a tiger was at it for a minute or two. Miller recovered Ike's rifle when he brought the corpse up. Both are pretty banged about."

	"All right. Liu's a little ahead of schedule and he says the shuttle will be ready in two more days. We've gotten a little sloppy in our radio contacts; that's not to happen anymore. I want you or Owens on this line every ninety minutes, clear?" Got it.

	Owens leaned in and said: "And what if we have 'accidents,' too, Emmett?"

	"Then the Fast Eddie writes off the Survey Team and heads home."

	Connolly and Owens shared a look.

	"I see," Connolly said. "So we'd best hope neither of us slips into a coma.

	"You or Frank on this line, every hour and a half," Potter repeated. "And make sure our guest knows it."

	Potter signed off, and leaned back against the chair. He had to prop his feet against the console edge to do it.

	In low gravity, as in politics, he considered, leverage is everything.

	Behind him, Chief Engineer Liu stared intently at the silent communications console. "Bad," was all he said.

	Potter nodded faintly. "Yup."

	Connolly coined the term "muskylope" for the large four-legged grazer Miller had brought back, and despite the mood of the camp being only a little less frigid than the outside air, all three enjoyed the taste; after their forced diet of survival rations, fresh meat was a welcome relief.

	But once the steaks were gone, then Owens' and Connolly's distrust of Miller settled back in. They openly refused to sleep at the same time, an insulting statement which provided great moral satisfaction at first, but which only resulted in Miller being the one man in camp who was getting a decent amount of rest during the moon's seemingly endless day.

	"Look at him," Owens said after waking Connolly for his relief. "Son-of-a-bitch sleeps like a baby.

	"Why not? He knows he's safe."

	"But is he?" Owens asked Connolly in a low voice.

	"Yes, I am" Miller answered, and Owens turned to see the BuCorrect man watching them calmly from his sleeping bag.

	Owens shook his head. "You spooks are pathetic; America's in bed with the Russians in our glorious CoDominium, so there's nobody left to spy on; nobody except everybody. What did you find out there? Something too important to let poor Ike live after he'd seen it? Or was it just for practice?"

	Miller lowered his eyes. "It was an accident." He leaned up on one elbow to look at Owens, and Connolly wondered for the hundredth time if Miller had a gun in that bag with him. "Whether you believe it or not doesn't change the fact."

	"Right, then. Frank that's enough, yes?" Connolly said from his own bag in the wall hammock. "Get some sleep; the shuttle's due in eight hours. I'll come and wake you then."

	Owens stood up and pulled several blankets from a locker.

	"What are you doing?" Connolly asked.

	"I'm sick of the company I've been keeping." The Navigator headed aft. "I'm going back to the ground car bay to sleep."

	"Frank, don't be an idiot, there's no heat back there!"

	"Yeah, but there's a lock on the door." Owens stopped in front of Connolly, pointedly ignoring Miller almost at his feet. "Look, there's fresh batteries in the sleeping bags; you come out to get me in six hours. Check me out sooner if you get bored." He turned at the hatch, looking down at Miller. "On second thought, considering your company; don't get bored."

	To Potter's surprise, the crew member who seemed most affected by Ike's death was not his brother Mike, but Farrow. The Fast Eddie's master had taken to wandering about the ship with an apparent intensity of grief that was a little frightening in a man who couldn't reasonably be kept away from air locks and orbital attitude controls.

	Farrow would often look out the viewports, staring down at the moon, and speaking softly under his breath. Rarely, Mike would come up behind the master and place a hand on his shoulder in a gesture of compassion. Seeing as it was from the man whose brother had died to his employer, and that the former appeared less affected than the latter, Potter found these occasional tableaux faintly distasteful, though he couldn't be exactly sure why.

	As long as it keeps Farrow out of the way 'til we can get our surviving crew back aboard, Potter told himself, how Mike deals with his brother's death is his own affair.

	"Captain Potter, we're ready." Liu had finished the preliminary systems check on the second shuttle that morning, ship time, and had spent the rest of the day loading the gear they'd need to get Shuttle One flying again.

	"Fine. Well, I guess it's pretty clear who's got to go."

	Liu nodded. "I'll need Mike for the repair work; Owens and Connolly can keep busy, but this is drydock work, and command crew won't be much use."

	Potter looked over his shoulder to be sure Farrow wasn't about. "Bill, this is going to be tricky; you need a pilot to get down there in one piece."

	Liu nodded. "There's nothing for it. But we've got to take Farrow down with us; we can't leave him alone up here on the Fast Eddie. Hell, in his state he could walk out an airlock."

	Potter ground a knuckle against his temple. "Yeah. Well, let's hope he doesn't wander off while we're down there. You recheck your repair estimates?"

	Liu nodded again. "Everybody working like coolies, worst case: three days. Most likely only two. We're up and off and back aboard Fast Eddie, headed home. The surveys scrubbed, of course; no bonus potential for a screw-up like this."

	"Yeah, break my heart, why don't you." Potter looked over Liu's shoulder and out the port. "I've learned as much about this place as I care to already, Bill."

	And I suspect, Potter finished to himself, that our Mister Miller has, too.

	Shuttle Two drifted downward, and Potter found himself suddenly wishing there was an overhead hatch, so he could take one last look at the Fast Eddie above them. Involuntarily, he shuddered.

	What a gruesome thought; unlucky, too. He began the minute adjustments that, magnified by their thirty-mile descent, would bring them into the general area of the first shuttle's landing zone. Liu was strapped in next to him, his eyes closed.

	Can't say as I blame you, old friend. This is the sort of joyride that would have the Engineering and Machinists' Union howling for my blood if they knew about it.

	Behind them, Farrow had strapped himself in with a firm confidence that belied his earlier distress. Nevertheless, Mike continued a solicitous, if detached, attention toward his boss. Good, Potter thought. Somebody else can hold his hand for a while.

	"Coming up on final, gentlemen," Potter tried to loosen his tightened throat with speech; it didn't work.

	Air resistance increased around the shuttle, and the noise level from outside increased with it. In seconds the shuttle was a rock-filled washing machine of rattling pressure plates and popping seams. A giant of the air was slapping a pillow against the nose and belly, but the pillow weighed tons.

	Potter saw Liu in his peripheral vision. The Chief Engineer had forced his eyes open to check his status panel. "How long, Emmett?" The vibrations made Liu's voice sound like a jackhammer was digging into his chest.

	"Three minutes more."

	"Have to be on the ground sooner; she's losing it."

	"I meant three minutes to the landing zone. Another five to circle and land."

	Liu rolled his eyes heavenward, and Potter hoped he wasn't looking for a good spot for harp playing.

	When the shaking stopped, it was sudden enough to make Potter shout for a structural integrity check.

	"Fine, it's fine," Liu said through clenched teeth, as he checked his board. "She'll hold for that five minutes, but don't go longer than ten." Liu mumbled to himself in satisfaction, "Heyah, all gods bear witness, I can fix a rainy day!"

	Potter passed over the western mountain range that sheltered the valley, their snowcapped peaks seeming barely below him despite his altitude. Shuttle Two's flat glide was taking it from one hundred thousand feet to a fifth of that in the course of their three-thousand mile flight path, and the view became spectacular.

	The sun had broken through the thin cloud cover, lighting the valley from behind him, while Cat's Eye illuminated it from above. And in that moment, as he looked across what would one day become known as the Shangri-La, he suddenly felt a great peace.

	It's pure, he thought. It's harsh in that purity, but it's a beautiful kind of harsh. People will come here, and will live, and die, as Owens said they would. They'll settle it and cultivate it, fly over it and bury their dead in it, but they'll never change it, not really. In the end, like any pure place, it will change them. It will make them what it wants them to be, and they'll love it for that. The rest of this moon is cruel and ugly, but this valley is cruel and beautiful. Men will go to the other lands, and some will stay there, too. But those lands will never know the kind of devotion people will come to feel for this sheltered valley, this safe haven in a hard world.

	The moment passed; the landing zone was beneath them, a cleared circle of dead gray winter grass in an unrelenting sea of shifting white, the crooked shadow of the crippled shuttle nearby. Potter was getting the feel of Liu's bastard child as he flew her, and realized the landing would be tricky.

	Tricky it was, but perfect nonetheless.

	One figure stood on the snow beyond the cleared circle; it ran toward the shuttle in a kind of loping shuffle; long step, double-drag the other leg, long step. Potter cracked the hatch and pushed it open, freeing the debarkation ladder as he did so.

	"Oh, my sweet Christ!" The blast of frigid air hit him in the face like a flamethrower; he actually recoiled a step, frantically gathering his parka close as he fought to keep his balance. On the ground below, the figure that had come to meet them was struggling up the ladder. It stumbled into the shuttle and fell against the wall, sliding down to the floor plates.

	Potter knelt in the howling wind, pulling back the hood of their one-man reception party. It was Connolly, and he looked half-dead.

	"Mike, Bill, help me get him on the couch." Potter knew that after extended months with no more gravity than the Fast Eddie's centrifuge, it would take all three of them to lift the First Officer, and maybe Farrow besides. "And somebody close that pneumonia hole before we all wind up like Connolly."

	Potter's examination told them what they all knew already "Exposure, of course. Frostbite on all his toes and all but two fingers. I'm no doctor, but I can see those'll have to come off." Potter lightly touched the blackened digits. "Hell, he's going to lose this whole foot." He stood and shook his head, helplessly. "I don't think we can save him," he said quietly, as if to himself.

	"If he warms up enough to get circulation in his limbs, he's likely to get blood poisoning," Liu warned.

	Potter nodded. "Keep the temperature down in here," he said. A boyhood survivor of Atlantic winters in lobster boats on Earth's Narragansett Bay, Potter had seen plenty of frostbite. "If he does start getting circulation into those fingers and feet, the pain alone will kill him."

	Potter crouched beside his frozen shipmate, trying to get something out of him. "Connolly," he called quietly. "Brian, it's Emmett where's Owens? Connolly, where's Miller?"

	Connolly started babbling so suddenly Potter almost jumped "Frank went to sleep in the ground car bay, I told him not to, I said there wasn't heat, not there, he went anyway, I woke up and went to check on him, but he'd locked the door. He said he wanted to be there because the door had a lock, and I had to go outside and go around to the ground car bay door, and it had swung open somehow. Frank didn't answer and I crawled in and he was solid, oh God he was solid as a statue ... he was like marble, like blue marble, God forgive me I let him die in there ... I should have stopped him, should have ordered him, I—"

	Connolly's voice shattered into a keening wail, sobs wracked his chest, their sound filling the shuttle as the dying man brought his ruined hands up to cover his face. In a moment, Connolly lapsed into unconsciousness.

	Potter rose and went to the locker, removing a pair of comically thick insulated mittens with a single index-finger sewn in. He pulled a rifle out as well, a flat-sided accelerator model with rocket shell projectiles for vacuum or zero-G environments.

	"Bill," Potter said, "take another rifle. Mike, Mister Farrow, stay with Connolly and do what you can for him."

	Potter and Liu left the second shuttle and crossed the landing zone toward the first. Byers' Star had slipped behind the Cat's Eye gas giant, and this side of the Cat's Eye moon was turning away from its parent world. Night was coming to their hemisphere, truenight, and the temperature was dropping to welcome it.

	"Emmett, this guy is BuReloc." Liu was trying to reason with Potter, but still matching his stride, "I don't give a rip."

	They closed with the shuttle, its port list exposing the belly to them. Beyond the body of the craft could see a man's legs moving about, and some kind of pole pacing them.

	Too angry at the man's cheek to give any thought of ambush, Potter walked around the nose of the shuttle, and everything seemed to happen at once.

	Miller was there, with something in his hands and a pile of broken, frozen dirt on the ground nearby. There were two graves, each marked with crosses. It was all Potter saw before Miller turned toward them, the long black cylinder pivoting before him.

	Potter heard Liu say: "He has a gun." The Chief Engineer didn't shout, but simply raised his own accelerator rifle to his shoulder and fired in one smooth, practiced motion. Miller spun about and went down, and it was only then that Potter realized he had struck Liu's weapon down with his hand.

	Liu snapped the weapon away and back-stepped. "Are you trying to get us killed?" Liu was almost snarling, but he recovered his composure instantly. "I—I'm sorry, Emmett; but he was—"

	But Potter was going to the felled BuCorrect agent. The 9mm rocket shell had hit him in the groin; Potter didn't need a great deal of imagination to think that Liu had been aiming for Miller's head until his blow had dropped the weapon's aim point. A little lower and to. the left, Potter mused, and live or die, my friend, the Miller line would have ended with you.

	Miller's teeth were squared in a rictus of agony, but Potter wasn't feeling especially charitable toward the man just now, and anyway he was curious about something. He turned Miller over, eliciting a gasp of pain from the victim. He lifted the cylinders Miller had been holding when he turned toward them. There was a foot-square metal plate at one end, and Potter held, it up for Liu's inspection.

	It was a shovel.

	Back aboard Shuttle Two, Miller sipped cautiously at the tea. His beard stubble was blue-black and, together with the dark circles under his eyes and the sallowness of his skin, made him look as bad in shock as Connolly looked in the last stages of hypothermia. The warmth of the semi-operational craft was bringing some color to his features and a lot of pain to his own near-frozen extremities.

	"He wouldn't come inside," the intelligence officer said. "He seemed to think that I'd gone out and deliberately opened the bay door to the wind, to kill Owens."

	"And did you?"

	Miller sighed and lowered his head. "Christ, Potter, look at where my sleeping bag is; I'd have to crawl right over Connolly to get to the damn door. It must have come open in the night; probably hydraulic failure. Owens wouldn't feel it through his own sleeping bag until the batteries gave out; his own body heat would have bled away after that."

	Potter said nothing for a time, looking out the shuttle's forward window. "You buried Owens and Ike?"

	Miller nodded. "Connolly wouldn't have anything to do with it. He wasn't going to let me do it, but they couldn't stay in here with us, and leaving them out might have drawn one of those big predators down from the hills. It wasn't a sentimental gesture."

	Potter turned at that. "Maybe not. But plain markers, or none at all, might make me believe that. Crosses don't."

	"That was kind of you," Farrow said quietly from the back. Miller shrugged, wincing at the pain any movement caused him.

	Potter sighed. "Right." He, turned to Farrow. "Tom, would you look after Brian and Mister Miller? We're going to see about getting Shuttle One flight ready."

	Farrow moved to comply as Potter, Liu and Mike left the Shuttle once more.

	"I'm telling you, Emmett," Liu began when they'd left Shuttle Two. "This CoDo spy is going to be the death of us all."

	Potter said nothing except: "Wait and see."

	Placing lifting jacks beneath the hull and leveling it off, they found that Shuttle One looked far worse off than it really was. The collapse of the landing leg into the sinkhole had severed half a dozen cables, but caused very little actual damage. Liu shook his head at the irony.

	"If they'd had jacks and an arc welder, they'd have been back a week ago."

	Shuttle One was operational and flight-ready in twenty hours, which suited Potter just fine, as the truenight of this hemisphere of the moon was now less than twelve hours away. During his watch, he made a cup of tea and sat beside the sleeping Miller, watching him.

	"I think you're awake," Potter said quietly.

	Miller opened his eyes. "What is it?

	Potter pursed his lips and studied the blank wall opposite. "Oh, many things. Like why was Ike up there in the hills with you at all?"

	"He invited himself. I assumed he was told to keep eye on me. Anyway, I didn't object to him coming, traveling alone in these circumstances is idiotic."

	"Yup. It's illegal, too."

	"Right." Miller sneered.

	Potter sipped his tea. "What did this predator look like?"

	"Big. Shaggy mane. A lion with an attitude.

	"Maybe like a bear?"

	"Maybe. Probably. I don't know, I've never seen a bear."

	Potter nodded. "And you drove it off with the rifle."

	"That's right, so?"

	Potter didn't answer right away, but only went back to his tea. "Do you hunt a lot, Mister Miller?"

	"Not animals."

	"I didn't think so. I used to hunt a lot when I was young. Sometimes, on Survey trips like this one, I'll stalk a local animal that looks game. In my years on Survey duty, I've seen a lot of strange animals that do a lot of strange things. But there's one thing I've never seen, Miller. Can you guess what it is?"

	"Why spoil your fun?"

	Potter smiled. "I've never seen an animal on an alien world that was afraid of man. They aren't capable of it, you see. How could they be? They've never seen a man before. Our scent is different, but not threatening, assuming they even smell us at all. They don't see us as a threat, they can't possibly. Like the American bear. Do you have any idea how many settlers it killed and how many grizzlies the settlers had to kill, before the bears learned that man was dangerous? That man's rifles were dangerous? And grizzlies at least come from the same genetic soup as we do."

	Potter shook his head. "Nope. You have to kill such animals, Miller. They don't scare. And it isn't because they're too stupid to be afraid of Man; they just don't know how dangerous human beings can be."

	There was a long silence, during which Potter finished his tea before concluding: "But I do."

	Miller watched him silently.

	"That was a clumsy lie, Miller. That contrived gesture of crosses for the graves was another." Potter stood up and tossed his cup away. "And they'll cost you. I'd have been happy to blow your head off for killing Ike, or just getting him killed. But this is better. I don't even care how or why you did it, now. I'm just looking forward to turning you over to the CoDo Bureau of Investigation for murder. Who knows? You might get lucky; maybe they'll sentence you to Involuntary Colonization and you'll get sent right back here." He went to the door and turned, silhouetted for a moment in the hatch. "Won't that be nice?"

	"Potter," Miller said, "you know that won't happen. You can kill me and leave me here, and the Bureau of Intelligence will have your ass on general principle. You can take me back and turn me in, and Bulnt will squeeze the CBI, and I'll walk, and maybe Bulnt will have your ass anyway, just to make an example of tramp spacers who get delusions of moral grandeur."

	"I suppose there's a third choice."

	"Of course. Keep your mouth shut. I don't profit from this escapade; it's my job. But you and your crew could stand to gain a great deal from what I learned out there. If you're smart. Just sit tight, shut up and wait for the Survey bonus checks to start rolling in. At the very least, I can promise you that your frostbitten Mister Connolly will even be able to afford some pretty advanced prosthetics and a lot of the very best physical therapy."

	Potter looked at him, his face an impassive mask, then nodded again. "Good night, Miller."

	It was six hours later, and darker than ever. The sky outside was black with snow-laden, lowering clouds that sealed the tops of the mountain ranges, a layer of ephemeral paraffin topping a jar of secret preserves. Neither the light of Byers' Star nor Cat's Eye's radiant energy penetrated to the land beneath. The valley was a great bowl, and the lid was on. The repaired Shuttle One was nearly ready for takeoff; aboard Shuttle Two, the survey crew's temporary home, most people still slept.

	Miller awoke at the prick of a needle into his thigh. He spun about to grasp the handgun kept tucked beneath his left arm, but found only his armpit.

	"Live a little longer." The voice was an anonymous whisper in the dark, followed by a flat click of a hammer being pulled back; Miller recognized the sound of his own pistol. "Convince me you're just trying to warm that hand."

	"What is it?" Miller felt the pain in his hip going away, and with it any sense of urgency or resolve.

	"What did you and Ike find up in the hills that was worth killing him for?"

	Miller tried not to answer, but immediately realized there was no real point. He no longer had any control over what he said. "Ore" The words grunted past his best efforts to stop them. "Crystalline—ore—in the rocks."

	"Good. And what kind of crystalline ore was it?"

	"Diamonds." Miller found himself unable to suppress a sly giggle.

	"No, now really."

	Miller's eyelids were heavy, but he wasn't sleepy. "Half-diamonds," he said, almost grinning now. Whatever they'd used on him, it was hideously strong stuff. "Half-life zircons." And this time he really did laugh out loud, but a mitten was abruptly stuffed into his mouth. Shortly thereafter, a finger burrowed hard into the bullet wound in his groin.

	Miller returned from the euphoric place he'd been drifting toward with the subtlety of a train wreck. Tears brimmed over his eyes and coursed down his cheeks as he gasped for air, getting only more mitten. After long seconds, the gag was removed.

	"Now," the voice said, and Miller's soaring pain rendered it still more anonymous: "One more time; what was the crystalline ore you found in the hills?"

	Miller gagged, unwilling to believe that the pain was receding again, until the hollow ache in his bowels faded enough to prove it to him. "Zirconium."

	A finger tapped his wound, light as a feather; it felt like an anvil dropped from orbit. "Nothing special about zirconium," the voice pointed out.

	"Hafnium!" Miller gasped. "The ore is a new form of zirconium crytolite; it's loaded with hafnium, twenty times the amount found in the richest terrestrial samples. Almost eighty percent hafnium."

	The voice was silent. "We are talking about the hafnium used in nuclear reactor rods, aren't we, Mister Miller?"

	Miller nodded.

	"And you took samples of this ore, to prove to the CoDominium that you weren't crazy?"

	Miller asserted every iota of his will, until he couldn't resist answering. "Yes. Worth billions for energy, weapons technology ...  The moon's too valuable to use as a CoDo dumping ground, the deportees could wind up owning the Grand Senate in a few decades."

	The voice said nothing, and Miller could feel the drug pulling him farther and farther away. A tiny flare as another needle entered his arm.

	"I don't think so, Mister Miller," the voice said. Then something like: "Not the deportees," but Miller couldn't be sure, for by that time he was dead.

	Potter looked down into Miller's sightless, staring eyes.

	He thought he should be able to compose some poetic statement on the irony of life and death and justice, but all he could think of was what a monumental fuck-up this mission had turned out to be.

	Potter had awakened before anyone else to find Miller dead. Connolly too had passed away while they slept. Liu had taken Mike and Farrow with him to make the final preparations for leaving, and Potter had stayed behind to prepare the bodies for burial. He was the captain, after all, and it was his responsibility to bury his men.

	Potter crouched next to Miller and tried to close the eyes; the lids kept parting, widening to finally expose the bright, blue, dead pupils.

	I always thought they stayed closed, Potter mused. The Captain of the Fast Eddie turned to Connolly's corpse. That figures, I guess. Underfed, no way for his body to keep itself warm. Your body never gets a chance to starve to death in this kind of cold. And we knew he'd lose that foot, maybe both, and most of his fingers. Poor Brian was probably better off ...  Potter stood up, looking back once at Miller.

	But this is different.

	On impulse, Potter opened Miller's sleeping bag down to the toes. Down flowed out, filled the cabin, floating to rest on Connolly, Miller and Potter alike. It looked as if Potter had won a particularly deadly pillow fight, or as if the snow had come in after all. The lining of Miller's bag had been slit open in a dozen places. Potter checked the heater packs at the feet and in the hood; both were still running high enough to rule out death from shock. The dressing on the BuReloc man's hip was bloody, but not enough to indicate he'd bled to death. Maybe, despite the heaters, the cold  ... 

	Potter felt something under the bandage; a hard chip about two inches long. He reached beneath the bloody dressing and pulled out a key.

	Potter recognized it instantly as a storage box key from one of the ground cars. Scraping off the dried blood revealed the number "1"; no surprise there. Miller must have been carrying it when he was shot, then had the presence of mind to hide it under the dressing; not a place anyone would be eager to search.

	Potter rose and pocketed the key. He would collect Farrow and Liu and Mike and get them to help bury Connolly and Miller, but first he wanted to check out the key. He left the shuttle and crossed the landing zone, giving a wide berth to Shuttle One, whose lifting jets were being test-fired for the next five minutes.

	The ground car was resting outside; although they had no crew weight problem any longer, Chief Engineer Liu had decided it would be prudent to leave it behind anyway. Snow was beginning to drift around its fat tires already, a prelude to the moon's eventual claim on all that they would leave behind.

	Potter brushed snow away from the door to get it open, looking forward to getting inside the cab and away from the roar of the shuttle's lift-jets.

	The cold vinyl seats were blocks of ice, leaching the heat from his buttocks and the back of his thighs. Behind the driver's seat, Potter found the right box inserted the key and opened it.

	Inside was a fist-sized lump of cloudy crystal bearing several marks in Indel-ink; numbers, angles, three-letter abbreviations. Survey marks. Well, it was ore, clearly, but as to what sort, he had no idea. He slid backwards out of the cab, still holding the rock up before him, and turned to look into the muzzle of a very large revolver.

	Chief Engineer Liu's other hand was open and extended.

	"I'll take that, please, Emmett."

	Potter handed him the crystal without a word.

	"What is it, Liu? What kind of crystal?"

	"Hafnium-rich zirconium ore."

	Potter thought a moment, suddenly remembering what he knew of hafnium: Mixed with tantalum carbide, hafnium was one of the most refractory substances known, immune to temperatures below 7,000 degrees Fahrenheit. The alloy was used in nuclear reactor control rods throughout the CoDominium. More importantly, it comprised the ablative heat shields and armor for hundreds of CoDo exploration and military vessels.

	"But," Potter voiced his thoughts, "why? It's common as dirt; literally. You can get this stuff from beach sand."

	Liu nodded. "Yes. On Earth. But Earth is run by the CoDominium Senate, and you know how; no scientific research, nothing that might allow the Soviets or the Americans to gain any advantage over one another." Liu turned the rock in his hands. "And of course, there are all those political undesirables, and all those new colony worlds that are going to have to start showing a profit somehow." His eyes met Potter's. "That will mean forced relocation, or 'CoDo-sponsored colonization,' if you prefer. All those colonies will need power, and the CoDo isn't going to spend money on solar arrays or hydroelectric structures when it can just dump a pre-fab reactor station and move on. That means an awful lot of reactors, Emmett, and the ships which carry them have reactors of their own, and ablative shielding. And this," Liu held the stone up between them, "this is where it will come from."

	Can I keep him talking? Potter thought. Will the others see, realize what's going on? "Did Miller know? Would he have killed Ike to keep it a secret?"

	"Miller knew," Liu said. "Else why didn't he bring anything else back? As for killing Ike; well by the ounce, even by the pound in a one-planet economy, hafnium's not so valuable. But Millers analysis markings say this stuff has twenty times the hafnium of terrestrial zirconium, and at an already higher purity."

	"How is that possible?" Potter asked, trying to sound interested in anything but Liu's weapon.

	Liu shrugged. "Higher vulcanism on this moon, probably, along with the godawful tidal pressures from the gas giant's gravity. Who knows? Xeno-Geology was Miller's field, not mine. Step back, please, Emmett. You can see it just fine from where you are."

	Potter nodded, then looked up at the Chief Engineer. "So, which Company are you working for?"

	Liu smiled ruefully "The one that's going to make me a Vice President."

	"You're going to kill me, then?"

	"Jesus, Emmett, I'm not a barbarian. Let's just go home and collect the Survey bonus." Liu smiled "If I get the kind of deal I think I will, you can even have my share of the bonus."

	Potter ignored him, concentrating instead on the fact that, despite his chatty, conversational tone, Liu had not lowered his weapon. "Did you kill Miller?"

	After a moment, Liu nodded. "Mm-hmm."

	"And Connolly?"

	"No. No need." Liu caught himself. "I mean there wasn't any reason for me to."

	"And if there had been?"

	Liu sighed. "Don't be difficult, Emmett. I can fly the Fast Eddie home without you if need be."

	"Six months is a long time to be alone."

	"I'll pass the time calculating my interest-income statements on the ship's computer. He caught himself again. "Besides, Mike and Farrow will be along, too."

	He's going to kill us all. Potter finally had to admit it to himself. Liu's aim had not strayed a particle from the center of Potter's chest. Company board member or sole Survey bonus recipient; or both. Why share any of it?

	With nothing to lose, Potter sighed and reached for the pistol.

	Mike came running at the sound of the gunshots. He could see nothing, but he knew the difference between the reports of an accelerator rifle and a firearm; there weren't supposed to be any firearms in the Fast Eddie's stores. Farrow raced down the ramp of the shuttle after him.

	They passed under the craft to see Chief Engineer Liu and Captain Potter grappling in the snow, leaving a thin smear of reddened ice in their wake. Mike ran toward them, but his foot came down on something and his ankle twisted, throwing him off his feet. He hit the frozen ground hard and heard the gun go off again.

	Mike looked to see that he had tripped on some white rock, and having no weapons he grabbed the stone and scrambled toward the men.

	Chief Engineer Liu was pressing a gun against Captain Potter's stomach. Potter was already bleeding from two wounds, when Mike heard a third shot, this one muffled by the Captain's parka. Mike brought the rock down on Liu's skull, and the Engineer rolled off Potter's chest, stunned.

	Liu hadn't dropped the gun, and seemed to be trying to regain his bearings, so Mike swung the rock with his might against the Engineer's temple. The left side of Liu's forehead collapsed, his eyes rolled completely back, and he fell to the ground dead. Mike dropped the rock and went to Potter, lifting the Captain just as Farrow arrived.

	"Emmett," Farrow whispered hoarsely. "Emmett, can you make it to the ship?"

	Potter didn't answer; he was beginning to feel the cold through his parka, and tried to fumble for the coat's heat controls, but his hands wouldn't obey. "Rock," he said.

	Mike and Farrow shared a look, and the Basque engineer gestured with a nod toward the stone he had used to kill Liu. The Fast Eddies master quickly brought the rock to Potter.

	Potter tried to push it away. "Liu was a Company man. Precious ore. Mountains filled with it." He wanted to tell them to bury it, to throw it out the airlock from orbit; never to let the Companies or the CoDominium know it existed, but he was so tired; the fight with Liu had worn him out, and he was so cold. He needed to sleep, just for a little while.

	Mike seemed to understand, though. Passing Potter's bulk to Farrow, Mike stood and put the zirconium ore on the ground where the frozen marsh that comprised the landing zone had been softened by the morning's test-firing of the shuttle engines.

	Mike put his boot over the bloody rock and pushed it beneath the gluey, crunching surface. After a moment, there was no sign it had ever been there.

	Potter looked at the mountains in the distance, at the dark, fierce storm clouds, the first snowflakes beginning to fall.

	No two alike, he thought. He closed his eyes.

	"He was a good man," Mi'huelo said to Farrow.

	Farrow nodded. "He was my friend, Deacon," Farrow said.

	Mi'huelo looked back over his shoulder. "I wonder what that stone was?" The Basque spoke idly, but his tone was cultured, educated.

	"I don't know, Deacon."

	Mi'huelo shrugged. "No matter. If this—Company man—was interested in it, than all the more reason to deny his masters the chance to despoil another world."

	He knelt to help Farrow pick up the body of Captain Emmett Potter, who although not a Harmony, had been a harmonious man. To the Harmonies, who try to harmonize with all things, such a man was highly regarded; the Universe being ultimately in harmony. Those few with the capacity to harmonize naturally were cherished as better parts of its Song. In that perfect song, the Universe sent to the faithful just such voices the faithful required to help them sing it.

	And so, they believed, it had sent Emmett Potter; for he was the means through which Mi'huelo Costanza, Deacon of the First Church of the New Harmony, had been guided to this seemingly insignificant moon. For the Harmonies, too, had their secret scouts among the survey ships of the CoDominium.

	Deacon Costanza now knew this seemingly insignificant moon could be made to resonate with that Harmony for which he and all the others of his order strove. Conditions on this harsh and unforgiving world would be a perfect place for the Harmonies to gather in solitude and security, for a little while, at least; for who else would want such a place? Deacon Costanza could see no reason for this place to stir greed among men, and here they might live in solitude, unmolested by the anthrocentric CoDominium, with its planet-raping Americans and their equally rapacious Soviet partners.

	The Deacon and Acolyte Farrow buried Captain Potter and First Officer Connolly next to Icaorius and Owens, who had been good, true friends; alongside Ike, who had also been a Harmony. The bodies of Liu and Miller they left for the ravens, or whatever their equivalents were on this world, to nurture any scavengers that might roam the skies of the new world, as those buried would nurture the scavengers that moved within the ground.

	Then, preparing to leave, Mi'huelo turned for one last look at the land around them, now disappearing behind curtains of snow, falling faster by the moment.

	"What did you say Owens called this place?" Mi'huelo asked Farrow.

	Farrow thought a moment: "A garden spot, your Eminence."

	Mi'huelo shook his head, smiling. "You see, Thomas? All things harmonize, if only we seek to accept them as part of the Song. Consider the four men buried there, and the two who lie exposed nearby. Theirs were lives claimed by this harsh world that might one day yet become a haven for us Harmonies."

	"Creation willing," Farrow repeated, nodding. There was so much to understand, but he thought that perhaps today, he had just picked up one thread of one strain of the Music here.

	"Remember," Mi'huelo went on, "as a part of the Song, this place may claim the lives of many more as it plays its part in that music." He put his arm across Farrow's shoulders. "The lives of men are only notes in that movement, and it is only the aggregate effect of those notes which may be fully apprehended. These six, Thomas, these six are the first strains in the movement that contributes the story of this place to that song.

	"The deaths of these men are the first blossoms of Spring in this world. Their bodies the bone-white seeds, and their blood the bright-red blossoms of the ultimate Harmony, the attainment of which we can only seek, and whose real nature can be known only to itself.

	"Kneel beside me, Thomas, and let us seek some small measure of that Harmony."

	The steel floor of the airlock was cold against their knees, its hardness a further challenge to their concentration. No matter; counterpoint was important, too.

	Each sought his own path for a few moments; Farrow was devoted to Costanza, and though many Harmonies found some of the Deacon's interpretations—unsettling—still, he was regarded as a voice of vision.

	For himself, Costanza fretted constantly over the Harmonies; they needed so much care and tending to protect them. They were babes in the woods, and they did not understand that those woods were full of peril. The Harmony of existence was a song of many movements, many parts, and though all, by definition, harmonized, not all were pleasant to hear. And despite the order's belief in harmonizing one's self to circumstances and events, Costanza knew that every great orchestration needed conductors.

	His own song was thus sometimes a lonely one. But he was grateful that he and Farrow had been caretakers of this garden where such seeds of Harmony had been sown.

	"Let the blood of those who lie here nourish the seeds of the Song thus begun, and let such fruits flourish and in measures everlasting."

	 ... flourish, and multiply ... 

 

IN CONCERT
E R Stewart

From Crofton's Encyclopedia of Contemporary 
History and Social Issues (1st Edition)

BUREAU OF CORRECTIONS

	The Bureau of Corrections was one of the first administrative bureaus created by the CoDominium Council in the late-1990s. The Bureau operates as a supranational police force responsible for removing troublesome and repeat criminals off Earth and housing them either in the Sol System or on the outer worlds. It performs a critical function for the CoDominium super powers, serving as a pressure valve for both the US and USSR, whose many overcrowded prisons are filled with violent and habitual offenders. Most of these hardcore prisoners are not only threats to civil peace but extremely expensive to jail and maintain on Earth.

	The Bureau's presence on Earth is limited to two major collection depots (Lompoc Prison in the US and Vladimirsky Central, aka Prison No. 2, in the USSR) for criminal transportees. BuCorrect has been restricted to the maintenance and overseeing of these two criminal detention depots and those offices necessary to transport prisoners to near-Earth orbit. The Bureau of Corrections maintains in-system prisons at Luna Base, Ceres Base and is rumored to have a top-secret, secure facility on one of Saturn's moons.

	It wasn't until habitable planets were discovered outside the Sol System that it was decided to maintain out-of-system prisons. The primary of these is Fulson's World, a frigid and desolate outpost, which at the current time is the major CoDominium prison world. Tanith is also becoming an important depository for Earth's criminal element.

	The Bureau of Correction's authority was increased in the early 2000s to include dangerous political prisoners. This has more than doubled the number of prisoners the Bureau of Corrections has had to warehouse and transport, putting a strain both on their limited staff and budget.

	A new development in the transport of criminals has been the shipping of prisoners to newly settled colony worlds in an attempt to save scarce funds due to recent budgetary restrictions. The Bureau of Corrections does not have its own fleet and thus must "borrow" troop transport ships from the Fleet, rent passenger liners from private firms or farm the prisoners out to private concerns. Many of the young colony worlds, Kennicott and Hadley come to mind, do not have the resource base or police resources to deal with the sudden arrival of thousands of hardened criminals. This practice has been roundly condemned in the Grand Senate by colonial governors, the Humanity League and the Prisoners' Rehabilitation Council.

	Another recent development has been to send prisoners on empty mining transports on their way to pick up payloads from the outer worlds. The newly discovered world of Comstock provides a good example of this phenomenon, where there's not a big enough, or wealthy enough, population base to profitably ship trade items and necessities. Prisoners have been reported arriving on Comstock aboard Anaconda Mining transports. The living conditions aboard these spacecraft are reputed to be inhumane and overcrowded. It's not uncommon for 5 to 10% of the transportees to die before reaching their destination.

	BuCorrect claims that most of these shipboard "deaths" are due to turf fights and revenge killings among the prisoners. This practice has been criticized as inhumane by the Humanity League, who claim that not only are these ships overcrowded, but the artificial foodstuffs provided the transportees is clearly substandard and "fit only for livestock, not human beings."

	There have also been reports that on some of the wealthier planets large landowners and mining companies have been paying unscrupulous and corrupt BuCorrect officers to ship them criminal colonists who are then "charged" a large indenture fee for shipment, which they then have to work off, leaving them slaves in all but name. There have also been numerous complaints about female prisoners who have been auctioned off to colonists as "wives" or to brothels without pay and minimal benefits. Officials who follow-up on these charges are often "disappeared" or are murdered off-world.

	While there is substantial truth to these complaints, there is little chance for a remedy as long as the Bureau of Corrections has to stay within current budgetary constraints. This state of affairs will continue until the CoDominium Council makes a supreme effort to clean-up corruption within the Bureau and the Grand Senate allocates enough funds to hire responsible and dedicated personnel.

	The recent creation of the Bureau of ReLocation to deal with troublesome minorities, subversives and malcontents has added to the Bureau of Corrections difficulties, causing a loss of over a third of the Bureau of Corrections' budget. The "logic" being that the new Bureau of ReLocation will be handling many of the political prisoners and minorities that BuCorrect had to deal with. However, due to increasing criminal activity and new nationalistic uprisings worldwide, it is doubtful there will be any lowering of the number of bodies that the Bureau has to place and warehouse. Since they were under-funded before this cut, this leaves the Bureau without the staff or the funds to properly ship and care for the hundreds of thousands of dangerous prisoners that pass through the Department's aegis on a yearly basis.

	Unless conditions on Earth change dramatically, ongoing social disorder and corruption on Earth will cause the CoDominium's Bureau of Corrections to continue forcibly transporting prisoners from Earth to off-world colonies by any and all available means whether the prisoners are welcome or unwelcome.

I
2038 A.D., Haven

	They say Charles Castell knelt and kissed the ground when he arrived on Haven, but I know better because I'm the oaf who tripped him. My name's Kev Malcolm, and at sixteen standard years of age, I stood beside our leader in the open side hatch, half proud to be one of the reverend's acolytes, half scared to death I'd do something clumsy.

	Sure enough, as the freighter's shuttle was winched against the dock, I somehow got my foot in the wrong place.

	Castell smiled, I remember that. His gaze scanned the horizon of Haven, his world, his church's place of salvation. "Eden," he whispered. I looked up at his face so serious and serene, with its strong nose and jutting chin. Just looking at him got me giddy. Power was ours, I knew, because we were blessed. We knew the key-note of the Cosmos, and we Harmonized fully, our bodies and souls as one with the All.

	Fishy freshwater breezes entered the hatch now, wafting away some of the stench of the transport.

	The last leg of our journey had been accomplished in a freighter, with us as piggyback cargo. At nine hundred souls, we were too few to justify, or to afford, hiring an entire transport, which can carry, they say, up to fifteen thousand people. I'd hate to imagine such crowding, and turned my attention back to my immediate surroundings.

	We heard sounds of water lapping, a lone bird or something calling out in harsh joy, and the murmur at our backs of the nine hundred Chosen, each eager for a first glimpse of the new, the promised, land. With darkness behind us, we stood in the hatch in orange light, squinting.

	I studied Reverend Castell's eyes, seeking a clue. Did he see his destiny as he absorbed the first sights of his hard-won, costly last chance? Did he smell on the chilly air a cornucopia of plenty, or the stench of decay? Were any of his senses of this world, or all?

	Someone said our First Prayer, "Be still as the silence/At the heart of the note/ As it swells to fill the song," as if intoning a hymn, and Reverend Castell broke his pose to step forward. The shuttle bumped the dock.

	The next thing I knew, a look of surprise crossed his face and he sprawled forward onto the dirt levee on which the dock was built.

	So it was that my first step onto our new home was a leap of consternation and mortification. "Reverend," I said, along with three other acolytes kneeling to help him rise. Knowing it had been my foot which had caused this undignified advent upon Haven, I blushed and tried to stammer an apology.

	His electric gray eyes sparked a gaze toward me. That old familiar tingle of, what? Awe? Terror? It held me, that feeling, and my mouth fumbled into silence as he said, "We must all embrace our home, this Haven." And he gestured for us to lie down, too.

	Word passed back in a chain of whispers as near to silence as the circumstance allowed, and the next few Chosen jumped down from the ship and fell prostrate for a few seconds. It was the inauguration of Reverend Castell's ritual of return, which he used at the termination of every journey thereafter.

	Of course the ship's crew jeered and shouted catcalls. Our church had hired their transport ship and a crew, but we hadn't even made a bid for their support or loyalty. "Clumsy lot," one tough said. Another spat at us repeatedly. To them, we were rag-tag fanatics off on some wild goose hegira, a doomed group of dupes led by a megalomaniac with a simplistic Christ complex.

	I'd heard all that and more, during our purgatorial months of motion between Earth and Haven, and not all of it muttered or whispered, either. We bore their assaults upon our dignity with stoic silence, some of us not even bothering to wipe the spittle from our faces or hair.

	Some of us may have wondered of what use a tiny act of cleanliness might be to a group as filthy as we, after fourteen months in the transport vessel, washing with gritty dry soap and handheld ionizers, perfumed only by the food-pastes smeared or spilled. Odors were among the least of our burdens, anyway. Old bruises from tests of our pacifism, administered by the ship's brutal crew bored between duties, kept some of us moving stiffly.

	Also, at least one of our women was probably pregnant from a rape I'd unknowingly witnessed one sleep-period, when, in utter silence, the blanketed bunk-pallet next to mine had erupted into thrashing. Only when the crewman rose up from his victim had I realized what had occurred, and my shame and fury were such that I barely spoke for a week as I sought harmony with the event.

	Now I shivered as I watched the others jump down from the hatch.

	One of the men in a rowboat, still holding the rope by which the shuttle had been winched to shore after splashdown, called out lewd suggestions to our women and girls. I saw at least one of our men grow somber. His eyes grew hard and his mouth set sternly, for one of the prettiest women was his daughter, but none of us broke the peace as we sought to harmonize with the strains of Haven.

	I stood with Reverend Castell to one side as he supervised both the advent of his flock upon Haven and the unloading of our supplies. "Each of us must do our part," he said once, bending to lift a parcel that a contemptuous crewmember had dropped. Smiling, Reverend Castell carried it to the stack of goods growing on the splintery bare-plank wharf, a reminder of Kennicott's presence. Although our supplies had all fit into the same shuttle that had brought us down from the orbiting transport vessel, they were sufficient to keep us going for as many as three years, even if Haven granted us nothing.

	A shudder rippled through me as I avoided thinking past those three years. I bent to lift a sack of seeds, but a brother acolyte stopped me. "Let our beasts of burden do the heavy work," he said, gesturing at the laboring, infidel crewmembers.

	Glancing at the joker, Reverend Castell said, "Take that man's place, and give him a rest." He pointed to a particularly loudmouthed space-faring lout, who had berated us worse with every bag and crate he carried.

	Keeping my gaze on the hem of my robe, I balanced my conflicting humors and thought I understood the reverend's actions. "An aspect of respect is the ability to know another's lot in life," now made more sense to me. It was no longer just a tenet from the Writings.

	A crane and several hoists helped complete our unloading, but it was past first, or Byers' dusk by the time we finished. By then we acolytes had done as much as anyone else, and the freighter's crew was largely loafing or drinking in the one-room, rickety shebeen the wharf's ratty skeleton crew had slapped together a few yards from shore.

	Faces showed fatigue, but a few showed more. Some openly grumbled, others gaped at the bleak landscape surrounding them as if trapped, and all of us shivered in our robes. My own hood I kept up, but many seemed to enjoy having their ears turn blue. Rubbing the tip of my nose helped, but only for a few seconds.

	Aside from the cold was the air itself, which seemed somehow hard to breathe, unsatisfying to the lungs. A ringing in my ears and a dizziness assailed me, too, but I ignored such trifles in my earnest desire to be worthy of the reverends respect and trust. Being an acolyte to such a man is no small thing, and no small things can be allowed to interfere.

	As the Shangri-La Valley was turned away from Byers' Star for a time, Cat's Eye peered down in quarter phase, its horizontal pupil balefully dark as the rest cast dim light over us. Jagged mountains tore at the bottom of the sky in menacing silhouette, while the lake itself glittered phosphorescent blue-green flashes and orange Eyeshine. I think I saw Hecate, or Ayesha, or Brynhild, one of Havens companion moons, but it may have been something else, or nothing outside my overloaded mind.

	"Our balbriggans don't suffice, Reverend Castell said to me, having noticed my shivers. His use of Gaelic words meant he was in a mood, I knew. "We must layer." He tapped the satchel I carried for him and I put it on the ground. He knelt and tugged out another robe as plain and pocketless as the one he wore. "Pass the word," he said, a grimace of meaning on his face.

	Sibilance behind us was the only hint that the Chosen had heard and obeyed. It struck me that some of us had been waiting only for an example, because no sooner was the Reverend Castell layered in the rough cotton cloth, than many of the Chosen were pulling on their second or third garments. Surely they'd had them out ahead of time.

	Such thoughts are best not voiced, however, so I donned my second robe and bowed my head, awaiting further commands. Patience is the lot of followers, who, if they know well their place and abilities, can be of far greater use than any number of discordant individuals howling on their own behalf, for in harmony is strength. So we teach.

	"I must speak with the captain of our blessed transport vessel," Reverend Castell then said to me, as head acolyte. "Stay here and contemplate the start of our great salvation."

	As he walked away I chanted the fugue called "Patience Is the Art of Elegant Timing," shivering only a little now and worried more about my stomach, which rumbled and growled enough to pain me.

	"Sixty-four and three quarters hours," one of the other acolytes said in a tone of disgust. "That means when Eyeclipse comes, it'll be only light from the other moons for the next twenty hours or so." He sarcastically waved his hand in front of his face, as if blind in the dimness of Cat's Eye. "No suntans here, eh? It's windtan or nothing, unless the frostbite gets you."

	None laughed and the jester fell silent.

	Haven's night interested me. Reportedly it would never get fully dark, but I thought I'd rather wait and see for myself, experience it. Those CoDo maps lists and descriptions of habitable worlds tend to change after settlement, I knew. They changed especially drastically with the marginal worlds, like Haven.

	Would the other two moons offer at least some light? I wished for a moment that I understood celestial mechanics better, then grinned and rolled my eyes. Fat chance of learning such things now. But, as for seeing one's hand always before one's face, surely that would be a boon, affording endless chances for good works. The right would always know what the left hand was doing.

	With a shrug, I went back to concentrating on my empty belly, and how best to ignore it, or at least nullify its demands. My eyes kept seeing, however, and my ears kept hearing and curiosity flared in me like lashes of plasma from a furious star.

	My senses tempted me into the new world, so I studied it a little. The orange-red tinge of Eyelight allowed sight, but with a diminished sharpness of image, as if details had been carefully erased to allow the world a greater freedom of generality. That idea shuddered through me as I wondered what this place might show us if, or when, it decided to get specific with us.

	My heart thumped and thudded. My limbs felt alternatively heavy and light, never normal. My eyes watered and I blinked away the tears. Cold seeped inward, confident of final victory on this bleak soulscape.

	After the ennui, the torture, the oppression of the transport ship, however, that cold ground in the dim light beside our small hillock of stacked supplies was at the very least an edge of paradise to us, and few complained aloud. Mothers sang to children, while fathers hummed along. Children chattered and laughed, playing timeless games. Bodies shifted weight and the chill air cleaned us of one another's scents even as a few hardy souls visited the lake's edge for baths of an icier kind.

	It was a moment of peace, and I was astute enough to savor it, even in my hunger, or perhaps because of it. Hunger imparts a meditative calm at times. At any rate, our peace was short-lived.

	" ... must be kidding," a harsh voice shouted from the shack where the ship's captain and his groundside crew drank and gamed. "It's your world, mister almighty Chucked-Out Charlie Castell, and my people aren't animals, and personally I couldn't give less a damn about how you'll move your supplies if they invented atomic damn-splitting."

	It was the ship's captain, a cashiered CoDo NCO, whose voice roared forth. He bellowed at Reverend Castell, berating him, mocking his plan of colonization and mimicking his perception of our principles in a drunken tirade that would've spawned a riot on any other world at any other time with any other audience.

	The two leaders came out of the shack. The captain's fists came within inches of the reverend's face, but our leader neither blinked nor winced. Raising his hands to chest level, Reverend Castell said something in a firm but modulated voice, and that's when the other drunks roiled out of the shebeen, which actually rocked back and forth as shoulders pushed on the sides of the doorframe.

	The captain yelled, "You can jolly well wait until your animals grow out of embryo for all I care, but there's not enough money in the known systems to make me ask my men to do another lick of work for your bunch. Christ on a flapjack, you've got the arrogance of Lucifer himself, I swear."

	Laughter and hoots of derision erupted in the mob outside the drinking shack. Our people, the Chosen, stood watching Reverend Castell as intently as audiences watch tightrope walkers, anxiety plain on our faces. I know many thought as I did, that to lose him now would fate us all to meaningless failure.

	Several voices among our people said, "I told you he was crazy," or "Now do you see?" or even "Damn him, making them angry like that," but I held out faith in Castell, because he'd never failed us yet. Saying as much to my brother acolytes, I got them to circulate amidst the Chosen, spreading harmony and calm as best they could.

	The captain and the reverend stood nose to nose as the opposite crowds studied them, some eager for blood, others seeking only peace. An electricity charged the scene, holding everyone static.

	And then the violence in the air evaporated as Reverend Castell said something that made the infidels laugh and curse. He came to us while they gurgled back down the drain into their iniquitous sink of sins.

	"They'll be gone in twelve hours," Reverend Castell told us. As usual, I was standing near enough to him to be able to study his features, and I swear I saw the traces of a satisfied smile there, as if he'd accomplished something difficult with less trouble than anticipated. He slapped me on the shoulder and smiled. "We're too excited to sleep anyway, don't you think, Kev?" he asked. Then, before I could respond in any way, he dashed toward our supplies and began climbing them.

	His shipslippers let his toes grip the ropes and canvas on the crates, and soon he stood high above us. So high, in fact, that when he spoke we found that very few of us could see him at all.

	His voice, a baritone coaxed and trained, modulated and resonant, fell upon us like manna. We fed upon the sound of that voice as much as on the messages it conveyed. It was a sermon like none before, rousing us to efforts none of us would have conceived.

	We bent and lifted. We carried until our legs quivered. All the while, Reverend Castell stayed atop the diminishing pile of goods we'd brought.

	Rocks twisted ankles, divots stole footing and the light failed gradually but certainly as we moved our precious supplies away from the lake. There were trees, sparse-set evergreens, but we stayed back from them, not knowing what might lurk in their shadows, under their deceptively familiar boughs.

	A relatively flat area, with harsh grasses that tore at exposed flesh with serrated stalks and sticky leaves that seemed to seal each wound, proved the best place to create our first redoubt.

	Directing the placing of crates and drums and barrels and sacks, we created a small fort-like square. Our supplies surrounded us, providing shelter as well as other necessities. Slit-trenches were dug by a few of our people who understood such matters, one of whom had been a CoDo Marine until he lost his hand in a nameless battle, another of whom had been a mountain survivalist until swept into a city by defoliant and other government plagues. Deadfall was gathered and fires lit, and soon savory broths and other delicious if meatless sustenance sent out whips of mouth-watering invitation.

	Reverend Castell carried the very last crate by himself. He took it to the center of the cleared area and let it drop with a grunt. Such crates weigh more than forty kilos here, I knew.

	Hopping upon it, he said, "Chosen ones, hear me. This spot shall be our settlement, and from this spot shall we construct a place worthy of true and universal harmony. Here shall we found a place free of secular intrusions, free of the compromises so many of the churches have adopted of late on old, decaying Earth.

	"As the silence at the heart of the note supports all aspects of the song, so shall this spot remain empty, a town square from whence shall radiate peace and chords of joy even as our settlement grows to fulfill all promises."

	We hummed a chord and held it, and the single multiplex tone droned from and through us, raising our inner selves to new heights of strength and determination. No one shivered during that nine-minute chord, no stomachs growled and no babies squalled. It was peace, it was truth, it was harmony.

	The rest of that time, I guess I must call it evening, Castell passed among us, squatting to chat here, pausing to give assistance there, spreading calm and confidence everywhere. His confidence radiated like a warmth more sustaining than the heat of fire.

	After eating a tortilla rolled around celery with ten-bean sauce, I followed him on his rounds. My admiration for him may well have grown, if such was possible. He knew the right things to say to everyone, and knew all their names, all nine hundred of them. He even knew the names of the babies, not yet counted as Chosen, but certainly blessed by the harmonics of their parents.

	When we returned to the center of the small square, Castell's crate was still there. I noticed that it was labeled with a Xeno-Biology warning symbol, a red triangle in a green square, with the legend HYBRID GRAINS.

	Gesturing for me and the eight other acolytes to be seated, he treated us to a story about his father, Garner "Bill" Castell, adventurer, founder of our church, and our spiritual patriarch. As he wove aural spells of incident, plot, and character, I let my memory stray back to my only glimpse of Garner "Bill" Castell, lying in state in that old Victorian style mansion on the hill.

	He had lain smiling faintly even in death as his son—left with the flock, left with the dream of a promised land, and left with just about enough church assets to assure new-found Haven's settlement rights—cried and ranted in a far corner at the unapproachable man's still unapproachable corpse.

	Though he spoke now with affection, I knew Charles Castell still harbored complicated feelings for his father. "Be glad you knew yours," I whispered, sending out a prayer. And when the tale was told, all straining listeners smiled and nodded even as we acolytes laughed at the gentle humor of the ending.

	Reverend Castell sat in a lotus position atop the crate and let his head loll slowly back until his face gazed upward. His eyes were closed to our sullied, sin-ridden world. His inner resonance held him rapt.

	In three layers of unbleached cotton and rolled into a wool shawl, I soon fell asleep. We acolytes, in deference to the reverend's disdain of personal comfort, ignited no fire for ourselves. At sixteen, I fancied myself able to live up to whatever impossible standards Charles Castell thought fit to demonstrate for us.

	I dreamed of milk, warm from the udder, and honey, hot from the hive.

II

	We awoke to the ground trembling.

	A throbbing moved the air in jitters, and I rolled to a sitting position, ready to brace myself. After so long in space, our reflexes were those of travelers. My thoughts were of asteroids, or ruptured bulkheads.

	Once I realized we were on the ground, however, I instantly thought of quakes, and glanced over to see Reverend Castell still sitting on the crate, as if he'd not moved as we all slept around him. He was shepherd to the flock, and an example to those who would attain true harmony, and I tried to be like him, despite my alarm.

	And then someone said, "They're just leaving us here," and I knew that the vibrations came from the shuttle departing. With that thought came louder sounds, and then a glimpse of the dirty white ship in silhouette as it roared quickly upward from the middle of the lake, dripping water, soaring into the dark and clouds.

	My chest tightened. Dizziness swept through me. We were alone. We were the only people on the entire planet, nine hundred of us.

	Despite my desire to avoid such daunting thoughts, my minds eye offered an imagined view from the departing ship: We'd look like less than a single spore of mold on the skin of an orange.

	Tears welled. I stood and performed some tai chi to warm myself and calm my surging emotions. I missed Earth now more poignantly than I had just after departure, when the confinement of the transport had somehow crowded out any nostalgia.

	Like many others, I stood gazing upward into Haven's dim sky long after the ship was invisible. Not even the clouds resolved into familiar shapes, for us, and no birds flew over to bid us welcome.

	Reverend Castell let his head loll forward, took a deep breath, and smiled as his eyes fluttered open. "So," he said. "At last." Rising from the crate, he jumped down and laughed, then rubbed his hands together. I thought the gesture more eagerness than a grab at friction's warmth. "We must awaken, and begin the tasks necessary to our survival," he said, his booming voice glittering with a hint of glee.

	He strode from person to person in a widening circuit of our tiny meadow, his hands straying to touch children's heads and the many crates and supplies he passed. His manner was all encouragement and delight.

	I ran to follow him, as was my place. My own hands now and then ruffled children's hair. I longed to emulate Reverend Castell in the deeper things, too. Giving blessings with total assurance must be a marvel, something rarer than humanity on Haven.

	And then we came upon the rift in our wall of supplies.

	It lay farthest from the lake, closest to the forest. The people there kept their gazes downward, and none spoke when Castell, his features frozen in an unreadable mask, asked, "How many?"

	In a whisper I sent the other acolytes to count the Chosen. As they dashed off, I considered adding babies to the count, but the unworthiness of it blushed me and I was glad for once that my tongue had outpaced my thinking.

	Reverend Castell stood motionless. He stared at the gap. Not even his eyes moved. His hands made fists and held them. Breezes shifted his robes, but inside those robes his body was still and solid as a statue.

	Our count revealed that no more than twenty-three had decamped. The supplies, numbered and inventoried before departure from Earth and several times since, told their own tale. "They've taken only five crates worth Reverend," I reported, having checked the numbers myself. "Two of foodstuffs, one of embryos, one of farming implements and another of medical supplies."

	With each enumeration Castell's eyes widened a bit more, until, by the end of my list, his stare was maniacal. "Why?" he roared.

	I jumped so hard I dropped the inventory scroll, which fluttered in a sudden gust of wind until I trod upon it, to keep it near. I dared not stoop to retrieve it.

	"Why?" Reverend Castell demanded again in a quieter voice, his eyes narrowed to slits. Under his breath he began saying names, and I, being nearest, heard some of them. He was calling the roll of those who had absconded. My flesh rippled in awe at the man's perception, his memory.

	Women and children started crying now, and the men pretended not to as some muttered fast prayers. Others began a soft harmonic humming, but Castell swept his right arm upward, cutting off their cries. He whirled, anger contorting his face, reddening it. "There is discord here," he said. His tones carried curses, and damnation, thunder and fury, all wrapped in a desperate grip of will. His arms flew up and he shrieked as if stricken, then he fell to his knees.

	We acolytes rushed to help him, but a glare from him halted us as he said, "What must we do?" When his voice faltered in a sob, the Chosen held their breath, listening for his next command. We wanted guidance.

	Water lapped on the shore and a chill wind sprang upon us again, from the water.

	Standing again, Castell scanned each and every face visible to him, as if seeking a scapegoat. Many responded with whimpers.

	When it was my turn, I held his gaze proudly, but my knees shook and sweat trickled down my spine. I was forced to look away, even though I was sure of my harmony with the reverend and his goals.

	"Sacrifice," he yelled then, in a tone of revelation. His voice lashed out and struck us numb. "We have offered a few of our Chosen, that the remainder be the stronger." He pointed at the spot where the missing supplies had once been, as if accusing, then flattened his hand to swat away imagined pests. "We must not despise them, nor hold a grudge. Instead, we must wish them well and forget them. They are no longer of us but were once a part, like hair that's been cut, like fingernail clippings."

	That last phrase came out of him in a lower register that imparted ripples to the flesh at the nape of my neck, but before I could dwell on the meaning of both words and tones of voice, he began smiling again. He clapped his hands thrice, a signal for attention. Into the silence he sang a lament, then gestured for us to join in its repetition.

	We created a layered hum and, at the end of nine minutes, as timed by a subcutaneous digital timekeeper under the skin of Castell's left wrist, the digits of which glowed blue when scratched. We all felt better, as if losing the twenty-three had lessened our burden.

	Reverend Castell then strode to a crate, bent, and tore off its top planks with his bare hands. A cheer arose, and we fell to opening our supplies and sorting them.

	Children helped carry what they could, or fetched tools, while adults worked at whatever tasks best suited them. In use is ownership, and we sought to mesh our wills with the limitations of our tools. Some began setting up the incubators, to begin accelerated growth of embryos, so that we might have beasts of burden to labor and breed and freshwater fishes to feed us in later years.

	Those people, specially trained and aware that their expensive equipment was the only one of its kind to be had, did their jobs with the reverent concentration of monks. Others, of a more common ilk, joined in the chorus of work any way they could, remaining at the beck and call of more focused workers.

	"Work well," Reverend Castell enjoined. "If no more should manage to follow us, then we shall have to suffice and what we are shall be the future of this world, and of the greater Harmony."

	His references to the outside possibility of other Harmonies scraping up the funds and begging or bribing the permission to emigrate from Earth to Haven fell like spattered acid. And in truth I'd heard him, during the months of travel, vent much bitterness about the many indecisive souls we believers had left behind. It galled him, for one thing, that they could remain behind yet still call themselves Harmonies.

	Some of us found likely places to begin plowing and harrowing fields to receive hybrid seeds. Exactly which Earth species would thrive, we did not know, so many small plots were rendered arable. Some set up an irrigation system, deploying the skeletal water wheels. Some of us dug holes in the ground, which was hard and rocky only centimeters beneath the tangled roots of grass.

	My body warmed and my muscles, after fourteen months of nothing more strenuous than isometrics, cramped and throbbed deliciously. Also, I panted constantly but savored the pains of hard work, knowing that each jolt of discomfort was a harmonic burden balancing the accomplishments of our faith. I viewed my visible puffs of exertion as misty prayers that would disperse the many winds to eventually travel everywhere on Haven.

	At one point that day I helped to demolish the shack by the wharf. We found a few bottles of spirits, and saved them for the doctors. We also found tri-pictures of people doing things with each other which upset one of our coworkers.

	Reverend Castell came over and looked through the tri-pix, then smiled and said, "These, too, may prove valuable as we seek to populate this world." He gave them to the doctor, who somberly closed them into a medicine case. The upset man stood with face red and muscles bulging in his cheeks, but said nothing against Castell's decision.

	We all got back to work, I drawing shovel duty.

	From green wood that smelled of pine but proved harder and less knotty, from mud mixed with sticky straw, and from oilcloths brought with us as wrappings around some of the supplies, we fashioned sunken cabins. Only about a quarter of each structure stood above ground, and the walls were lined with supply crate planks, stones, and unneeded supplies.

	We used the many flat stones to fashion an oven and even shelves and beds along the perimeters of each living space, and left a central hole in the roofing, to vent smoke. Some used big flat stones for roofing. Others used the pine-like boughs from the nearby trees to weave a kind of thatching.

	Entrances were small, and often required crawling; they were easy to defend against any predators we might still encounter. Drainage was accomplished with lined, sunken furrows set under the stone or wood floors.

	"These structures are based on those still to be found on the islands off Scotland's northern coast," Reverend Castell told us, "and they are in harmony with their surroundings and so can last as long as the stones themselves. Those in Skara Brae are over eight thousand years old and still quite comfortable."

	His words inspired us, and gave us a sense of heritage, of being in tune with longer songs. He wandered from project to task to chore, advising and often pitching in and lending a hand.

	His strength thrilled me, and I hoped to be as big and powerful as he, for I'd not yet begun filling out. Sixteen and scrawny doesn't last long in healthy lads, but at the time it seems forever.

	"In times to come, a city shall be raised on this site," he said, speaking less like a prophet than a professor. "This place is made for settlement, and we, in harmony, have come to fulfill its promise."

	He happened to be near me as he said this and, without ceasing to shovel, I took a breath and dared to ask, "Reverend, do you see visions, hear angels? How is it you know about this place?"

	He smiled down at me and said, "I studied Ekistics at university. It's the science of settlements." And then, in a quieter voice, he added, "I wish I'd paid stricter attention." And then he was walking away, to cheer and laugh and revel in the hard work of making a permanent encampment around which to begin our sojourn into future greatness, more intricate harmonies.

	I bent and lifted more dirt, tossing it up onto the pile I'd made. The surface of the ground was at my chest now, and I knew I should go only a little deeper before beginning to shave the sides to enlarge the hole.

	Ice, gritty like sand which Castell called permafrost when I asked, and tendrils of some kind of fungus, too, made root shapes into what little loam there was, then spread flat where the rocky dirt layer began. It was like a vein of decay, maybe a motherlode, undermining the grasses above. It was as if the best of Haven floated upon the worst.

	It occurred to me that my hole mirrored a grave at the moment, and that put me in mind of the Reverend Garner "Bill" Castell, our leaders father. Had the son studied Ekistics in preparation for his father's grand vision of a promised land where his church might exist in freedom and liberty? If so, then what had distracted him from the stricter attention he wished he had paid?

	Shaking my head, I started widening my pit trying to slant the walls the way Reverend Castell had shown us.

	We worked for several hours, then broke off to rest and eat.

	It was after a meal of a small handful of dry rice washed down with tea and broth, which made it swell to fill bellies, that we had our first trouble with the patches of stickyleaf grass.

	Its serrated stalks sliced open exposed flesh, allowing its sticky leaves to cling over wounds. We later found out that some workers were using the stuff as makeshift adhesive bandages. Unfortunately, the sticky stuff, clear and odorless, worked like some snake venoms, breaking down proteins in the skin and blood. Anyone with the stuff on them developed ugly purple masses of pulped tissue. Blood poisoning can result, and the affected areas must be cut out, and quickly.

	Allergic reactions are also not uncommon, including anaphylaxis, which can result in quick, gasping death. I knew about that one because I'm allergic to bees, which, by the way, we'd imported, too. Without bees, few Earth plants can cross-pollinate. Fortunately, the tough African/Penn State hybrid was thought capable of colonizing any planet, so there was little worry on that account.

	As for stickyleaf grass, our medics figured it out and explained it as a cousin to acid-secreting firegrass, but only after several emergencies left more than a few of us injured. One child, fierce and curious, had placed a sticky leaf on one of her eyes and another had been eating them and died.

	It was our first warning that Haven could, indeed, be very specifically an alien world into which we were the trespassers. After that, we were all far more careful to take nothing for granted. Not even the soil in which I dug seemed as inert.

	It seemed a trial of some kind, and I endured it by working even harder. I made the acolyte house extra secure by creating a zigzag entrance just big enough for one large man at a time to crawl through.

	Nor was my dread of predators entirely unwarranted. A large part of our supplies, after all, consisted of the embryos of various foraging creatures which we'd let loose. Once populations of these herbivores and omnivores thrived, we'd introduce the carnivores, a few of them, to act as predators and thus maintain a natural harmony.

	An Earth-nocturnal cat from the Negev desert called a caracal, for example, was thought to be perfect for the dim lighting and relatively rainless conditions prevailing over most of Haven. It might raise havoc with our poultry, but could save grain from vermin, too. The high deserts and rugged mountains of our new homes would seem like paradise to such creatures, I thought, but encountering one might not be such a blessing.

	Before any encounters might happen, though, there must be a thriving human settlement. On this world, man came first, bringing plants and animals with him and although the harshness of the climate was a shock to many of us, even an insult, still, it was our place to be cautious.

	In our hands lay Haven's fate, and we strove to be worthy of such responsibility.

	In use lies ownership, and stewards of the land are keepers of the future, as our Writings tell us. On a more practical level, our church's resources had been spent to get us here, and the supplies we had were very likely all there would be. Haven's an out-of-the-way world, not on trade routes and, in fact, on the very rim of the CoDominiums interests and influences. And so we struggled onward. How fragile we considered our every possession, how gently we treated even stones.

	Our laying-out of the encampment proceeded at a measured and deliberate pace. A few of us might have hurried to escape the bitter winds or to gain privacy or other comforts, but haste would have created its inevitable waste and that might well have meant doom. Colonizing a world requires patience.

	Castell supervised us and kept us patient, and we remaining Chosen labored hard. We quickly patterned our habits so that there was always work being done, even as others rested. With only variable nights Haven invited such perseverance.

	In several of my sleepings we had a place that seemed familiar upon waking, and some of the quicker animals were beginning to take on proper forms, among them the chickens. I found out by almost trampling a dozen yellow chicks that hopped by just as I climbed the four steps up out of the acolytes house. To my look of surprise one of the genetics people said, "We let them breed a few cycles first, just to make sure."

	"Then have you foodbirds?" I asked, my mouth watering.

	He nodded. "Many have died, yes."

	"Waste not, want not." Feeling lighter of step I walked toward my day's duties. One of them was helping soothe the beasts to be slaughtered, by being among the chorus whose drones kept the birds calm even as the butcher graced each throat with his molecule-sharp, gently wielded blade.

	Reverend Castell declared it Yule Season when he heard that meat was available. We celebrated with feasts and exchanged gifts of song, dance and privacy. And our meals of roast chicken and eggs done many ways were, indeed, duly sanctified because we ate no meat that had not passed on its lifeforce first, and we ate no eggs that had not been candled and pronounced free of conception. Nature's cycles were kept in harmony.

	Life began improving for us, as we harmonized with our new environment. Meetings were held again, as the work became predictable. Schools commenced classes. We sang, always we sang, and some began constructing instruments with which to enhance our music.

	Once, as I sat with a group around a fire in the town square, the sound of a lone harmonica drifted to us from the woods. "The outcasts," someone said, and although a search was made no one was found. Tales of the many odd items smuggled from Earth began to feature in our rest periods.

	We contemplated the loss of regular dusks and dawns in one of Reverend Castell's sermons, and it moved us to think of the sacrifices sometimes necessary when a better life beckons. On a more mundane level, shaving was largely forsaken because facial and body hair added another layer of insulation, something to be cherished on chill Haven.

	An influenza went through us at one point, bouts of vomiting and fevers and worse, but no one died from it, and we pronounced it ship-borne, a legacy of lesser times, simpler tunes, when we'd lived in Earth's cacophony. Most negatives were blamed on Earth, while anything positive was a sign that Haven welcomed us, celebrated our arrival, and supported our efforts toward Universal Harmony.

	Several women showed signs of pregnancy in the first months, and all would soon, we hoped. I often wondered when we acolytes would be permitted to choose wives from the girls, and I confess that I slept but fitfully all too often as I imagined this twelve-year-old, or that fourteen-year-old, naked and in my arms, her eagerness exactly matching mine, our knowledge equivalent as our bodies formed a chord.

	Even Reverend Castell took a wife, Saral. His wedding was quiet and private, and she radiated both calm and good cheer when she stepped out of his house the morning after they'd plighted troth.

	It was many sleeps before it dawned upon me that Saral was the woman who'd very likely been raped in the bunk beside me, during transport, and I could not help wondering if the Reverend had wed to save her from possible prejudice. Perhaps it was another of his lessons, too.

	For a while we got along well and bound ourselves in peace, but then the intruders came.

III

	After a dozen Earth-months on Haven, I could go in shirtsleeves, and my body had filled out until I was bigger than Reverend Castell himself.

	Walking between the rows of plastic-covered furrows, I crossed one of the fields north of town. The trick of covering the plants to create mini-greenhouse effects had increased our second crop yield by seventy percent, so I watched my feet, remembering clumsier days.

	In my left hand I carried three small animals, all dead. They'd been discovered by three of our outlying farmers and I was taking them to the doctors for analysis. One looked like a salamander, green with red spots along its flanks, but it had a soft membrane across its forehead, and its eyes were multiplex, like a bee's.

	Another of the animals I'd seen alive, it had a fur-like covering that scraped off like moss, four legs, and twin tails with bristles at the end. Those bristles were more like tiny barbs, and caused swelling. I knew because I'd kicked one once, at the edge of a corn-crop.

	Coming down the hill I had a good view of the lake. Its beauty inspired me with pride at our world. Boats bobbed near the shore I approached, while our wharfs, now numbering three, showed much activity as nets were repaired and boats were sealed. We used resin from the pine-like trees for a natural sealant, even inside our houses. It dried to resemble a plastic. Those trees, whose sap ran outside their trunk, added layer after layer in a seasonal cycle we had yet to parse. Resin could be harvested in liquid form, and kept pliant by heating or it could be peeled in sheets.

	I waved, but the small figures could not have seen such a gesture, if they saw me at all.

	That's when thunder sounded, a rare sound on Haven. It was rarer still from a clear sky showing only sparse, high cirrus clouds, so I squinted upward, perhaps subconsciously recognizing the sound.

	A glint became a glitter, and then the spot swelled and I drew in a sharp breath. My pace increased, and soon I was running.

	No one on the shore or in the boats seemed to notice and I wondered if the sound had been baffled from their hearing by the very hills on which I now ran. My gestures and shouts did not carry far enough.

	The spot had grown now. Blunt at the snout and wide in the beam, it was obviously a shuttle. Even as I glanced upward again the wings extended farther to let it achieve subsonic speeds without tumbling.

	I had to skirt a stand of oak-like trees, then cut through some more of the pines before I got another clear view of the lake. Some of the boats were making their way to shore. Others bobbed in apparent ignorance.

	Increasing my pace, I grew light-headed. Thin air dueled with highland lungs, for I'd been raised in the Rockies, but my speed and rhythm suffered. The splash-ship was now big in the sky, and falling fast. It banked and I saw stains and signs of neglect. "Earthers," I shouted, my anger surging.

	And then the last few boats began moving, their occupants rowing frantically, but it was too late.

	I stopped running on the crest of the final rise. The animal specimens lay behind me, flung in frustration. All I could do was watch, squeezing my fists until my knuckles crackled.

	The shadow covered three of the boats, but the splashship only struck one, driving it under almost gently. The old Navy shuttle plowed a wake, and our other two boats swamped, but I saw swimmers. That first boat, however, showed no signs of surfacing again, and in fact, we never even found the body.

	Looking left, I saw people running from town, and made out the tall, longhaired, bearded figure of Reverend Castell. He did not run. He did not even walk quickly. His pace was an angry, robotic stomp.

	Looking right, I saw a few other boats coming down River East. River South showed no signs of activity, but my elevation and squint were insufficient for clear sight.

	"It was slaughter," I said, wiping tears I hadn't noticed before. Drawing a deep but shaky breath, I started trotting down to the lake, vectoring to intersect Castell's stiff-jointed stalk.

	When I came to walk beside and a little behind the Reverend, I heard him muttering. His eyes seemed calm, but he was grinding his teeth. With each step he took and let out a breath, as if it were some meditation. We reached the old wharf and stood on the worn planks as the splashship lowered propellers and maneuvered toward us. A few people stood in an open cargo hatch on one side, and they waved. None of the Chosen returned the gesture.

	Reverend Castell stood staring. His breath came in ragged gasps through his nose while his lips writhed as if wrestling. When a light breeze rippled a fold of his robe, he swatted at the moving garment as if meaning to tear it.

	The draft of a standard splashship is five meters absolute minimum, and a PanAmerican old-style shuttle requires more. The only wharf whose frontage had been dredged to accommodate such displacements was the old one, the one left by a CD geological Survey Team, the one we now stood upon. So it was that the newcomers came directly to us.

	Behind Reverend Castell and me the other acolytes formed up. We were big now and stood in a semicircle. None of us hummed or made any other harmonious sound. As for me, I avoided inner questions and simply looked to Reverend Castell for guidance.

	The splashship's shadow covered us, conjuring chill, and then the ship itself slammed into the pilings and demolished a short dock we'd constructed. I steadied myself by taking a step but Reverend Castell never moved. He gazed at the quintet of ship's officers standing in the hatch, his face utterly calm now, his hands hanging limp.

	"Ahoy," one of the ship's ground officers called. "Would you be Charles Castell?" He jumped down onto the wood planks and tugged down the bottom of his tunic before extending his hand. I saw that his ranks echoed Marine ranks, not Naval ranks, which theoretically meant he was trained in all sorts of ground-side deviltry, perhaps even by CoDominium Marines.

	Reverend Castell, ignoring the hand, said "Peace is ours to offer." It was a formal greeting from the Writings, but his voice as he said it was strained and rough, as if he'd been crying.

	Dropping his hand, the officer said, "I'm Major Lassitre, and—"

	"Have you brought more of the Chosen, Major?" Castell asked. "More supplies, perhaps?" He enunciated every syllable with over-precise clarity, as if the sense of the words escaped him. It was more a phonetic mimicry of speech than true communication.

	Major Lassitre smiled. His hair, combed back all around and graying at the temples, glistened as he nodded slightly. "Sir, my orders are to set up air traffic control for a field splashdown zone."

	Reverend Castell swayed backward a little, but caught his balance before I could move. "You killed one of the Chosen."

	The Major met Castell's gaze. "I've killed none of your flock, Reverend; they committed suicide if they rowed under us, and I'm not authorized to stand around chatting in any case. We have shuttles coming down in four hours, and I've got work to do."

	Turning on his heel, Major Lassitre waved to the other military people at the hatch, and they formed a chain and began handing down packs and field communication units.

	Reverend Castell stepped toward the Major and touched his arm. "Major Lassitre, may I direct your attention to that island?" He pointed at the big, wooded island situated somewhat west of the lake's center.

	"What of it, Reverend? This wharf, if my briefing was correct, is CoDominium built and owned."

	Castell swallowed and blinked once; slowly. "The island features prominences at all four quarters, and would serve as an excellent control spot for directing splashdowns."

	"Sergeant," the major called to one of the men, who at once stood straight and said, "Sir."

	"Take a zodiac and reconnoiter that island; it may be a more functional control point."

	"Aye, sir." The sergeant saluted, detailed three men to accompany him, and opened a panel on the shuttle's side. From it he took a heavy package which, when he pulled a cord, inflated into a keeled boat almost as large as our wooden ones. One of the sergeant's men attached an outboard motor, and they zipped away with much noise and too many fumes.

	Throughout these proceedings Reverend Castell stood mute, but as the zodiac dwindled in the distance he said, "Major, what is going on?"

	At once I dismissed the faintest hint of pleading in his voice as a trick of my hearing.

	"At ease," the Major told his remaining soldier, who at once actually took out and smoked a cigar. To Reverend Castell, Lassitre said, "Havens about to get quite a population boost, sir. We've got three thousand, nine hundred and eighty-three more Harmonies for you, sir, and another eight thousand and five miners, merchants, and the like."

	"What?" I blurted, unable to assimilate the numbers he'd mentioned, let alone grasp their situation.

	Glancing up at me, the Major grinned and looked me up and down more carefully. "Big one, huh? You've the makings of a fine marine, young man."

	"I'm at peace," came the rote reply, but I noticed how he made himself sound as if he were a real CD Marine, and not just a transport company officer.

	"Of course," the Major said, tone neutral. "If you call it that."

	During this exchange, Reverend Castell simply continued to stare at the Major, as if neither he nor I had said anything.

	Redirecting his attention to Castell, Lassitre tossed a thumb toward the sky, to indicate a transport in orbit. It would be over us again in a little under four hours, I knew, remembering our own few orbits. "I forgot how isolated you are here, you had no warning, did you?"

	"Haven belongs to the Church of New Universal Harmony. My father purchased settlement rights just before he died." His hand went to his chest for a moment, then dropped. "My people have sacrificed everything Earthly to come here." Reverend Castell spoke quietly, as if reciting from the Writings. "We've no further need of Earthly things. The Harmonies are welcome, but the others—"

	"There are families aboard, sir. Men, women and children. Your church didn't have the funds for a second expedition, so shares were sold. We can't expect you to like it, but it's completely legal. And besides, isn't charity part of your pacifist creed? Or at least basic hospitality?"

	Castell took a step back from Major Lassitre. His eyes widened. He took a deep breath, and I winced, expecting a loud sermon to begin. How dare this infidel remind our leader of his own creed's duties? Instead, though, Reverend Castell let his breath out slowly and said, in a conversational tone, "Was the trip hard on them?"

	At once Major Lassitre's body language relaxed, and he smiled. "Some died, I won't lie, to you. You've been in the transport ships, even converted liners; you know how it can be."

	"Squalid," Castell said. He, too, smiled, but with no relief there, no shared referents.

	For myself, I could not understand our leader's attitude, his sudden relaxing. Had he conceded the CoDo's right to usurp his authority on Haven? Had he acceded to their right to rescind all those costly permissions?

	Was he faltering?

	"You understand, of course," Castell told the Major, "that we have neither the resources nor the desire to take care of anyone other than our own."

	The Major laughed. "They may take care of you, sir. They've brought virtually no supplies and precious little know-how if I'm any judge." When no one joined in his laughter, he coughed and said, "Yes, well. Fact is, Reverend, there's nothing we can do. Ours is but to do or die, eh?, Although your chain of command's a bit shorter than mine, huh?"

	And as he laughed again, the zodiac returned and the sergeant reported, with a note of surprise, that the Reverend hadn't lied, the island was indeed a better place to set up a control point.

	The shuttle sloshed back from the wharf and surged to the island, but it was long before the Reverend moved or stopped staring.

	Behind us the entire settlement had erupted in a cacophony of discussion and disbelief. Almost four thousand more Harmonies; what news would they bring of Earth? Old friends and new would arrive within a few hours. Excitement roiled among us while we acolytes attempted no calming, feeling only upset ourselves.

	"You had not the slightest appreciation of the difficulty in what you asked of me," Reverend Castell said at last, under his breath. He turned and glared at me a moment, as if angry that I'd eavesdropped.

	With a blush I lowered my gaze, but my mind, always the independent part of me, wondered if the Reverend had been subvocalizing a conversation with his dead father. It seemed to me futile to argue with ghosts that haunt only memory.

	When Reverend Castell strode away I did not follow as closely as usual. His glare had sent sour notes through me, clashing with our normal attunement.

	Later, the other acolytes began asking me what we must do as our numbers swelled fourfold. "Strive for harmony," I said.

	For the first time in as long as I could remember, I was uncertain exactly what that phrase might mean.

IV

	A communal symphony convened. We made music and let it take us into complicated realms of certainty and doubt, where Pythagoras fought with numbers and found the octave and the twelve chromatic semitones, our disciples, from whence came spherical harmony, as from chaos and cacophony a symphony universal evolved.

	My fingers manipulated the rhythm sticks automatically and I hummed in tune, even as my mind kicked and screamed at the onslaught now facing us. We'd done fine for an Earth-year or so, and anyone joining us would be interlopers, even if they shared our faith.

	Reverend Castell let the Chosen pulse with rhythm and song for only a few rondeaux verses before appearing in the town square himself, in fresh robes bleached white. In the orange of Haven's day he seemed covered in fiery blood. Raising his hands, he commanded silence. His gaze scanned us, and he shook his head, his face showing disgust.

	"My efforts," he said. Then he glanced down for an instant and started again. "Our efforts to live in harmony with all forces of the universe have been blessed until today. Many have been injured, and most of us continue to marvel at the sheer harshness of Haven's environment, but we're still here. We have not thrived, but we have gotten by.

	"Now the CoDominium has followed us, and its decay is spread even unto our crisp air and unsullied waters. This is cause for resentment, perhaps, but such negative feelings create disharmony, which shall, if indulged, prove our nemesis.

	"We must welcome not only other Harmonies, but also the pitiable families transported here by the CoDominium. They purchased a share in our world and no doubt harbor dreams of better lives. They are more akin to the Chosen than most others from that rotting planet whose name is a synonym for dirt.

	"Haven was the name of Tycho Brahe's island where he brought together the best astronomers of his time to form Uraniborg, the Heavenly Castle, an estate of science and truth, a refuge from idiocy and Earthly corruptions, and Haven is our planets name, chosen and bestowed by my father, and a haven it shall ever be, to all those who must be clean of Earth."

	The Chosen murmured amongst themselves and milled about, and Reverend Castell glanced at me and smiled, perhaps in atonement for the earlier scowl. "They're big enough" he told me in a soft voice. "They can accommodate even this latest of added burdens."

	I nodded and returned his smile, squaring my shoulders. If such was Reverend Castell's new course for Haven, then such would I support, for I trusted him to sense the resonance, the harmonics.

	The fact that we had no choice may have helped us be gracious in our first greetings when, a few hours later, the first dumps of miners arrived.

	Those of us with boats helped ferry people ashore, while the rest of us either got on with urgent tasks or stood gaping up as shuttle after shuttle arrived. I figured there were five shuttles in all, working in a chain. They soon had the new arrivals on the ground.

	Our women comforted the newcomers' wives and children, while our men harmonized with old friends and amazed colonists who'd expected a more settled world.

	Some of the Chosen were eager for news from Earth, others contented themselves with the festive atmosphere that was developing as tours of our town and fields were given. It was as if we had visitors.

	Visitors, however, soon depart, whereas this overwhelming number of people were here to stay.

	To escape the confusion and conflicting feelings of giddiness and horror, I clapped hands outside Reverend Castell's house and was bid enter. Stepping down the four steps, I got on my hands and knees and crawled in through the curtain.

	He sat in the dim light of a single wick-lamp, holding but not reading a copy of the Writings. "Kev", he asked, "have you completed your circuit?"

	I remembered my five-sleep walk, the people I'd visited, and the vermin I'd dropped on my run toward the lake, then forced myself toward peace, in order to better remember my tour. "Yes, Reverend, all the outlying farms are well. Some vermin and one possible raid from the outcasts are the only discords."

	He nodded as if not really interested. "Can we increase our harvests by a factor of ten or more?"

	Blood drained from my face. With all the confusion, I hadn't given thought to starving.

	Reverend Castell blinked, and I saw tears flowing. "Maybe they've brought extra seed-grain, or implements, despite what the officer said."

	I sat heavily, unbidden, on a pallet by the door as the truth sank home like an arrow in my heart: Even if the new arrivals took to farming in a trice, there was not enough seed-grain to allow planting.

	They must spread through the Shangri-La Valley," Reverend Castell said. "How ironic that name's become. I wonder if the first surveyors foresaw this planet's strife?"

	Not fully understanding his references, I remained silent.

	"Muskylopes, perhaps," he said. "Or spiny boars when we spot them. But we cannot slay them unthinkingly, as we did the American bison and so many other species."

	I let him chatter to himself for a few moments, then said, "Reverend, you've always taught me that a note gains its power when it acts in concert with other notes according to the laws of harmony."

	He glanced up at me, surprise on his face. A smile blossomed. "You are a good soul," he told me.

	Unsure that he'd understood what I meant I blushed but forced myself to say, "I mean, we can't abandon our Writings now," and gestured half-heartedly at the book he held. "I must tell you, there's already unrest spreading. Some of the newcomers describe themselves as service merchants. They have harlots, and gambling is on their every word, in their every thought. I have even scented alcohol on the breaths of some of our own who perhaps shared a secular communion with less-strict brothers in Harmony."

	It felt worse than a toothache to presume to tell Reverend Castell anything so crass, and I fidgeted and finally stood to excuse myself, preferring to let him think in solitude than risk being exposed to another of his ran tings. Before I could move, however, someone poked his head through the curtain into the room and said, "Castell? That you?"

	Aghast at such effrontery, I looked at the reverend, who appeared as amazed as I by such a breach of town etiquette.

	"I am he," the reverend said, standing. He placed the Writings on a stone shelf and folded his hands in front of his belt-line.

	The man had curly brown hair and a dentist smile. He brushed off the dust from the short tunnel, then stretched up to touch the roofing. "Quaint," he said, more or less ignoring us as he surveyed the room's contents. He bent and brushed more dust from his trousers' knees.

	Finally he said, "Oh, I'm Julian Anders' secretary, Rollie Tate, and I was asked to bring you to see him right away, so can we get going?"

	His words shot through me like high voltage. Reverend Castell said, "Am I to understand that Anders is a Harmony?"

	The little man nodded enthusiastically. "Sure what else? He's our leader, he brought us all to this dump. Now can we get a move on? Reverend Anders doesn't like waiting."

	My expression must have betrayed my inner turmoil, because Reverend Castell stepped forward and placed a hand on my shoulder. He leaned close and whispered, "A song always has more notes."

	He meant that the notes left unsounded are as important as those we sing, a quotation intended to soothe me. Did he also mean we should have seen this coming?

V

	"A song always has more notes" is also what he told me a month ago when my baby died, and I wondered cynically if it were generic advice.

	After three exhausting days my wife, Bren, had birthed a son but the baby lived barely a moment. Looking up at me, one of the midwives shook her head, eyes wide.

	My heart sank, and then my knees weakened. I sat on a stone covered by muskylope hide, gasping as if I'd run kilometers.

	Concern for Bren shot through me then, as I caught a glimpse of the blood-smeared belly, still swollen as she struggled with the afterbirth. Standing, I rushed to her side. Her face was agony incarnate and incarnadine, her silken tresses lay matted, her eyes, when they opened, wandered dull and glazed.

	"I'm here, Bren-love," I told her, grasping her hand, which squeezed mine hard enough to grind knuckles.

	"Take," she said, "the baby," her neck's tendons taut, "to Reverend Castell," and she groaned, fought for control, and added, in a breathless whisper of pain, "blessing."

	My throat was too choked by love and sorrow to answer, so I nodded. Leaning down, I kissed her cheek, then gathered the still bundle in my arms and trudged across the town square.

	I passed the acolytes' quarters on my way, and heard a droning from within. For an instant I regretted ever having left the warm community of bachelor acolytes, but I knew it was a strident disharmony. Besides, marriage was a rock-solid foundation for the soul, and in truth my love for Bren often threatened to overwhelm even my love for Harmony and all things Harmonious.

	Spits of snow sent icy darts into my eyes, into my lungs. Haven's winter, although just beginning, featured blizzards to humble even our Russian taiga couple, Iban and Svetalma, who had taught us how to skin muskylopes and who often told tales of snow piled up to the sky.

	At Reverend Castell's house I dropped to my knees. Hugging the still-warm bundle to me with my elbows, I clapped thrice and heard a faint, "Enter."

	I crawled on threes, holding the bundle against my heart with my weak arm, the left. As my head thrust past the many curtains hung against the chill I said, "Reverend, our baby's dead." And with that the truth came home to me, and my tears flowed in a gush that blinded me like a bucketful of riverwater.

	Reverend Castell came to me, stood me upright, taking the bundle. He sang it a short dirge, rocking it as if soothing a living infant to sleep, and then he placed it on a small corner altar, where candles already burned.

	Coming back to me, Reverend Castell hugged me and said, "A song always has more notes, and your song is just begun. Our infant mortality rate is exceeding forty-nine percent so such sacrifices carry little of the discord of surprise, Kev. We must bear the dead on life's shoulders. He squeezed tight, then let go and said, "Return to your wife, comfort her."

	It was good advice, giving me something to think of other than my own misery, and the cold air outside revived me.

	Only when I passed one of the midwives on her way to Castell's house did I falter. I knew she would take the tiny corpse and bury it in some unknown farmer's fallow field, after doctors pronounced it pure. Looking down at the ground, I hated its insatiable hunger for babies' bones. The last two years had aged me ten.

	When I got back, the strain was still evident on Bren's face, too, and seeking to soothe her I tried to stroke her forehead. She snarled at me, almost biting my quickly withdrawn hand, then fell into heavy sleep.

	"She must rest, but stay by her side, sing her gentle songs," a midwife said, packing shiny things into a leather bag.

	It was bad for Bren, I knew. Just looking at her threatened to begin my tears anew, for the effort and loss on her face, even as she slept, was awful in such a young woman. Worse, strain remained on her face even days later, after she was up and around.

	We talked nothing of the lost child at first, then talked of nothing but the lost child in the weeks following. Neither silence nor words did much good, but my love for Bren deepened.

	Still, I could not remove all of the guilt and bitterness she felt. Of Earth-lowland stock, she could not risk another pregnancy so we took simpler pleasure in more complicated ways and hoped no baby resulted from some fluke. And of course all the while we each secretly prayed for that fluke, because none of us ever believe that the worst is yet to come. So quickly we grew older.

	Such were my thoughts as Reverend Castell and I followed Rollie Tate down to the lake shore. On the way we gathered the other acolytes with double-claps at appropriate houses. As we walked, we heard howls of furious celebration and shouts of dissension and anger. It seemed our humanity was lessened in the acid-bath of numbers.

	Following the scampering Tate, we passed a few merchants, some actually squatting in the street beneath makeshift awnings, others hawking homemade wares from collapsible wheeled carts. Dice flung from hands better suited to prayer than rough work clattered against stone walls, rolled across once-clean sidewalks.

	We also saw a group of miners buying a pair of muskylopes, looking like prospectors from histories of Alaska and California. They were outfitted with Kennicott-stamped equipment and preparing to trek into Haven's wilderness seeking who knew what forms of personal wealth.

	Near the lake we neared a group of men, some ship officers, others dressed in relative finery, especially for Haven standards. A boat bobbed behind them, its operator a bored fat man who yawned repeatedly and chewed some kind of cud between yawns.

	There, standing on the pebbles beside Major Lassitre, was a tall, clean-shaven man with cropped gray hair and dew-lapped eyes glinting like coal pushed too far into a snowman's face. Tate approached the tall man and did a bow that incorporated a curtsy and other, subtler obeisance. "The bearded guy," Tate said.

	Noticing us, Lassitre said, with some disgust, "He insisted on being the last to the ground." When Castell ignored him in favor of staring at the tall man, Lassitre stepped back a pace or so and fell silent. He watched with some amusement, his eyes glittering even as he shivered now and then.

	Tate took a position behind the tall man, who stepped up to Castell and said, "Reverend, I'm Julian Anders, and I've led my people here to join yours."

	Reverend Castell locked gazes with the man. I saw neither flinch and thought, There's iron in them both. Castell said, "You served under me, on Earth. One of my ministers, but I can't quite place where you served—"

	"I'm a leader now, in my own right. When you took the first Chosen away, I rose to ascension by popular acclaim." He grinned. "I represent those strong enough to be left behind. We've come to Haven to bulk your enterprise and bulwark your fragile community against its own cowardice and weakness. He gazed across the landscape, eyes squinted, and added, "You'll be glad to have me here from the looks of things."

	"Haven neither needs nor wants a second-in-command, Mister Anders," Castell said. He glanced at the military men, his gaze lingering on Lassitre who affected not to notice.

	"You're just lucky, I guess," Anders said, half his mouth curling upward. He looked around, sniffed the chill air, and added, "A trait I don't seem to share at the moment. I thought things would be, well, further along by the time we arrived. Have you forsaken all practicalities for constant prayer?"

	The mockery and the veiled insult to our settlement caused several of us acolytes to bristle. Our bodies tensed. After all, we'd accomplished more than could reasonably have been expected, considering Haven's inhospitality and our own naiveté upon first arriving. And least of all did we expect to be insulted by one calling himself a Harmony, a so-called colonist who'd brought virtually nothing in the way of supplies or expertise. Here was arrant hubris indeed.

	I looked at Reverend Castell, past the big black beard, past the bushy eyebrows, past the straight nose and wind-bronzed skin. I looked into his eyes, and I don't know what I saw but a shiver descended my spine at the cold, hard glitter of it.

	Unexpectedly, Julian Anders walked forward, brushing past Castell and parting the acolytes. "Let's find a warmer place to palaver."

	Castell did not hurry after him as a few of the younger acolytes did. Instead, he turned slowly and glared at the man's back. Charles Castell had a glare to melt glaciers, a glare to freeze volcanoes, a glare with all the charisma of creation itself concentrated in it. That glare could bless or curse, it could wound or cure. It only worked, however, if one saw it, and the reverend never looked back as he strode into our town.

	"What must we do?" I asked the Reverend Castell.

	He did not acknowledge me, but started walking back to town at that robotic pace, his eyes unblinking, that shuddersome glitter colder than even before, as if he'd ingested part of Haven's glacial heart.

	"Yes, this site is nicely chosen, Castell," Anders said, leaning back against a pile of muskylope hides his aide, Tate, had gathered without permission from around the commons room in the acolyte quarters.

	In the room's center a fire-pit full of coals radiated heat, while along its edges teapots heated water and small cauldrons simmered acorn-squash stew. A few blood-red heartfruits sizzled on hot, flat stones, and one culinary acolyte had a stuffed clownfruit baking, sans nose.

	Lifting a silver flask, Anders took a pull, then smacked his lips and said, "Ambrosia, this brandy. Truly a balm for the soul. So, Castell, you can at least suggest a spot for our soul-troopers to bivouac."

	Reverend Castell, standing by the door, frowned. "Our fields are vital to survival. We can spare no cultivated land. In fact, we need more."

	"Oh, no doubt. But face it old man, we, need accommodations. Major?"

	Lassitre glanced at Anders, brows raised but mouth tight.

	Anders smiled at him as if reproving a child. "Major, you've given the situation thought. I saw you with your maps before we shuttled down.

	"Along the river that runs east," he began.

	Anders cut him off "Major, I don't intend on trudging through manured fields right now." He pursed his lips. "This town square we just saw, now that shows promise. We could expand the town—"

	"Our buildings are all occupied," Reverend Castell said.

	"Oh, these rabbit holes shall be demolished, of course. A dignified community requires real buildings. It cannot cower in Neolithic bunkers. Major, your engineering programs can no doubt draw us up some suitable places."

	"Places, yes. Not palaces, however. In fact, nothing as good as these." He gestured around us. I caught Major Lassitre's disgusted and helpless glance at Reverend Castell. "You'll have to fit yourselves in here, Anders, or go off somewhere and fend for yourselves."

	Laughing, Anders took another swig of his brandy "Reverend Castell, does the Major speak for you as well? Is this an example of Haven's charity?"

	"There'll be precious little of that," Major Lassitre said. "If you'll excuse me, I've got to see to my ground crew." As he walked to the door and got to his hands and knees to leave, Anders said, "My, he's certainly taking a more active interest in command these last few days."

	The mocking tones stopped the Major for an instant.

	"I was cashiered from the CoDominium Marine Corps because I happened to be caught in some political power moves. Bad timing's my only crime. And at least, Anders, I don't make grandiose claims based on ignorance and incompetence."

	Pressing the attack, Reverend Castell told Anders, "Your presence I cannot dispute, but your behavior among my people I must condemn. Haven belongs to the Church of New Universal Harmony."

	"Precisely," Anders said. "And the church neither begins nor ends with you, Castell. Leadership's not an inherited quality."

	For an instant there was silence. Major Lassitre left the room. The acolytes tensed, offended by Anders. Others in the room, from Tate and the other newcomers to more of the Chosen, watched without comment as the two leaders stared at each other across the pit of glowing coals.

	That's when Reverend Castell's eyes rolled back into his head. I saw it and got ready to catch him, thinking perhaps the heat or the strain afflicted him, but he neither swayed nor buckled.

	Standing, he stepped over the rim and entered the fire-pit, his bare feet crunching down on glowing coals. I gasped along with the other acolytes, and no one else in the room made a move or a sound. All gazes fixed upon Reverend Castell; his mouth bore a hint of a smile.

	He walked out onto the coals in the fire-pit and stood at its center.

	Wisps of lazy smoke rose up from the hem of his robe, and I thought I saw small hairs on his legs withering, puffing into nothing. Then his garments burst into flame and he raised his arms.

	I cried out, terrified. Tears coursed down my cheeks. There were shouts of alarm and warning and a few people stood and backed away from the pillar of fire. Raising my hand, I blocked the heat coming off Reverend Castell, and as I did, so I glanced at Anders and saw the look of utter awe on his face.

	Reverend Castell's beard and hair flashed, then his clothes and hair fell from him in ashes that waded lazy on stray currents of rising air. With that final burst of flame, the light dimmed again, revealing the man at the heart of the fire. He stood naked, hairless, his body luminous in the faint glow of tallow lamps. It was as if he'd been reborn. He opened his eyes and glared again at Anders, and this time the interloper quailed.

	"Peace is ours to offer," Reverend Castell said. His voice boomed. His eyes flashed. Every soul in that room felt stinging heat and electric thrills. "In concert is harmony's power found, and in harmony all shall thrive." Raising a hand, Reverend Castell pointed at Julian Anders. His fingers traced a staff in the air, then added eight symbolic notes in a scale.

	Anders gaped. His flask lay dropped, leaking brandy onto his lap. He quivered. His eyes remained wide, but a new look came upon his features. And then he laughed.

	In the silence it was a strident sound and no one joined in. A sharp edge of hysteria cut the laugh short.

	With an inhalation of breath that seemed to go on forever, Reverend Castell stood so straight and tall that he seemed to grow before our eyes, and in an even, singsong tone broke each word into its component syllables, he said,

	"Anger is the enemy,
"Act with thought,
"Strike no false note,
"Harmonize with all forces,
"Resonate with all events,
"Sing with all beings,
"Be still
"as the silence
"at the heart
"of the song."

	With that he pitched forward, sprawling amidst hot coals. Ashes swirled, confusing my sight for a time. Sparks flew and some people swatted at their garments in terror.

	Moving forward, I circled the pit and leaned inward. By stretching I reached the reverend's right hand and grasped it.

	Leaning back, I pulled, dragging him through the embers.

	Other acolytes helped by pulling on me, until another could snare the Reverend's other hand. Intense heat had my eyes watering. I gasped for breath and inhaled ash and smoke.

	When Reverend Castell's head came up above the fire-pit's clay lip, he shouted, Help me, please.

	A woman standing nearby grabbed a tea pot and hurled its water at Castell's face, raising blisters.

	He shrieked and then bellowed, "Help me, damn you!"

	It was then that I noticed his eyes. They were staring upward, through the hole in the roof. His gaze followed the smoke and ash upwards, and I shuddered, because I knew then that he was demanding help not from us, but from his father.

	A doctor rushed in and at once applied a salve to Reverend Castell's blistered face, which looked small now without the beard. After a quick examination, the doctor said, "He's not burned, not even his feet. The water boiled and blistered him, but the coals and flames did nothing."

	Anders stood and left the room, taking Tate and several newcomers with him. I noticed a few of the Chosen following, too, as they crawled from the room on hands and knees in a childlike herd.

	We would soon discover that Anders kept going when he left the meeting taking eight hundred souls with him into Haven's wilderness, each carrying as much as possible in the way of provisions and equipment. The loss, echoing the first desertion when we Chosen first arrived on Haven, affected us little as the remaining three thousand or so integrated themselves to our ways in the warm glow left by Reverend Castell's flaming renewal of our faith in him, his cause. Whether planned or inspired, the gesture worked, for a while, to weave us back into organized, orchestrated harmony.

	Flopping back, I rested until my breathing evened. I found myself gazing upward through the smoke-hole. I could see only Haven's wind-scoured sky.

VI

	Reverend Castell thrust out his hand, in which was a crumpled ball of paper. His face, bare since the fire-pit a few months back, contorted in frustration and impotent rage. "We've been on Haven barely three Earth standard years, Kev. There is constant discord over living space, provisions, supplies, equipment and even over the simplest elements of doctrine since the four thousand arrived."

	I looked at the paper in his hand. Paper was a fairly rare item. I owned none myself, other than my copy of the Writings. Only a few standard months earlier, one of our artisans had produced the first new paper on Haven, using rice and ancient Japanese methods his grandfather had taught him. To crumple such a precious commodity was almost blasphemous because it tempted waste to begin a melody all its own.

	"These were to have been the expansions to our town," the reverend said. "Improvements, such as birthing pits dug deep to increase the air pressure, even as mine-shafts in South Africa did on Earth. I drew up the plans myself." He grimaced. "No doubt the miners can help with this."

	"Shall we strike a chord of harmony?" I asked, seeking a solution as well as trying to console him.

	He appraised me with mockery in his gaze. "You can't mean that we're lucky, even as Anders said." He shook his head. "No, Kev, Kennicott Metals is not harmonious, they are cacophony." He stood and began pacing. The crumpled papers he tossed into the fire. "My careful plans, ruined in a mob-shout of BuCorrect stupidity and Kennicott greed." He kicked the altar in the corner, tumbling a candle which went out.

	Hanging my head, I waited for his storm to pass. His rantings lasted longer these days, I noticed. They produced less determination, cleared less mental air, too.

	Reverend Castell had been raging ever since Major Lassitre, who had stayed on Haven, brought word from Splashdown Island that Kennicott Metals, in cooperation with the Bureau of Correction, intended to set up a mining enterprise on Haven. Even as we spoke a shipload of immigrants got closer to shuttle-down.

	My place as head acolyte had grown until I was Reverend Castell's confidant. He confided doubts, dislikes, and discords to my ears more often than he talked to his wife, whom he saw only during sleeps. Now and then he thought aloud about giving me the post of Deacon, but nothing had come of that yet.

	Burdens stacked on me kept my brow furrowed most hours of my day, and I'd begun losing weight as worry affected appetites.

	As the Chosen harmonized as best they could with the newcomers, my forays into outlying farmland became erratic, hasty jaunts, rather than regular journeys. In town, now called Castell City by jest and general usage, I circulated as best I could. At households where once I found welcome, I'd lately begun finding suspicion. Some called me Castell's spy to my face. Others hinted that I'd been bought by Kennicott, or some other commercial enterprise.

	"We must organize church services again," Reverend Castell said. "Secret meetings of the truly faithful." Bitterness warped that latter phrase into a self-condemnation, so I said nothing. In my mind I railed against the CoDominium. The thousands on their way would be mostly from the United States, and many professed to be Harmonies, as well. Lassitre's communications shack even caught some cross-talk between BuCorrect officials and CoDo representatives aboard the immigrant ship, and from it he brought us word that we would receive a small food plant, to convert raw protein into edibles, reminiscent of Earthly shortages. It seemed they were serious enough to try helping us slightly.

	Reverend Castell said, "Have you nothing to tell me of how our songs are being sung?"

	I sipped some Hecate tea and savored its piney aromatics. "Our songs are quiet but strong," I said.

	He chuckled. "You've been around me too long, perhaps, if you're learning the arts of such speech.'

	With a smile I denied that I could ever be too long with him, then said, "My wish is only to hold my own counsel until I know more details. I've heard many disturbing things, and I'm sure my ears are among the last to receive such grace notes."

	A nod cast a shadow as sap flared in the fire. "If it's about the mineral assays done by Byers' crew when Haven was first discovered, I've dreaded the findings for years."

	"Only part of what I hear echoes Kennicott Metals and the other mining companies with their supply drops. I'm sure Kennicott has a use for Haven or they'd never have paid the freight for the North Americans who wanted to come here."

	He looked at me hard again, as if seeking confirmation of a new trait, one not necessarily, pleasing to him. "Politics is a shame in one so young."

	"Forewarned is forearmed," I said, at once blushing. I was aghast at the militaristic quotation and doubly aghast that it should fly so readily from my lips.

	Anger darkened his visage as he stood over me. "We seek harmony in all things, and in all ways. Peace is ours to offer only because we hold it so carefully, preserve it so carefully."

	Bowing my head, I recited with him a short drone. A sharp pain stabbed me in the gut, from within, and I belched and tasted bile at the base of my tongue. Still, I made sure to fold my left hand over my right as I prayed, to cover the skinned knuckles and teeth marks I'd gotten by punching my way out of a debate.

	The newcomers found more than enough work to do, making places to live, and trying to scrabble out more food. They went about the business of settling in, many constructing houses for themselves with our help, others moving in with Chosen families, still others fanning out across the Shangri-La Valley. A few who had been miners took their families to outlying farms, but scratching in the dirt differed too greatly from digging in the dirt to suit most of them and I found on my long circuit walks that many of these became prospectors.

	The few consumer products brought by the transportees stirred up more greed than they pacified. Earthers used to buying things disliked making them, but there were too few manufactured goods to go around, and, until the Kennicott operation got properly started, there was virtually no chance of more being imported. And without factories and refineries, neither of which were planned so far as anyone knew, importing would be the only way to get such things during their probably shortened life span on Haven.

	Handmade, utilitarian, and harmonious items just weren't as bright and shiny as manufactured consumer goods could be on Earth. Haven's quaintness wore off.

	Tourism became torture when the newcomers and their families truly understood that they couldn't leave. Enthusiasms for collecting the charming handmade items evaporated when everyone used the things every day. And with more settlers on the way, even the hint of future scarcity was enough to push haggling into hassles and fights.

	Theft and nuisance sabotage became, if not commonplace, then at least frequent enough to be considered ignorable. Each time I or other acolytes received such complaints, we promised to carry them to Castell, but I also advised, on my own initiative, increased security on the farms and in the shops. Prevention lessened temptation, I reminded them. We acolytes eventually learned some methods of keeping things safer, and taught those with whom we visited each stroll-period.

	One evening Castell turned to me at a communal meal and said, "Our peaceful ways are chafing to those whose tastes run toward depravity."

	Anger swelled in me because I knew he referred to an incident I'd reported to him. While walking past the palisade's town square gate between my home and Castell's house, I had encountered a Chosen woman and a child. Both were crying.

	"He touched her, she says," the woman told me, stroking the little girl's head as she hugged it. "Is there nothing to be done? Tell me how to find the harmony in such a vile act." And she ran from me before I could even ask her who had done such a thing.

	When Castell heard, he was livid for an instant, then dropped into sudden, disconcerting calm. "The child must visit friends or relatives in the out-farms," he said. "And Chosen children must be in groups of three or more and accompanied by Chosen when inside the fort."

	Outrage still roiled in me, but his words held such convincing harmony that I had bowed and crawled out to spread his words on the matter.

	It was only the next night that a drunken man slapped an arm around my shoulder in the town square and asked me, with volatile breath and a leer, where he could find the brothel about which he'd heard such exciting things. Earthly corruptions flourished in Havens miserly environment.

	"Keeping our peace separate from their discord does nothing, I told Reverend Castell. "If anything, it weakens our song. Harmony cannot play counterpoint to cacophony and chaos."

	Reverend Castell spun towards me and pointed at my face. "How dare you quote Writings to me, who helped my father compose them. How dare you interpret to me what my father and I wrestled into words."

	"But you've got to realize that our settlement's fraying at the edges. Reverend, our children are beginning to mock the ethics of their parents, because they see such mockery every day around them."

	"Yes, the secular always makes intrusions—"

	"Incursions, more like," I said, so frustrated that I wasn't even aware that I'd interrupted him. "The Shangri-La Valley may soon be a bowl of blood."

	"Your terms of war begin to try me," Castell said.

	"Then I'll speak them no more." And I turned to go.

	Having to drop to one's knees to leave a room makes melodramatic exits difficult at best. This was no exception, and before I got my head past his curtains he made me laugh by saying, "Oh, get up, for harmony's sake, I can't be expected to sing to your posterior."

	Despite my anger, I laughed, and then I returned to my place beside him and he said, "We must institute town meetings and community votes. Church membership shall be a requirement for voting privileges, but those lone voices who pledge to learn the ways of Harmony will be eligible to serve our cause, and can eventually qualify to join our chorus. Let each of the Chosen choose someone to indoctrinate, and distribute Writings to all who require them.

	"And as for you and the acolytes, we must increase their numbers, as well. I charge you, Kev Malcolm, to be Deacon, along with the best two acolytes under your tutelage. For every acolyte choose two Beadles, from the newcomers, young people like yourself." Here his voice lowered and he leaned close to me. "Your new role is protector of the Harmonies. Deacons may decide upon strategies, ensuring their harmony with the Writings, and Beadles shall deploy tactics to ensure compliance with Writings among the Chosen and the Pledged."

	Swallowing hard, I nodded. My palms sweated and itched. My knuckles throbbed, too, and I wondered how much he knew of my many scuffles with disrespectful, resentful Earthers. I dared ask, "Does this mean we must set aside our pacifism?"

	"Our church needs a buffer, and the Deacons and Beadles shall provide it," he answered. Then he scowled. "Our pacifism remains, but absolution for necessary lapses among those not yet full church members may be granted; we must always seek harmony, but we may adjust the strength of our voice to compete with the cacophony roaring around us." He put a hand on my shoulder. "I'm asking you to manage a group partly outside our beliefs and convictions, to ensure that we can thrive. In return, you'll be doing a service vital to the survival of the Church of New Universal Harmony."

	Part of my mind thought it was a deal with the devil, but my bruises and sore hands argued otherwise, calling it a practical compromise in the face of uncompromising difficulties.

VII

	No good deed goes unpunished, they say. In our Writings there is an entire chapter devoted to advice on how to avoid disgusting the infidels we must live among. Much of it is attributed to Benjamin Franklin.

	One of the most important pieces of advice is to keep those around you out of debt, for nothing disgusts like owing something. Knowing this from our Writings, I would still have acted as I did when Reverend Castell, the acolytes, and I encountered the drunks.

	In the lead, the reverend hummed as his long stride carried him across the town square and into one of the market streets, where goods and services were exchanged. We were on our way to the docks, where the shuttles had been bringing down immigrants, to officially receive the small food plant as a goodwill gift from CoDo reps and Kennicott executives.

	It was midday, if peak activity among the populace meant anything. Crowds of newcomers mingled at the stalls, pilfering here and shouting there. Many were children, their faces wan, their eyes alert, almost feral.

	"Hunger punishes us," Castell said, over his shoulder. "Have the botanists reported any progress, Kev?"

	"No, Reverend." They're not botanists, only farmers elevated into research because of the population crisis, I thought, pressing my lips tight to prevent the quibble from escaping. Along our quick walk we saw many failures of harmony, but Reverend Castell never paused. He never looked to either side, for that matter. The acolytes kept a wary eye, while we Deaks walked tall, for I'd chosen the biggest of us for the post of Deacon, and Beads patrolled more surreptitiously, melding with the crowds.

	"What of the muskylope expedition?"

	I rolled my eyes. "My sources extend to the island only occasionally, and I've heard nothing of late, but Major Lassitre sent only a squad. They'll bring back some meat, probably, but not enough to matter."

	A few of the younger acolytes exchanged looks of surprise and alarm, and I regretted having to report to Castell in front of them. Three of our older acolytes had vanished, probably to join the outcasts, while one had been found dead, head crushed from a vicious beating. Any nudge in any direction was liable to cause overreactions these days.

	That day, especially, we should have left the acolytes back in their quarters. Newly appointed acolytes should have been tending candles and helping set up for ceremonies, not being terrified by plainsong truth and unembellished bluntness of language. Nor should they have had placed on their minds the oppressive facts demonstrated by the arrival of thousands of immigrants into a settlement that could barely support the souls already here. With each step we witnessed new variations of disharmony.

	Violence, crime and corruption rampaged through Castell City, now that the newcomer families found their last hopes waning. As population waxed, living space and cooperation waned. The recent drop shipments by Anaconda Mining—one of Garner "Bill's" secret deals exchanging mining rights on Haven for off-world supplies—shook the Reverend's faith, but the building materials, farming tools and food stuffs allowed the colony to house and temporarily feed the new arrivals.

	As the harsh realities of Haven set in, despair sparked fury and the urge to find scapegoats.

	When Reverend Castell asked me if we were not close to the spot where one of our own had been found dead, I nodded. "There, in fact," I said, pointing into an alley. "He was found by that wall."

	Veering from our agreed upon route to the docks, Reverend Castell entered the alley. It stank of sewage tossed out back portals by slovenly householders. It also offered no Bead coverage, as they hadn't known he would visit this place.

	Kneeling in the putrid muck and mud, Castell examined some of the loose stones fallen from the low wall. "These were used. They stoned him to death."

	"It was worse than that, Reverend," I told him. "In his back were imprints of a hammer and curved cuts, as if from a scythe."

	"Murder."

	No one answered that word. "A constabulary is needed," I said.

	Reverend Castell stood and turned to face me. He no longer towered over me, as I was taller, but his personal force caused me to step back a pace as he said, voice low and overly controlled, "I'll have no shattering of the peace by secular vermin open to the temptations of profit and pleasure."

	The heat that came from him took away my breath. I nodded and bowed my head. Ever since he'd been in the fire-pit, Reverend Castell possessed an intensity beyond any human understanding. Although his actions and words that day remained unexplained and baffling, the fact that he'd withstood the coals pulsed around him like an aura of hellish divinity.

	One of the young acolytes whimpered, and the sound caused Castell to break concentration. He returned to normal, although still he scowled.

	He stepped over the low wall, into a tiny courtyard, mostly filled by a dew-pond, which was all but dry. "Perhaps he'd thirsted," Reverend Castell said, gesturing toward the small lens of water at the bottom of the dewpond.

	"Reverend, this place is a brothel." I pointed up at the back of one of the buildings. "And I smelled distilled spirits on the body."

	"You're accusing a brother acolyte of—"

	"I'm reporting facts, Reverend, nothing more. Brigands might well have killed him here and poured whiskey on his body to scoff at our faith in Universal Harmony."

	Reverend Castell's face relaxed. "Yes, that makes sense. Yes." He rubbed his hands together, neither for heat nor for eagerness but in a gesture of nervous indecision.

	"Forgive my inept phrasing, Reverend."

	He glanced up at me, then registered what I'd said and nodded, his hand coming up to touch my head. I felt his thumb making the sign of the octave staff upon me, but there was no thrill this time. Perhaps it was a sign of immediate doom.

	As Reverend Castell led the way out of the alley, we found ourselves surrounded by a crowd of drunken newcomers. The reverend began a simple harmony, and we Deacons and acolytes joined.

	When a group barred Castell's way, he changed direction. When he found all ways blocked by scowling miners, he stopped. I saw Reverend Castell's shoulders straighten, and he radiated warmth again, although not heat. He smiled benignly. "You have an interest in us, I see," he told the men, his tone light; and friendly.

	One stepped forward and shoved Reverend Castell on the chest.

	Castell laughed. "You have touched us all."

	The acolytes cowered together in a knot behind me, probably because I'm the biggest, even among the Deaks. I stood just behind the Reverend Castell, trying to glare like him at the people hemming us in, hoping that I might intimidate them into leaving us to our peace.

	Insults flew then. They called us Holy Joes and made jest of the harm part of harmony. They denounced our pacifism, mislabeling it apathy and inertia. "You've done nothing to help us, and you've given us nothing but a hard time when we try to enjoy ourselves," they said. "You Harmonies control things and get first pick of provisions, and then you put us down for taking the little we need to live on, calling it theft instead of simple survival."

	"Peace is ours to offer," Castell answered. "Those activities you label enjoyments are but forms of disharmony. Can you not see the harm you do each other when you intoxicate yourselves and wrestle in lust without regard to increasing humanity? And as for—"

	In the back of my mind I knew it was the wrong tack. This crowd needed no sermons on moderation. "Reverend, I see a group of Kennicott guards across the street, watching. Perhaps if we appealed—"

	He interrupted me and commanded the acolytes to begin a song, and so we sang. The crowd, laughing and jostling us, tried to shout us down, but our combined voices cut through the hubbub with chromatic purity.

	Even as I sang my gaze sought routes of escape. My heart thudded, and my palms were slick with sweat. And yet, as we sang, the mob began quieting to listen. Reverend Castell's old magic almost appeared again. For a few seconds we serenaded our tormentors, and that's when Castell, giving us a sign to proceed, shouted, "Acknowledge, then, how the harmony of organized singing defeats the scattered cacophony of lone voices crying in this wilderness of pain."

	I doubt if a third of the crowd understood more than half his words, although they rode the crest of our harmonics to echo throughout that section of Castell City.

	"You like peace?" someone yelled. "Then maybe you'll like being in pieces." Guffaws erupted at the pitiable jest, like stubborn donkeys braying in self-defeating frustration. It was like being back on the freighter, in transport to Haven, except far worse without the need to hide violence done upon us from the eyes of ship's officers.

	A man almost as tall as I, belly flopping, dashed toward Reverend Castell and swung a fist.

	The reverend collapsed, clutching his throat.

	Stepping over and in, I raised my hands, but the man kicked the fallen Reverend. The kick struck with such force that I felt the impact through the air.

	Glancing down, I noticed that the attacker wore miner's boots, which are heavy and often steel-toed. Reverend Castell moaned.

	Around us, the crowd laughed and waited.

	Kneeling, I helped Reverend Castell to his feet. He stood bent over, clutching his kicked ribs.

	That's when the attacker leaned in to deliver a head-butt to Castell's face, which spurted blood and snapped nasal cartilage.

	Red tinted my vision, but from within.

	Reaching out, I grasped the man's throat and squeezed, trying to crush his larynx even as I twisted my left arm around to snag his right ear. Part of the ear tore off.

	As he croaked and coughed I let him bend over, then slammed the heel of my right hand up into his lower jaw.

	Teeth shattered. White shards flecked with red spewed from him as he toppled.

	Another man came at me, and I whirled away from him, timing it so my elbow would take him in the throat. I missed, but connected with his temple as he tried to duck under.

	He fell as if poleaxed.

	I panted now as hard as any human can, sucking in air by the hectare as I sought to control my rage. I kept seeing glimpses of the Rockies, and fragments of my fights at the orphanage. Harmony eluded me. My vision remained tainted by my own unspilled blood.

	The crowd of bullies backed away from us now. Some laughed nervously, while others kept up their verbal abuse even as they retreated to their bars and brothels. A few Beads, dressed in rags, kicked and thumped, but their efforts were drowned out by sheer numbers.

	When a hand came down upon my left shoulder from behind, I turned to meet that attack as well. My fist flashed upwards.

	It stopped millimeters from Reverend Castell's face.

	He glared at me as I dropped my arm, but the glare held no terrors for me just then. "How dare you?" he said, voice cracked and whispery from the punch he'd taken. A bruise darkened his throat where his robe hung torn.

	"They hurt you," I said.

	His face contorted. "You'd so easily discard our precepts. For what? My corporeal safety? It means nothing if my spirit's in discord."

	Hanging my head, I begged forgiveness.

	Reverend Castell's voice dropped an octave, from baritone to basso profundo.

	 "You are no longer attuned to Universal Harmony. Your warlike talk belies cacophonous thinking."

	"I strayed," I said, crying. "I lost the melody and wandered, but I'm—"

	"Silence. Our hands carry peace, which is ours to offer. Your hands dropped that fragile vessel. You shattered peace and for what? So your hands could be raised to harm another? Your song has ended."

	Nausea swept me to my knees, and after gagging I said, through tears, "Please Reverend." My forehead came down to rest atop his feet, which were bare and cold. Mud smeared my face.

	His feet pulled back, and I glanced up.

	The Reverend cried out, "This lone voice knows our song, and asks to rejoin our chorus of Harmony. His shouts, although disruptive of our melodies, flew from a proud heart and noble intentions. His sour notes are absolved." And, after tossing back his head and laughing loudly, he clapped thrice, then reached down to help me to my feet.

	Even as I stood and looked into his eyes I wondered if Reverend Castell had planned such theater all along, but the unworthy thought mattered little as I realized what we had accomplished.

	From then on, goading violence from a pacifist would be like poking an over-inflated balloon. And the crowd had seen me forgiven, absolved. That meant even lapses of pacifism might be condoned. We'd become unpredictable. Along with the buffer provided by the Beadles, such a reputation went far towards ensuring that we Harmonies would at least have a chance.

	I followed Reverend Castell to Havenhold Lake, where we greeted uninvited guests who had come bearing gifts.

 

THE SHIMMER STONE SCAM
John E Carr

2041 a.d., Haven

	Edwin Hamilton wasn't surprised, after almost a two-year absence, to find Castell City—now there was a joke, more like Castell village—just as disorganized, dirty and uncivilized as when he had left two years ago. Maybe worse. A lot more bums and disreputable-looking types on the prowl, some of them as thin as winter-starved cows. Even in his disheveled state, he was attracting unwanted attention.

	A good thing he had left for the hills to look for the motherlode. He had to make an effort to keep the grin off his face.

	Many of the structures were subterranean with false wooden fronts, whose only purpose appeared to be to funnel the freezing winds down along the narrow thoroughfares. It didn't help that the streets were mud and half-submerged planks. A swaybacked dog, with ribs poking against its hide, growled as he walked by. It eyed him warily, but backed away when he lifted his walking stick.

	He had just left the Reverend Charles Castell, who was nothing like his father, Garner "Bill" Castell. Charles was a sad sack who talked in parables and took himself far too seriously; he had none of his father's humor or charisma. Bill had been the kind of con man who could sell glow-in-the-dark condoms to a prostitute. That was, until he got religion.

	They had met in Colorado back when Edwin was selling gold mining stocks to doctors and dentists, always the best marks. Bill had teamed up with him for a while and they had made a killing. Castell had dropped out of sight just before the whistle got blown, but that was typical of his "luck."

	They had partnered up again in Utah, a few years later, but split up when he'd lost his share of their assets and some of Bill's at Bally's Casino. Bill always did have a fundamentalist streak and believed gambling was a sucker's game. From all available evidence, including all the trouble it had caused him, Edwin couldn't disagree. Now that he was about to be as rich as Croesus, he would buy his own casino! After all, the House never loses ... 

	Of course, he still had the Stardust Syndicate after him for a couple of mil, now that he'd missed a couple years of vig. That would be the first debt he'd have to settle after he arrived on Earth and sold the first of his 'stones.' Hot damn!

	The second thing he would have to do would be to get some regeneration treatments. He wasn't a young man and, after several harsh years prospecting in the Haven outback, he looked ten years older than when he'd arrived in 2038.

	The biggest problem Edwin faced would be getting back to Earth without attracting attention or appearing on any ship's manifest.

	On most civilized worlds, impossible. On Haven, not so difficult. He was on his way to the Golden Parrot Cantina, a combination bar and brothel, which was one of the spacers first stops after Splash Island. There were no passenger starships stopping over on Haven, not even tramp freighters, just the occasional ore vessel or CoDo transport. Haven was the furthest flung outpost among the known habitable worlds, not even valuable enough to be a CoDominium Protectorate.

	Edwin noticed a significant coarsening of the transportees since he'd last left Castell City. Haven, apparently, was becoming a favorite dumping ground for the Bureau of Corrections. The poor Harmonies were finding nothing but discord on their Haven. And, from the recent additions to the palisade that now surrounded Harmony Compound, it appeared they'd begun to realize it too. He wondered whose idea it was to build the palisade in the first place—surely not Charles Castell's.

	He shifted so that he could feel the belt pouch he wore under his thermal underwear. If word of what he was carrying ever got out, the Harmonies' current problems would appear in retrospect to be the halcyon days of summer. He was determined to see that it didn't get out; at least, until his fortune was made. If the Bransons took the bait, his name would be listed among next year's "Fortune 500."

	Up ahead was Docktown and Havenhold Lake. The Golden Parrot was one of the more elaborate above ground buildings, rising up three stories. The walls were made of stone while the wooden false front was designed to look like a Old West Saloon right out of a black and white film. The only things missing were the hitching posts and some horses. Horses, like most luxuries and even necessities, were rare on Haven due to the thin air and birthing problems. He'd never really understood the meaning of "dirt poor" until he'd arrived on Haven.

	Inside the Golden Parrot, Edwin bellied up to the bar. Careful to be on the opposite side of the bar from where Roberto DeCastro, the Parrot whoremaster and rumored Company spy, held court. A couple of spacers were talking about the long journey to Haven and the pitiful selection of female company the joint offered. Despite not having been with a woman in three years, Hamilton had much more important things to occupy his thoughts.

	It turned out the two spacers were crewman on a Kennicott freighter that had just arrived from Earth with a load of deportees for the mines. They would return as soon as their ship finished refueling at the Ayesha hydrogen-refueling station. He wanted nothing to do with them or their Company.

	It took two days of drinking and dead boredom before he ran into the spaceman he was looking for. His name was Tomlinson and he was the Captain of the Bureau of ReLocation transport, The City of New Orleans. Tomlinson, who had a shaved head and a long sorrowful face, found the name both amusing and ironic; they shared several drinks while they swapped puns about the Big Easy. When the Captain was half in the bag, he brought up his proposition.

	He led the captain to a table in the corner. "I need passage back to Earth."

	Tomlinson actually grinned, which gave him the spectral look of a death's-head. "Who doesn't compadre. There aren't ten people on this hell-hole who wouldn't leave if they had the dollars or credit for passage, except maybe that Castell lunatic and his most ardent crazies."

	Edwin was thankful that he'd held back fifty thousand from the stash he'd given Bill Castell to bribe his way onto the Harmony transport ship. Too bad Garner had died, before the ship had left, he might have made something out of this place. "How much are we talking about?"

	Tomlinson looked at him as if he were seeing him for the first time. "A paying customer! We don't get many of these out here."

	Edwin nodded.

	The Captain pulled at his eyebrows, about the only hair left on his face, while he thought of a price that would make a good profit without chasing off a paying customer; each thought written on his face as it went through a series of contortions. "It's not just passage you know. We'll have to outfit a separate compartment so none of the crew know you're aboard. Then there's food and the little bite for the custom's officer when we reach Luna. How about twenty-five thousand American dollars, or five thousand CoDo credits. Or four hundred thousand rubles?"

	"Dollars, my friend. Twenty-five thousand of them, my entire stake. Let's shake on it."

	A look of pure greed showed on the Captain's face until he realized he was giving too much away: "You civilians just don't realize how little the CoDo pays for the important work we do." He paused to hiccup. "We're humanity's guides to the stars  ... "

	Edwin elbowed him. "Oh, we do hold you in high esteem. Remember, I came in on a former freighter impressed into transportee service. I'm sure the journey back to Earth will be first class all the way. By the way, do you play chess or backgammon?"

	"Ahh. We play backgammon, but for chips."

	"It's going to be an interesting journey, my new friend!"

2042 a.d., Earth

	Thomas Erhenfeld Bronson sat at his desk on the top floor of the Dover Building, one of the three tallest skyscrapers in Manhattan, rifling through the file on Edwin Albert Hamilton. He paused to rub his chin thoughtfully: What kind of scam is Hamilton trying to pull off?

	Through the offices of Murchison, Abbott and Chen, Ltd., one of the City's leading law firms, Hamilton had secured an appointment with him, CEO of Dover Mineral Development, at 1400 hours. Normally, he wouldn't have seen Hamilton, even with the law firm's advocacy; however, the enclosed photo of a most unusual gemstone—called a "shimmer stone"—had whetted his curiosity. The gem had an unnatural iridescence that showed through even in a 3-vee photo. It must be positively pulsating, he thought, in real life. I must have one!

	Erhenfeld pulled out a printout of a purchase order from Tiffany & Co.; it was for five million credits for one six-carat "shimmer stone" paid to Edwin Hamilton. His mouth began to water.

	He had his best troubleshooters search every data base known to man for any information on or relating to shimmer stones, but they had all come up with nothing. No one, including the top gem experts, had ever heard of them: "Shimmer stones, what are they?" All evidence pointed to an off-world source—but where? That was the question. There were some forty known inhabited worlds, not counting asteroids, planetoids and lifeless planets. The gem could have come from any one of them.

	He had sent the firm's best agents to collect all known information on Edwin Albert Hamilton. The resulting dossier was as sketchy as the man's life and reputation: Edwin Hamilton had grown up in Alberta, Canada, born in the year 1981 to working class parents of Scott-Irish descent. His school career was undistinguished and incomplete; he was thrown out of secondary school, a year before graduation, due to gambling on school grounds. He'd been an indifferent student with numerous disciplinary infractions.

	There were no records on him for the next five years; apparently he had managed to live under the bureaucratic radar—no easy accomplishment in these times. He first "reappeared" in 2003 in an arrest record in Boulder, Colorado where he was picked up, but not convicted, for mail fraud. Apparently, he'd been selling fake mining shares to gold mines he didn't own. Edwin had several other apprehensions for small time cons, only one of which, in Las Vegas, Nevada, for rigging slot machines, had resulted in a conviction. He'd spent two years and six months (with time off for good behavior) before being released in 2006. Two years later he was tried, but not convicted, for selling fraudulent stock in a uranium mine in Utah; he was released when the victim, a wealthy doctor, refused to press charges.

	The last "record" of Hamilton and his exploits was his gambling debt to the Stardust Hotel Casino for a quarter of a million credits in September of 2037. After selling his Los Angeles house for three hundred thousand dollars, he had disappeared with the money almost six years ago. There was no record of him having obtained passage on any plane or spaceship on or off Earth. Edwin had vanished into thin air, despite the best efforts of the Stardust Syndicate enforcers to track him down.

	With interest often percent per week, his debt had grown to over two million credits. By all accounts, Hamilton was a degenerate gambler and confidence man. Without the shimmer stone photo, Erhenfeld wouldn't have used the man to polish his shoes.

	Hamilton had used half the credits he'd received from the sale of the shimmer stone from Tiffany to pay of his Stardust debt, which showed he had more brains than he would have expected from the man's record to date. Then he'd hired the Pinkerton International Detective Agency to protect him and his privacy. Only the CoDominium Intelligence Bureau or the CD Internal Affairs Division could successfully breach Pinkerton security, and the last thing Erhenfeld wanted was governmental meddling in this affair until he knew whom and what he was dealing with. There was a time and place for wet work  ... 

	From the itch in his palms, Erhenfeld knew there was big money involved. And he wanted to make sure that it stayed in Bronson family hands. As one of the youngest scions of the Bronson clan, he knew a big score could set him up for life—even prep him for an eventual seat in the Grand Senate. The Bronson family rewarded success, just as it eschewed failure.

	He heard his secretary's voice in his mastoid implant, "Sir, your visitors are here."

	"Let them in," he sub-vocalized.

	Hamilton, a weathered but solidly-built six-footer, came into the office followed by his legal representative, Harvey Chen—the Old Man and one of the founding partners of Murchison, Abbott and Chen, Ltd. Chen didn't look a day over fifty, but Erhenfeld knew he was eighty-eight and had been through regen twice. He also only made personal appearances these days for the firm's most important clients. He revised his opinion of Hamilton upward.

	Erhenfeld, with a smile, put out his hand for a handshake. Hamilton was wearing a very expensive and well-tailored Armani suit and he looked him back right in the eyes. His grip was firm, but not too firm, and contained no moisture. "Welcome to Dover Mineral Development, Mr. Hamilton. You too, Harvey."

	Harvey Chen nodded and they both took their seats, which were a few inches shorter than his own chair.

	He sat back down, asking, "What can I do for you Mr. Hamilton?"

	"I've got an unusual proposition for you, Chief Executive Officer Bronson."

	"Call me Erhenfeld ," he said with a smile. "We're all friends here, Edwin. Isn't that right, Harvey?"

	Chen nodded.

	"Good," Edwin Hamilton replied, as he stood up, with a winning smile of his own. He reached into his coat and removed a small suede pouch, then leaning over he placed it on the desk.

	Erhenfeld could barely keep his hand from shaking as he picked up the warm pouch and felt several marble-sized objects.

	"Open it, Taxpayer Bronson," Hamilton said with a knowing smile.

	Erhenfeld fumbled with the leather thongs until he had the pouch open; he carefully let the three gems spill out. It was all he could do to keep from gasping as three slightly irregular shimmer stones plunked into his hand. The three stones were each a different color: rose, verdant and turquoise, but all three had a vibrant rainbow sheen. He noticed a rapid pulsing quality, just as it hit him that the shimmer stones were the three most beautiful objects he had ever seen. He couldn't tear his eyes off them.

	"Be careful, Taxpayer," Hamilton said, with a knowing tone. "Up close shimmer stones have a hypnotic quality that can turn minutes into hours, if you're not careful."

	Erhenfeld jerked his eyes away and looked up at the two men. Both were staring back with an understanding grin.

	"I've never seen their like. How much do you want for them?" he asked without thinking.

	"That's a good question," Hamilton answered. "However, these aren't for sale. They're just chips off the big boulder. Still, it took me almost three years to find them." He paused to smile. "Although, they were not what I was looking for. Pure serendipity, since I was searching for platinum or gold."

	"Where did you find them?" Erhenfeld asked, the words coming unbidden from his mouth. He had to shake his head; it was as if he was still enthralled by the shimmer stone spell. He was losing his edge. From now on, he would have to be careful; besides being beautiful, the shimmer stones could be dangerous, too.

	"That's the real question, isn't it? These baubles," Hamilton paused to point to the three shimmer stones nesting on Bronson's desk, "are just trifles in comparison to those waiting to be found. It's location, location, location ..."

	Erhenfeld nodded. "I could just put out a tracer and check every off-world passenger and freighter manifest and find out your last port of call."

	Hamilton laughed. "And find nothing! If you haven't done that already, you're not half the man I believe you are."

	He nodded reluctantly. "You're right. I know that if their source is unknown, the stones will be even more valuable. I also understand that someone in your position would find it difficult to return to their source and recover more stones." It was his turn to smile.

	Hamilton nodded. "That's the chance I'm taking ... that we can make a deal. If not, I'm sure someone at Kennicott Metals, Alcoa, 3M or Anaconda Mining will be interested."

	"I could ensure that both of you never leave this building," Erhenfeld returned with a smile.

	Chen shook his head as if he were dealing with an obstinate boy. "Thomas Erhenfeld Bronson, you know better than to make empty threats. A man in your position, what would your uncle, the Grand Senator, say? If we're not out of the Dover Building in two hours, we have engaged a Pinkerton strike team to 'extract' us regardless of casualties."

	Bronson threw out his hands. "Can't blame a man for trying. Edwin, how much do you want for the planetary and GPS location of your shimmer stone mine?"

	"After that little bluff, the price just went up fifty million credits. I want two-hundred and fifty million CoDominium credits upon my signature and 2.5 percent of all royalties from the sale of any and all shimmer stones for the next one hundred years."

	"You're talking billions in royalties—that's highway robbery! Dover never gives royalties to prospectors—that's Company policy."

	"Then you'd better change your policy," Chen added, his eyes as hard as flint. "Or you're never going to see another shimmer stone."

	"Let me think this over," Erhenfeld said, lowering his head. He knew that if he made this deal he would be criticized by all the younger family members as well as those older ones who'd yet to make their mark. But what would his Uncle say? In his heart, he knew exactly what the Grand Senator Adrian Bronson would say if he let this deal slip between his fingers, no matter what the cost: You're a complete idiot, nephew!. Proof that your father's years in space permanently damaged his gametes. Maybe it's time to put you in charge of the borloi fields on Tanith.

	Erhenfeld shook his head and said, "Two and-a-half percent is too high. I might be able to talk the Board into one and-a-half and two hundred and twenty-five million CD credits."

	Edwin rolled his eyes. "What the Hell, let's compromise. Make it two percent—agreed?"

	"Yes," Erhenfeld answered, "Lets shake on it," holding out his hand.

	Chen stood up and took out his micro-recorder and identity vericator. "We've got a deal," he said.

	Edwin nodded and shook his hand. "I knew we'd come to an agreement. There's too much on the table for both of us."

	"Now, where are the shimmer stones located?"

	Chen shook his head. "Sign these papers, first." He pulled out a thick sheaf of papers and made quick notations as to the selling price and royalty percentage. "I've got my portable Iris-ID and Notary Seal."

	"Would you like refreshments, I can call my secretary?"

	They both declined.

	He took the packet and began to read every word. It took him almost an hour and he called his secretary in to record and witness the signing and verbal agreement. When every 't' had been crossed and 'i' dotted, he asked, "What planet are they from? And if you say Earth, I'll shoot you myself!"

	Hamilton, who was working at keeping a big grin off his face, said, "Haven."

	"Haven! We've got our own operation on that frozen iceball at Stafford's Camp. I can't believe it—somebody's ass is going to be in the wringer. I'm paying you two hundred and twenty-five million Cs because someone in the Company didn't do their job."

	"Oh, they would have found them eventually. My placer mine, by the way, is where the River Jordan meets the Miracle Mountains at a little hamlet the Harmonies call Purity. The coordinates are all in the document."

	Erhenfeld just shook his head. Then he looked up at Hamilton. "Remember, the most important part of the agreement is to keep their location secret. The one thing none of us wants is a shimmer stone rush on Haven."

	"It's between me and God's Ears!" Hamilton said. "Hell, it's in all of our best interests to keep that location quiet. I'm going to live in wealth and princely style off those royalties for the rest of my life. The last thing I want is to be the headliner in a media circus."

	"Good," Bronson said as he picked up the shimmer stones and began to get lost in them again.

	"Oh, sorry," Hamilton said, as he scooped them up. "Not part of the deal."

	Erhenfeld momentarily lost control and his face drooped in disappointment.

	"Oh, Niflheim. Here, keep the rose one."

	Erhenfeld was surprised at the wave of gratitude that washed over him. "Thank you, taxpayer! When I show this to the rest of the family, maybe they won't think I've lost all my marbles."

	They all laughed. No one louder than Edwin Hamilton, the former dreamer, con man, gambler and wastrel.

 

NOTHING IN COMMON
Leslie Fish

2044 A.D., Deep Space

	Jack Bronstein, wearing his bad-ass persona like a protective mantle, carefully made his way down the ship's narrow sour-smelling corridor and out into the Transportees Mess, looking for Louie Jablonski. The ship's spin gravity was less than .6 Gravities, but it was much higher than in the outer compartments. He had to be careful he didn't push too hard. Despite his time in the exercise room, his muscles felt flabby and loose. It would be worse when the shuttles dropped them down planetside.

	It took a little while to find Jablonski in the crowd lined up for the nozzles of the food dispensers, but sure enough, there he was, just settling into the small corner table. Bronstein hurried to sit beside him before the guards could notice. Jablonski, scowling even as he shoved the tasteless synthetics into his mouth, nodded recognition and kept on eating.

	Jablonski had a face like a slab of granite and a fringe of yellow hair streaked with gray around his head like a tonsure. They had met in the Mess recently and decided to pool resources. "What've you heard?" he muttered between one mouthful and another.

	"A good earful," Bronstein said quietly. "It cost me a half pint of genuine whiskey, but I got one of the guards to talk. The ship isn't Bureau of Correction; it's owned by Kennicott Metals."

	Jablonski paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth. "I knew that," was all he said.

	"We need to share more," Bronstein noted.

	Suddenly Jablonski went into spasms, dropping his spoon and splattering gunk all over the table. He began to beat on his leg with both fists, as if it were a slab of beef he was trying to tenderize. "Jesus H. Christ, Mother Humpin' Mary!" he sputtered as he continued to beat on the muscle of his upper left leg and thigh.

	"What's wrong?" Is the food poisoned?, he wondered.

	"No, it's my damn spine."

	"Let's get out of here!" Bronstein said, standing up. They were already attracting too much attention.

	Jablonski continued to beat on his leg as he limped out of the Mess. A few of the transportees stared in curiosity, but most were too busy slurping up the synthetic paste on their plates to pay attention to anything else. They had less than fifteen minutes to eat and that meant getting as much down as they could shove into their gullets.

	Jablonski weaved through the corridors as if he had a GPS implant in his head. He reached a crew section, usually off limits, and opened up a small door to a storage compartment. It was full of supplies and chemicals with barely enough room for the two of them to squeeze in. Get in.

	Bronstein followed him, watching as Jablonski removed a small cigarette-like rod from his orange transportee jumpsuit. He paused to look up and make sure the fan was on before lighting his contraband, all the while continuing to pound on his leg with his fists.

	He lit up and the room filled with the stench of wet jungle.

	"That's the worst stink weed I've ever smelled," Bronstein said.

	Jablonski sputtered and said, "It's not marijuana; it's borloi."

	Bronstein jumped up. "What are you trying to do? Get us both spaced." Borloi was the most addictive and dangerous drug known to man. It was what the U.S. government used to keep Citizens in the Welfare Islands sedated. A resin from a Tanith plant; it was not only addictive but illegal aboard a BuCorrect transport.

	Jablonski's leg began to stop trembling. "It's the only drug strong enough to cut through the pain in my leg. I've taken enough morphine and opiates to kill ten ordinary men and they barely touch it."

	"What the Hell is wrong with you?" Bronstein said, beginning to wish he'd never joined forces with the man.

	"I was organizing a union of diamond miners at the Kimberly Mines in South Africa. The Company hired a bunch of thugs from Johannesburg and there was a tussle." He paused to draw in another lungful of borloi. "What I got out of it was two broken knees and a spinal fracture from some ex-Chicago cop. We didn't get the best hospital treatment in Cape Town. They did okay with my artificial knees, but they didn't do a very good job on my spine. They tried to fix it back in the States, but the damage was already done. I didn't have the credits for a regen tank. Every once in a while, I get the sensation that someone has tossed a pot of boiling water onto my left thigh."

	Bronstein winced.

	"It feels like the real thing, don't doubt that. But I've learned to live with it.

	Sure, thought Bronstein, by smoking the most addictive drug in the universe. And what happens when the borloi runs out?

	"Where do you think this ship is heading?"

	"Tanith, of course. I wouldn't be here otherwise. Kennicott owns most of the mines on Tanith. When I got word they had an illegal transport spacin' out, I made sure I was on it.

	"How did you learn this news?" Bronstein asked.

	Jablonski set down his spoon. "I was a shop steward with the UMWA," he said.

	"I ... see," Bronstein said. Of course, the old American miners' union; they'd have good reason to know. But in this case they may have been purposely misled.

	"The scuttlebutt I heard, from one of the guards, was that Kennicott Metals got the go-ahead to dig for hafnium ore on a frozen hell-hole named Haven. Bet you anything that's where we're going."

	Jablonski reared back as if he'd been struck. "Christ on a crutch! You've got to be kiddin."'

	"That's the inside word."

	"Then I'm well and truly fucked."

	"If you're looking for borloi, then you're right." Bronstein, who'd read all the files his notebook computer held about the new colony worlds, struggled to remember Tanith. It was another hell-hole for convicts and transportees no one wanted. "Tanith's the only place in the known universe where borloi will grow."

	"How'd you hear that one?" Jablonski asked.

	He shrugged his shoulders.

	"Uh-huh." Jablonski eyed him keenly. "I know, you got a bug-out kit complete with notebook-comp; you're an organizer, too. Who were you with?"

	"An older bunch," Bronstein said carefully. "Don't know if you've ever heard of them, but they've got experience centuries long."

	Jablonski raised his eyebrows to his hairline. "Not the ILG?" he marveled.

	"Nope," Bronstein dropped the bomb. "IWW."

	Jablonski's eyes went very wide. "Jesus!" he whispered. "We thought you guys were all dead!"

	"We've been hearing that for a hundred years," Bronstein laughed, "But we keep wobbling along."

	"Uh-huh ... " said Jablonski, still staring.

	"Okay," Bronstein pushed on, "So what've you found out?"

	"Uh ... " Jablonski shook himself like a wet dog, then recovered. "Watchin' the deportees, all two hundred of 'em. They're from all over, but most of 'em speak English. A few of 'em were strikers swept up in the Chicago, like us. Others, were just jail-sweepings or nationals they wanted to deport."

	"I noticed. Asians, Arabs, Indians—The Hindu kind, I mean. Blacks, Latinos, whites: the usual U.S. of A. mongrel mix."

	"Uh-huh, and they're forming groups already." Jablonski grimaced, then began hitting his leg again, even harder. "It'll be a few minutes before the borloi takes hold."

	When he could talk again, he added, "First, there's the dames. A lot of 'em have kids with 'em. They organized fast, just for protection. They've got two leaders: the old American babe with the muscles and the Latino dame with all the blades hidden under her clothes."

	Bronstein frowned in thought. He'd seen something of the women's gang, from a safe distance. "Are you talking about the big black woman, who calls herself Big Mama; the one that's always telling people what to do?"

	"Nah." Jablonski shoved his bowl aside. "She's loud, but she's all mouth. She's only out for herself and her kids. Old Muscles and Blades take care of the others."

	"Good start. What about the men? Who else is organizing?"

	"More like just gathering," Jablonski shook his head. "Not the Arabs or the Hindu-boys. They're more inclined to whine at anybody above 'em and bully anyone below 'em. As of now, the Arabs are bullying on the Hindu-boys and keeping away from everybody else. Hmm, you seen that Arab guy, Hassan?"

	"Yeah. He likes to beat up on that little Hindu guy, Rajnamurti. I'd look out for him."

	"Got it. Now the Americans pretty much stick together. The Latinos hang together, but they mostly squabble over who's El Supremo."

	"I know," Bronstein muttered glumly. "I've seen a couple knife-fights between them. Two of them in my compartment died of cuts, and the guards were really pissed off."

	"We'll have to give 'em a better Top Dog, then. There's three Asian families-mama-san, papa-san and lots of kids—and they hold apart from the other bunches, but they stay away from each other, too. Beats the heck out of me."

	"Bet you anything, one's Chinese, one's Japanese, and one's Korean."

	"Oh, great. They won't talk to each other until they have to." Jablonski stopped smacking his leg. "That's better, borloi really does the job. So that's what we've got. How the hell do we organize a mob like this?"

	"It's been done," Bronstein smiled, interlacing his fingers and resting his chin on them. "Let me tell you a funny story.

	"Back at the end of the nineteenth century, when industry in the U.S. was revving up big-time, the bosses wanted lots and lots of cheap labor—with the emphasis on cheap. But where were they to get it? Slavery was done with, and god help anybody who tried to bring it back. They didn't want to hire all the freed blacks coming north to the cities, because working factory machines might give them Ideas Above Their Station."

	"Heard that before," Jablonski chuckled.

	"They didn't want to hire the Irish immigrants, because a lot of those had gotten land of their own under the Homesteading Act and weren't about to give it up for factory jobs. Besides, the Irish knew how to organize, and they'd done it before. Ever hear of the Molly Maguires?"

	"Oh yeah. Legendary."

	"They couldn't use the native-born whites because, in those days, ninety percent of them lived on farms, or at least had small businesses of their own out in the farming country. That meant that any young guy who came to the big city looking for money and adventure could always go home to the family farm or family business if he didn't like the wages. So who did that leave?"

	Jablonski only shrugged and waited.

	"So they sent out agents, mostly to Europe, some to Asia, telling tales about Come To America Where The Streets Are Paved With Gold, promising cheap or even free transport. They brought in millions, and I do mean millions, of immigrants—all speaking different languages, all stuck there with no way of going home, all faced with no choice but to work in the factories at whatever wages, whatever hours, whatever conditions the bosses wanted. Don't you know that story?"

	"My name's Jablonski, and yours is Bronstein. I know where those names came from."

	"Right. And do you think it's an accident that that's when the Labor Movement started?"

	Jablonski stared at him for a long moment. "You IWW guys really do have long memories, don'tcha?"

	"That's what they say." Bronstein gave him a toothy smile. "What worked then will work now. We start with a core of reliables who've got a common language. We show them how to make things better for themselves. When the others see the benefits, they'll bother to learn the language and come on in."

	"Uh, about making things better ... " Jablonski glanced around, automatically checking for listening ears. "It might be awhile before we're in any condition to make demands on the Company."

	"How do you mean?" Bronstein asked.

	"What do you know about this Haven place?"

	"It's cold and it's got a weird day-cycle. Thin air, too. I know that much. The place is supposed to be owned by a religious bunch, the Church of Universal Harmony or something like that. They're very big on Simplicity, and all that stuff. I can't see them renting out half their world to Kennicott Metals, not for any money. And there's the little fact that this is a Kennicott ship, not the damn Bureau of Correction."

	"So what are you saying?"

	"I think Kennicott greased a lot of palms and got land on Haven without the Harmonies agreeing. That's big-time illegal, if the Harmonies could complain to the right ears. My guess is that they can't, or don't know about this."

	Bronstein pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. "So ...  If there's trouble Kennicott can't handle, they don't dare go crying to the CoDo for help, or the whole thing blows up in a big political scandal. Nice to know!"

	"It also means their own troops can get away with anything that doesn't get told about off-planet." Jablonski gave an unlovely smile. "Did you bring any ...  tools?"

	Bronstein only nodded. "Not enough to protect a whole union local, though. I think this bit of organizing is going to have to take a ... well, more basic direction, at least, at first."

	"Well, think fast. I heard we land in four Terran-weeks. What should my people expect?"

	"According to my calculations," Bronstein answered, "it's spring—or what passes for it—on this iceball they call Haven. Tell your people to beg, borrow or steal any warm clothing, jackets, overcoats and anything else they can find. They're going to need them!"

2044 a.d., Haven

	The first chopper landed in front of the ballooned tents, and the guards unceremoniously shoved the deportees out the doors. Bronstein, who'd been expecting something like this, jumped before he could be pushed and landed evenly on his feet. Jablonski was shoved, fell to his hands and knees and came up cursing. Rajnamurti was pushed, fell, and stayed where he was, shivering. Hassan, next, fell on top of him.

	The light was dull orange, the ground was hard and the air was bitterly cold.

	Bronstein sighed, helped Jablonski up and led him to the others. "Come on," he said wearily, "Let's get them on their feet and out of the way."

	Jablonski swore further, but complied. They hauled their fallen fellow deportees away from the chopper and somewhat upright, then went back for the next lot. Most of the other deportees now saw how it was done, and managed to land on their feet. A few still fell.

	When the last of the deportees were clear of the chopper, the guards began tossing out their luggage with a nice lack of discrimination. Various deportees yelped in outrage, but Jablonski and Bronstein held them back until the helicopter emptied, closed its doors and departed. The two of them also kept the deportees moving in an orderly line toward the pile of luggage, let them pick out their bags in full view of the crowd and dragged them aside. The Euro-American gang caught on fast and hauled their luggage efficiently. There were no accusations of anyone taking the wrong bag. With the baggage sorted, the crowd looked about for a clue to their next step.

	Another chopper was coming in for a landing, and a guard was gesturing impatiently toward a large nearby tent. Bronstein sighed again, and wordlessly hauled his duffelbag toward it. First Jablonski, then the rest of the crowd, made haste to follow him. Bronstein hoped the tents included heaters. The air was thin and the wind was cold, very cold.

	The interior of the big tent was floored with sheet plastic, strung with half a dozen simple ceiling lights and centered with a 360-degree radiant heater, around which the rest of the crowd gratefully settled. Jablonski looked around until he found the doorway at the back of the tent, flaps open to reveal another, bigger, attached tent with a food-hopper and dispenser filling it. Bronstein also noted the row of porta-johns along a side wall near the front door.

	Jablonski purposefully walked to the food-dispenser door, and set down his luggage beside it. Bronstein smiled to himself, and dragged his luggage to the other side.

	"So, what happens next?" Jablonski ventured, publicly displaying the cautious politeness of one hard-ass encountering another.

	Bronstein was pleased with how this was playing out. They didn't want the other deportees to know they knew each other. "If Kennicott doesn't start us off making prefab housing, we organize a simple strike. That'll mean guarding the heater and the food-supply, and grabbing tools wherever we can get them."

	"My guess would be the smaller tent on the other side of this one. It has the lumpy look of a tool-shed."

	Just then the next batch of transportees stumbled into the big tent, dragging their gear. The sound of helicopter rotors sounded loud overhead. Bronstein waited until it stopped before he spoke again.

	"Anyway, if the Kennicott bosses have the sense to start us off building housing, we go along with it. We organize anyway, but slower—purely social contacts, and help each other build. We also start scouting for places to dig underground housing, stuff the bosses won't know about. We'll need, uh, tools for that."

	"Uh-huh," Jablonski nodded quickly. "And we damn-well study the food-dispenser so we can repair it, or unlock it ourselves."

	Bronstein looked about quickly, checking for prying eyes, before he pulled a satchel out of his duffelbag and slid next to Jablonski. "We also check out the local wildlife for anything edible," he almost whispered, opening the satchel where only Jablonski could see, revealing a small notebook computer. "We learn, and we teach, as fast as possible. This one's got a plutonium battery with a solar assist, but even that won't last forever."

	"Hide that sucker!" Jablonski whispered, appalled. "If anyone sees—"

	"I know damn-well what it's worth here," said Bronstein, shoving it back in the satchel. "Now let's start making ourselves known."

	Right then the guards rolled in a big flat cart carrying a couple hundred deep clay bowls and a big carton of plastic spoons. A distorted voice from the overhead loudspeakers told everyone within hearing to take one bowl and spoon apiece just as a third batch of transportees stumbled in.

	"I'll get ours," said Bronstein, shoving his satchel back into his duffel. He darted to the cart and picked up two bowls and spoons before anyone else could think to move. The moment he turned away from the cart, several other transportees started toward it. They weren't stupid, at least.

	He handed Jablonski a spoon and bowl, slipped back to his place on the other side of the doorway, and casually leaned on the wall. After a moment's thought, Jablonski did the same on his side. He also, Bronstein noted, pulled something fairly long and slender out of his own bag, then kept it concealed behind his leg.

	Soon enough, one of the other deportees came toward the food-dispenser, spotted its two unofficial guards, and hesitated. Bronstein nodded pleasantly to him, and Jablonski did likewise. The man, reassured and hungry, hurried to the Protocarb dispenser, shoved his bowl under the nozzle and pressed the obvious button. In a moment the nozzle filled the bowl with semi-liquid tan paste, which was comprised of the processed remains of local non-poisonous wildlife. The man took the bowl, grimaced at the contents, but hurried away.

	"We get to keep the bowls?" Bronstein asked.

	"Yeah," Jablonski considered. "An' we oughtta cache more when we can."

	"Could be useful," Bronstein agreed as the next deportee came up.

	This one, a pathetically scrawny Hindu, gave them both deep but fast bows before jabbing the button. After that, the rest of the deportees began forming a line. The line moved fast, smoothly and quietly, everybody taking their bowls and returning to the circle around the heater to eat.

	First custom established, Bronstein noted with approval.

	Then, sure enough, someone started trouble further down the line. It was none other than Hassan, shoving Rajnamurti aside as he pushed his way into the line ahead of him. Rajna promptly fell down and began to wail.

	Bronstein swapped looks with Jablonski, and both of them silently set off down the line. Everyone else stood perfectly still, keeping out of their way.

	They reached Hassan just as he was kicking Rajna and cursing loudly. He looked up at the last minute, in time to see only Bronstein. Hassan raised his hands and started howling something—in Arabic, unfortunately for him—while Jablonski grabbed him. Between the two of them, they picked up Hassan and threw him a good fifteen feet, well out of the line. Bronstein reached down to help Rajnamurti to his feet while Jablonski kept an eye on Hassan. Bronstein noticed the old woman with the muscles watching him with a calculating look.

	Hassan shifted into English and howled: "Racists! They're racists! See how they're oppressing me!"

	Jablonski gave a booming laugh, then answered. "Gee, I didn't know 'asshole' was a race."

	"You're not a race; you're a punk," Bronstein added.

	"Amen," growled Old Muscles, taking half a step forward.

	Surprised, Bronstein gave her a nod of acknowledgment.

	Hassan stepped back further and scanned the line, looking for sympathizers. Finding none, he went stomping off to the end of the line muttering imprecations that nobody bothered to translate. Bronstein looked Rajna up and down and asked: "Can you keep walking 'til you get fed?"

	Rajna nodded jerkily and shuffled forward to prove it. Bronstein and Jablonski turned and paced back up the line to their starting point. A woman was standing at the food machine, collecting her bowlful. She likewise nodded to the two of them and moved off, but not very fast.

	Judging that the time was right, Bronstein looked to Jablonski and asked him-just loudly enough that the next man in line could hear: "Why do you think Hassan picked on harmless little Rajna?"

	Jablonski favored him with an eloquent eyebrow. "Probably 'cause he was easy pickings."

	The man between them, tall and skinny and balding, keeping an eye on his filling bowl, cut in: "Don't you know? Muslims have been picking on Hindus for centuries. That's why Pakistan exists. When the Brits gave up India, they carved off Pakistan to give to the Muslims, hoping they'd leave the rest of India alone."

	Bronstein feigned surprise and asked: "How do you know?"

	The man shrugged. "I used to be a high school history teacher."

	Right on cue, Jablonski asked: "Well, damn, how'd you wind up here?"

	The man gave them a humorless smile. "I made the mistake of teaching real history, which wasn't Politically Correct. That's all it took."

	"Damn," Bronstein echoed respectfully.

	As the ex-teacher turned away with his full bowl, Jablonski flicked Bronstein a look that clearly meant: recruit that one. Bronstein nodded again, considering that between Jablonski, Old Muscles and History-Man, he had the beginnings of an organizing committee.

	The local Kennicott managers, as proven by the announcement that came blatting through the loudspeakers an hour later, had the sense to start with building the miners' prefab housing. They also rattled off the workday shifts, name by name.

	So far so good, Bronstein considered as he spooned up the last of his bowlful of tasteless food-paste. Easy to remember the time and their own names. But then the management—whoever the fool was who'd drawn this duty—went that one step further into stupidity, and began listing The Rules of Behavior. Seeing the looks of bewilderment and annoyance among the other deportees, Bronstein knew that none of them could memorize all that bureaucratic crap.

	This was the opening he'd been looking for.

	Bronstein flicked a look to Jablonski, set down his emptied bowl, got up and went to the door of the tent. The seal was stubborn, but he got it to work. It was cold as hell outside, and the light was dim and reddish, but he could easily pick out the camp's guard command-post—the only solid building around—and make his way toward it.

	On the way to the guard-shack he saw a small animal that somewhat resembled a possum waddling past. He recognized it as a "drillbit," and gave it a wide berth. Such creatures, he considered, might come in handy. He'd have to check his computer again and learn if the beasts were edible. For that matter, it was possible that every plant and animal on this world—edible or poisonous, dangerous or medicinal—could be useful. By then he reached the shack.

	Sure enough, a guard—Kennicott's, all right—stopped him at the door.

	"We need a copy of the rules in writing," Bronstein explained, carefully not being antagonistic, not yet. "Nobody can remember all that stuff."

	"You can't come in," the guard huffed, actually pulling himself up to his best height. "Orders."

	Smothering a chuckle, Bronstein pulled himself to attention and formally intoned: "May I Please Have That Order In Writing, Sir?"

	That made the guard blink, think, gruffly tell Bronstein to wait right there, and disappear into the doorway. The noise of a radio wafted out, telling of a .6% rise in Kennicott shares and an increase in lower-management stock-options. Bronstein dutifully waited, hoping to get a look at the interior of the HQ building. He had no luck there; after a few minutes the guard came out, blocking the doorway, and shoved a roll of plastifilm into Bronstein's hands. "That's the regs," he said shortly. "Everybody's gotta obey 'em."

	Of course, Bronstein thought, giving the guard no more than a brief nod. He turned back to the barracks-tent, already studying the close-printed pages.

	Jablonski casually stood guard and blocked sight while Bronstein fed the sheets, one by one, through the computer's scan-slot. "See anything interesting?" he asked quietly, tracking his vision around the tent and its occupants.

	"Haven't really had time to look at it, but there's bound to be something." Bronstein looked up. "Why? You notice something going on?"

	"Hassan's gonna be trouble," said Jablonski, not taking his eyes off the scene. "He's been goin' around looking for other Arabs and givin' 'em an earful of crap. I could only make out the word 'kufar', but that means 'infidel', so I can guess what he's up to."

	"How are the other Arabs responding?" Bronstein asked, pulling the scanned sheets out of the other side of the comp.

	"With no excitement," Jablonski smiled. "My guess is, they'd love to get rid of 'im before he jolly-jihads 'em into stickin' their necks out."

	"Uh huh." Bronstein turned off the comp and stuffed it back in his duffel. "You see any other knots forming?"

	"Yeah. Rajna went to huddle with other Hindu-boys, all of 'em lookin' as miserable as him. The women made their own camp, with Blades and Muscles takin' turns on sentry-duty; they got Mama Mouth posted at their border to sound off if anybody comes close. The black guys're still tryin' to get it together, and it looks like they've decided on English. The Latinos're collectin' around the heater, but they're still squabblin' among 'emselves. The Asian families're keepin' as far from each other as they can while sittin' along the same strip of wall."

	Bronstein peered at the clutch of oriental families, making some guesses. "They won't get together unless some bunch of non-Asians picks on all of them together." He sighed, arching his back until the joints creaked. "The women look likeliest, but where's History-Man?"

	"Over there with 'em, talking to Blades. I'll bet he offered 'is services as a teacher."

	"So much the better," Bronstein smiled. "Hold the fort awhile, will you? I've got to go do some organizing."

	"My turn next," Jablonski grinned after him.

	Bronstein approached the knot of women and children with the roll of plastifilm sheets held in front of him, clearly heading for History-Man, so that even Mama Mouth had no more to complain of than: "Whatchu want here, huh?" He noted that Blades—her jacket's hood pulled back to reveal her dark-brown hair that matched her eyes—only regarded him with a slit-eyed look and kept her hands in her pocket. Old Muscles, at the other side of the small crowd, watched expressionlessly and said nothing. He gave Blades a brief polite nod, caught History-Man's eye and held out the sheets to him. "Hey," he asked, "Can you make sense out of this?"

	History-Man bent over the sheets, studying them closely. "The rules of conduct for the lot of us," he announced. "Hmm, so ...  They're not setting a minimum workload yet, but you can bet that will follow. They're demanding eight hours, but allowing for overtime. The usual bans on fighting, getting drunk, using drugs, gambling, thieving— Hey, what's this? They don't want us 'wandering off the grounds', whatever the 'grounds' are. What's that supposed to mean?"

	Here it comes. Bronstein kept his expression solemn as he sat down close to the man, noting that Blades leaned closer to listen. "It means they don't want us heading out into the woods and finding out what's safe to eat," he said.

	Now, drop the bomb. "Lucky I got a list of the edible plants and animals before I got here. We don't have to experiment; we'll know."

	Then he sat back and waited for that information to do its work.

	"We won't be tied to the food-dispenser," Blades made the obvious conclusion. Her voice was scratchy, as if something had damaged her throat not long ago.

	"If we can get out from under the guards' eyes," History-Man added.

	"We could start planning distractions," Bronstein said neutrally. "How many friends have you got? And I don't think anyone expects the kids to work in the mines." He added just enough of a questioning tone to his voice to make them consider that possibility. "We just need to keep the guards busy while one or two of us at a time slip off  ... " He gave an eloquent shrug.

	By the time he got back to Jablonski there was a lightness to his step and a merry gleam in his eye that told the whole story.

	"So," Jablonski grinned, eyeing him, "We've got our organizin' committee."

	"And our first project," Bronstein smiled back. "It's downright lucky that the bosses put us on different shifts."

	"Hmmm. And didja notice," Jablonski ruminated, scratching his chin, "that the only way the bosses communicate with us is through the loudspeaker and the guards?"

	"They don't want to get their hands dirty," Bronstein shrugged. "Business as usual. So?"

	"Have ya seen any evidence that the managers are anywhere on this godforsaken moon?"

	"Come to think of it, I haven't. So where are they? On a circling satellite, or ship?"

	"More likely a ship, so they could cut out fast if the scandal broke. Point is, they're carefully givin' us no face ta know, no specific target ta hit. If we got rambunctious, the only real people we could hit would be the guards, and they're cheap foot-soldiers, easily replaced."

	"Do you think the guards know that?" Bronstein pondered.

	"If they did," Jablonski smiled, "It just might make 'em careful about how 	hard they push us."

	The first shift—Bronstein's—began with the rising of the distant sun, its thin blue light adding second shadows under the red light of Cat's Eye but doing nothing to reduce the cold. It was disconcerting, and the Hindus and the Arabs were already wilting. The guards had to prod them toward the tent where the tools and materials waited, while the radio in the guard-shack warbled about a decrease in debentures. Bronstein heard one of the Arabs howling in despair: "But which way is Mecca? Which way is Earth?" Nobody bothered to answer him, and Bronstein made another mental note.

	The housing, as the guards pointed out, was nothing but balloon-tents and plasticrete. The deportees were supposed to inflate a tent, smear it over with plasticrete, let the 'crete set, then deflate the balloon, add a thin plastic slab for a door—and voila, a house. Nothing was said about individual heating units, let alone anything else. Bronstein made more mental notes while the other deportees wailed, then grumbled, but worked. He also gauged the distance to the nearest forest and the bank of the wide river. The soil, as he'd guessed, was thick with clay. It would be possible to make bricks, someday when the guards weren't watching. It would also be possible to sneak away to the woods when darkness came.

	The work progressed, though there were the usual arguments. The first concerned just who would go up the rickety ladders to smear plasticrete on the roofs of the tents, an argument the Hindus lost on the grounds that they were the smallest and skinniest, therefore the lightest. The tent-roofs held, and the plasticrete was spread quickly. The next argument concerned breaks, which—as a couple of white guys pointed out—allowed fifteen minutes of rest for every two hours of work. The guards noisily disagreed, and the deportees did nothing overt to counteract them, but the work slowed down noticeably. Bronstein mentally reviewed the list of rules and calculated that White Mutiny would be an effective tactic here.

	The third argument concerned lunch, which the guards insisted would be brought to the working team by the off-shift personnel rather than allow the work-teams to go into the main tent. That one nearly caused a fight to break out. Bronstein solved it by leading a couple of interested burly guys quietly behind the guards, so that when one guard happened to look around he noticed that he was surrounded. Caught with the possibility of an all-out fight which they might possibly lose, the guards capitulated. Bronstein wondered if they'd already figured out that they were cannon-fodder.

	The working team marched triumphantly back into the main tent, some of them surreptitiously slapping Bronstein on the back and shoulders. The deportees in the tent, those that weren't sleeping, eyed the team thoughtfully—and Bronstein noted that Old Muscles was among them.

	He led the way back out of the tent exactly one hour after they'd marched in, knowing it wasn't wise to push one's luck too soon. The others in the shift followed him with no words spoken.

	The rest of the day's work went smoothly and well, two hours on, fifteen minutes off, two hours on, then set down tools and head back to the main tent. The guards didn't try to interfere; they could count hours as well as the work-shift could, and besides, there were now four shelters half-finished. Bronstein did the calculations as he went to waken Jablonski: four shelters per shift, three shifts per day, 120 houses in ten days. Would the Kennicott bosses have the sense to wait that long before sending the workers out to dig in the mines?

	"Old Muscles wants to talk to you," Jablonski said quietly as he slouched past Bronstein's campsite. "She kept watch, by the way, while I was asleep."

	"Right," said Bronstein, getting up. Obliging a debt was one way to encourage an alliance. And yes, there was Blades, casually keeping an eye on their gear. Good. He paced over to the women's campsite, observing that History-Man was camped, asleep, nearby. Ah, very good.

	The muscular old woman waited for Bronstein to sit down before speaking. "How's it going out there?" was all she said, though implying much.

	"The houses are plasticrete huts," he said without preamble, "But at this rate we'll turn out a dozen a day. We can get away to the woods with only a little guard-distraction. Hmm, we'll also need some sort of toilets and baths pretty soon, but there's been no word about them yet."

	"I noticed some of the guards pumping out the porta-johns." She smiled sourly. "I suspect the Kennicott boys don't expect us to ask for anything else."

	"Starting tomorrow," Bronstein dared, "The awake off-shift has got to start digging slit-trenches, at least. And we've got to make plans for a wash house. If we start it on our own, Kennicott might have the sense to pick up the idea and run with it."

	"And if not?" Muscles cocked her head at him.

	"Then we finish the job ourselves."

	"And if the Kenny guards complain?"

	"We dump them head-first into the trenches," Bronstein smiled. "But I suspect they'll have better sense."

	The old woman nodded slowly, studying him. "How many have you got organized already?" she asked.

	Bronstein lifted an appreciative eyebrow. "About half of the first shift, sort of. Plus Jablonski and you and History-Man, I think."

	"That means also Lucinda and Yolanda ... " She jerked a thumb toward Blades and Mama Mouth, now sleeping. "And we can swing the rest of the women. Nothing succeeds like success, so once we start making life easier, most of the men will come along. Not all of them, though."

	"No," Bronstein agreed, running his gaze along the knots of clustered Arabs and Latinos. "We'll have to take precautions. Have the women had any trouble?"

	"There was some on the ship, but I—-and then Lucinda—put an end to it. That's when we started organizing."

	"Uh huh," Bronstein grinned, making a good guess. "Who were you with, back on Earth?"

	"The ILGWU," Muscles said proudly. "Oldest continuing union in the world or worlds."

	"There's one older," Bronstein smiled.

	Muscles did a double-take. "Sheesh," she almost whispered, "We thought you guys were all dead!"

	"We hear that a lot."

	"Okay. So, how do we organize our shift when we get on?"

	Bronstein quietly outlined everything he'd done with his shift, adding some suggestions.

	Within five days they had it down to a science. Without any specific words said or contract made, the guards understood that each shift would work two hours on, then fifteen minutes off, two more hours, then an hour for lunch, two more hours and another fifteen-minute break, two more hours and then back to the main tent. During this time, each shift would reliably put up four sturdy shelters. If this schedule meant that each shift was actually putting in nine and a half hours per day, that didn't much matter given Haven's peculiar calendar.

	It was also understood that the deportees would, during their off-shift, borrow tools to dig latrines and put up a wash house. They would also go "off the grounds" into the forest to gather wood to heat the wash fires. Between them, the organized deportees found enough tools to cut wood, build washtubs, dig fire-pits, dig drains and put up privacy walls. They also came up with enough kettles to heat water.

	The guards left the whole construction alone, and what the Kennicott managers thought they didn't express; the company was indeed keeping a low and faceless profile. The guard-shack radio spoke only of Kennicott thwarting an attempted takeover of a subsidiary by Huang Manufacturing.

	Meanwhile, the lines between the organized and the non-organized began to show. All the Asians and half the Latinos had unofficially allied with Bronstein's as-yet-unnamed group. The other half of the Latinos and almost all the Arabs remained separate, and didn't ally with each other, either.

	Bronstein had managed to print out a hard copy description of the edible plants of Haven, and while the guards kept watch on the work-shifts, the women and children managed to "wander off the grounds," get into the woods and hunt for food. They also managed to make wooden spears to keep the land gators away, but the beasts didn't show themselves.

	So far, nobody occupied the finished huts; they had no heating units, no electricity and no water. There were growing questions and grumbles over when that would change. There were also the first questions about wages.

	At that point one of the non-organized Latino guys came swaggering over and yelled at the lot of them: "You think you such hot shit, eh? You go makin' a union here, maricons? Hey, who make the strike that get us all deported, eh?" He spat at the heater. "That for damn youn-yuns!"

	Bronstein had been planning his answer for months; he laughed good and hard. "Yeah, sure," he barked back. "It was the union that called the cops and got us hauled away, huh? It was the union cut wages and bennies to what we couldn't live on, right? Hey, fool: if it wasn't for the union, those cops wouldn't have rounded us up to deport; they would have shot us outright! You think it hasn't been done before? You think the rich don't kill the poor when it suits them?"

	"And what stands between the bosses and us?" Muscles added. "You think it's the law? You damn fool, the bosses buy the law, all the time. The only power we've got is numbers, and how do you think we use that? We organize!"

	The Latino guy started to turn, opened his mouth, then shut it again. He did that a few times, then swore in Spanish and walked away. The rest of the crowd laughed quietly, a knowing ugly laugh, and then went back to planning.

	Old Muscles borrowed the use of a shovel and pickaxe, and disappeared into the forest for long periods of time. When she returned at shift-end she didn't say where she'd been, and Bronstein didn't push her for explanations.

	At the end of the last shift on the fifth day, the organized deportees politely refused to go to their assigned work, claiming it was the weekend and they had other things to do. The guards had the sense not to confront the laborers openly, but went into their shack and called Management for guidance—briefly cutting off a radio report about reduced interest on reserve financing.

	Apparently the Kennicott bosses had the sense to stick to a standard work week, for the guards did nothing further. The organized deportees took the carefully measured two days to finish the wash house. They also went off to the forest, on the excuse of gathering firewood, and came back with edible plants more often than wood. Blades quietly planted some of the gathered plants in a patch just inside the forest's edge, marked off with a fence of sticks. A few deportees went down to the river and experimented with fishhooks, nets and fish-traps.

	Bronstein quietly hunted among the deportees until he found a Latino woman who'd been a chemist before the sweep. He quietly gave her a copy of the medicinal plants printout and recommended that she start hunting for antiseptic, antibiotic and—especially pain-killing chemicals that could be made from the local wildlife.

	The guards did nothing but watch idly and listen to the radio, which in between bursts of static warbled about management retirement bonuses and a 1% tariff reduction.

	The non-organized deportees scattered and wandered, some inspecting the finished huts, some hanging around the heater in the main tent, some exploring up and down the riverbank. A few of them got into fights, and were trounced by the guards. A few wandered into the forest and failed to re-appear. One of them, who had a reputation for bothering the women, was found behind a hut with his throat raggedly slashed, about which no one knew anything. The guards soon gave up asking questions, and hauled the body away. What became of it nobody knew for certain, but the rumor spread that it had been hauled off into the forest to feed the land gators.

	The only problem came near the end of the weekend, when one of the guards tried to get one of the women alone as she was coming back from the wash house. Bronstein, making his unofficial sentry-rounds, saw the fool trying to push the woman into the gap between the main tent and the tool shed. He also saw that the woman was standing her ground and smiling evilly. He further saw that she was Blades, and she was reaching for something under her coat.

	Oh hell, not yet! He thought, hurrying toward them. We can't kill any of the guards, let the bosses know we're dangerous, not yet— "Hey, you!" he bellowed, running toward them. "Let her alone!"

	And damned if both of them didn't turn to him with looks of guilty disappointment.

	The guard started to take a bullying pose and bellow something about minding his own business, but Bronstein didn't slow down. He pushed the guard aside, grabbed Blades and forcefully shoved her back out of the gap. "Not yet!" was all he had time to whisper in her ear.

	At that point the fool guard charged at him—or started to. Bronstein only dropped low and stepped back, and the idiot fell right over him. All Bronstein had to do was stand up quickly, and the guard went tumbling into the dirt, head first, neatly knocking himself out.

	"Scram!" Bronstein snapped at Blades. "Don't you understand? We can't kill any of them yet! We can't afford to tip our hand."

	Surprised, Blades condescended to walk along beside him. "What we gonna do 'bout that creep, then?" she asked.

	"If he's too stupid to take the hint, we'll arrange an accident for him—maybe stun him hard and drag him out in the woods for the land gators or stobors to find—but that will take planning." Bronstein paused for breath; the action had taken a surprising amount of energy.

	"So meanwhile, what?" Lucinda-of-the-Blades asked. "I just let that craphead do what he likes?"

	"Hell, no. Just don't go anywhere alone. He may be an idiot, but he'll have more sense than to try that merde in front of witnesses."

	"Bastard," she muttered. "Company man."

	"Target-man," Bronstein corrected. "Cannon-fodder. We concentrate our outrage on him, and when he's gone our will-to-resist suffers. The real power stays carefully faceless. See?"

	Lucinda nodded slowly, a look of enlightenment spreading over her face. "Smart dog test," she muttered.

	"Dog?"

	"You want to know how smart a dog is, have a man beat it with a stick. Stupid dog bites the stick. Smart dog bites the man behind the stick."

	"You got it," Bronstein smiled. "Now let's go back to looking harmless."

	With the exception of the stupid guard—who somehow managed to disappear in the forest—the pattern repeated over the next six weeks, by which time there were several small gardens at the edge of the forest, the wash house was in round-the-clock operation, and over three hundred huts had been built. It appeared the Company was building additional units in advance for the next shipload of transportees.

	At the beginning of first shift on the day after the last weekend, a small delegation of the workers went to the guard shack and asked the guards to forward a question to Management, namely: when would the huts be provided with heating units, wiring and plumbing?

	The guards pondered that while the radio spoke in awed tones about Kennicott lobbyists persuading the CoDominium to redirect BuReloc shipments to worlds with successful mining colonies.

	At the next change of shift the miners got their answer, this time over the loudspeaker in the main tent. The loud and distorted voice announced that in two days another ship was due, and this one would bring a cargo of heating units and industrial equipment. After the cargo was unloaded, the work-teams would put together the camp's power-plant.

	"They didn't say anything 'bout plumbing," Jablonski commented as soon as the announcement ended.

	"We shouldna built the wash house an' the latrines," Mama Mouth opined, loudly. "Now we done it, they figure they don' have to."

	"And where would we have washed, and crapped, this last month?" Blades growled.

	"We can get wash water out of the river, but if we're tied to the food-dispenser for drinking-water ... " Bronstein let the sentence trail off, and let his organizing committee think about the implications.

	"There are ways to purify the river water," History-Man commented quietly. "You can do it with charcoal, fresh from the fire, or just distill it. The problem will be doing that in large volumes, without the company finding out."

	"There's a stream in the forest that runs into the river," Muscles volunteered. "We can set up our purification plant there, and the company won't know."

	Bronstein smiled and pulled out his latest gem of information, a close satellite-map of the river, the settlement and its immediate surroundings. "Can you mark where it is on this?" he asked, handing it to Muscles.

	She peered at the map, nodded once, pulled a small piece of charcoal out of a pocket and marked the spot. "We'll need to start making decent pens and ink soon," she muttered.

	"Won't do much good until we can make paper," History-man noted. "For now, we can make do with clay tablets and carved sticks."

	"What I'm wondering," Bronstein pondered, "Is when they want us to start digging the mines? They've got the machinery in that big tent down at the end of the row. They've got their labor-force and more than sufficient housing. So, when do they start?"

	"After that next shipment comes in, I'll bet," said Jablonski, peering over Muscles' shoulder to see where the hidden stream was supposed to be.

	Two days later the ship did indeed arrive, and many questions were answered, while the guard shack radio wailed about upheavals in the options market.

	Yes, there was a cargo of small heating units and some industrial machinery. There were no plumbing supplies nor any machinery for making the same. There was a lot of mining equipment. The deportees got a good look at everything, since they were the ones who unloaded it. There was a large meeting around the main tent heater that night, with everyone non-organized politely but firmly excluded.

	"We deal with the water ourselves," said Muscles, carefully not saying anything specific. "Next problem is ... making the tools to make the goods. Anybody got an idea on that?"

	It was Rajna, of all people, who raised his hand and answered. "Fire that cooks clay pots can ... cook metal," he managed in pretty fair English. "I was potter once. I know to build that kind fire."

	"All right!" Blades enthused. "Come the weekend, we'll help you do that."

	Rajna pulled his hand down, looking absurdly pleased.

	"What about 'lectric power?" Mama Yolanda the Mouth grumbled. "When we gonna get that? And how?"

	"We build the power station like they want us to," answered Jablonski. "Then we string wires to our own houses."

	"What if the company won't give us wire, or boxes, or tools?" Muscles noted.

	"We make the tools ourselves," History-Man answered. "There's metal ore in these rocks, if anyone knows how to identify it."

	"I do," piped up one of the white miners. "But what do we do for coal?"

	"Charcoal will do, if you get it hot enough," History-Man went on, "And we can get it hot with a blacksmith's bellows. I know how to make that."

	"Metal ... " Bronstein noted, thinking of other possibilities.

	"And just when and how," Muscles thought to ask, "Do we get assigned the houses we've made?"

	Of course nobody had an answer for that, but it set everyone thinking.

	Within a week the power-plant was up and running. The next day a small delegation from the first shift asked the guards to ask the management about assignment of houses. The answer came by loudspeaker announcement at second shift change; the huts were allotted much as job-shifts had been, and not everybody was happy, particularly women with children. Mama Mouth put it succinctly: "How'm I gonna raise three kids in a one-room hut, I ask you?"

	The loudspeaker went on to announce that next morning—such as mornings were on Haven—the shift teams would proceed to the pit-head where the machinery was assembled, and the actual mining would begin. Nothing was said about electric power or plumbing or making more huts.

	The guard-shack news radio chirped happily about another .3% rise in shares.

	The organizing committee made plans.

	Next day the guards led Bronstein's team down the short tractor-made road to the low hill beyond the miners' housing, assigned half of them to continue building huts and the rest to come help with the big machinery. Already the computerized digging machines were at work scraping off the topsoil and piling it to one side, and everyone could see the dull red clay beneath. Someone made a comment about that being where the food-bowls had come from, and nobody contradicted him. One of the guards pointed to a jumble of equipment and managed to explain that the miners were supposed to assemble it into a long slanting trough that led into one of the big immobile machines.

	"Ore refinery," Bronstein explained to the men on either side of him. "Once they dig down to the rock, they'll shovel it in here. We make sure it all goes into that big hatch there. The machine sorts out the hafnium ore and spits out the rest."

	Sure enough, once the trough linked together, the guards went down the line handing out shovels. A few minutes later the first load of raw ore was dumped into the trough's top. The miners sighed understanding and began shoveling it down the trough to the refinery's maw.

	It took less than a quarter hour of shoveling for one of the Latino dudes to ask: "Ore-digger runs itself. Refinery runs itself. All computer-run. Why couldn't they have a machine do this? A ... belt? Assembly line? That will leave most of us free to make more houses. So why not?"

	"Electric power costs more than our sweat does," Bronstein replied. "The machines can do big jobs, specific jobs, but we can do the small odd stuff. It isn't 'cost effective' to make machines for that."

	Nobody spoke again for another hour. By the time they broke for lunch, the refining mill had dumped a load of refined hafnium into one of the specialized trucks and had piled up a sizable hill of discarded stone powder at its other side.

	"That gonna grow," one of the black miners said, gesturing at the hill.

	"If Kennicott can't think of something to do with it," Bronstein commented, "Maybe we can." He reminded himself to ask History-Man if his cronies could identify metal ore in that powder heap.

	At the end of the shift the guards collected the shovels, and ostentatiously counted them before handing them over to the next team.

	Dinner, as always, was held in the main tent. Bronstein's bunch gathered around the heater to eat, and the quiet grumbles started.

	"They're tightening up on letting us use the hand tools," Blades growled. "They don't want any shovels going missing—or anything else."

	"And we're lucky if we make four huts a day: usually just three," grumbled one of the Brits. "We're bloody well not going to 'ave enough huts for the next lot of us, not 'til the end of summer."

	"We not get plumbing or power, just huts. Yes?" mourned Rajna. "Was better back in Detroit."

	"Ain't got room to raise kids right," growled Mama Yolanda. "We gotta do better than this."

	"We won't get it from Kennicott," Bronstein commented quietly. "The Company wants us dependent on them for food, water, everything."

	"We can get our own food, at least," Blades grinned evilly, displaying a ripe clownfruit. Nobody asked her to share it.

	"And just when do we get paid?" History-Man asked. "And in what coin?"

	"Another week," one of the black guys offered, "And in company creds. Guard told me."

	"Will there be a company store, then?" Bronstein asked innocently, already knowing the answer.

	"Oh yeah," the black guy grimaced, setting down his bowl. "And there won't be much in it. Guard told me that, too. Blankets, clothes ...  No food."

	"Any tools?" Bronstein asked. "Anything metal?"

	There was silence as the other miners looked at each other.

	Old Muscles crouched close and tapped Bronstein on the shoulder. "First shift of weekend," she almost whispered, "Come with me. I'll have something to show you."

	Bronstein only nodded, making some good guesses. He looked around at the other cliques gathered outside his circle, wishing Jablonski were here, though he'd seen the man go out with the second shift. The non-organized weren't united, stuck to their own little circles—and yes, there was Hassan trying to harangue the other Arabs again—but there were enough of them to be effective scabs when it came to that. And of course Kennicott Metals could arrange for the next shipload of deportees to land here.

	We'll need complete independence before we make a move, Bronstein sighed to himself. That would take time and work, and he didn't know how long his budding union could stick to the plan. He'd have to tell them, show them, something that would give them hope. With luck, Muscles could supply that.

	The weak point was metal: metal to make tools of their own. Whatever the deportees had brought with them was limited, and would eventually wear out. There was likewise a limit to what they could quietly liberate from the company's tool-sheds. Between History-Man and the educated cronies he'd picked up the miners could make their own smelter and forge, no matter how small, but they'd have to start soon. That would mean sneaking away from under the eyes of the guards, not just working on the weekends. The timing on this would be tight, and nothing must warn the guards—and thus management—beforehand.

	As promised, Muscles came tapping on the thin plastic door of Bronstein's hut early on the first day of the weekend. He yawned hugely, pulled on his boots, turned off the heater and went outside to see what she wanted. The older woman grinned silently, jerked an indicative thumb toward the guard shack where none of the guards appeared outside, then led Bronstein around the huts and into the forest. Once they were behind the screen of trees and brush, she turned northward and marched parallel to the riverbank.

	"There's an outcropping up here that juts almost into the river," she explained. "It's close enough, and made from the wrong kind of stone for the company to look at." She led him through the trees to where the ground turned stony and began to rise. "Yeah, just here. Look."

	Bronstein looked carefully, and saw a tangle of dead brush leaning against the side of the slope. Muscles slipped past him and pulled the brush aside. Behind it, he saw, was a hole big enough to walk into: the mouth of a tunnel.

	"You did this all yourself?" Bronstein marveled, as he peered into the cave.

	He'd known the old woman was as strong as an ox, but this was a bit much.

	"Nah, got help," she chuckled, leading him into the dark passage. "The older kids, some of the women, a few of our guys who could be trusted to keep their mouths shut. Turn left here, around this edge; keep going straight and you'll fall into a deep hole."

	"What did you do with everything you dug out?" he wondered, following her carefully.

	"Threw the tailings in the river. Nobody saw a thing. Hold on a minute ... " A click of a lighter, a brief flare of sparks, and there was light. It came from a small flame dancing at the end of a handmade wick, sunk in a classic clay lamp. "Raj was right about sufficiently heated fires baking clay," she said. "And some of the local plants are full of burnable oil. Doesn't even smell bad."

	"Oh, nice! Very nice," Bronstein happily gave credit where it was due. "How big is this cave?"

	"Not enough to house the lot of us yet," Muscles frowned, "But give us another few weeks. This is soft sandstone and claystone. Chisels cut and hammered from common bar stock can chip into it."

	"Uh huh," murmured Bronstein, impressed. He followed her into a rounded chamber big enough to seat maybe a hundred people. One of the small hut-sized heaters sat in the center. In niches chipped around the perimeter sat more of the clay lamps. "What do you do for ventilation?"

	The old woman pointed to a shadowed rough-carved archway. "That leads out on the other side. The winds around here are steady enough to keep the air moving. We're under enough rock that the outside temperature doesn't get to us. Oh, by the way, we've got the water-purifier set up. It puts out only a couple gallons an hour, but it's all drinkable and all ours."

	"Beautiful," he said, meaning it, and sat down on the floor near the heater. "How long, do you think, before you'll have enough space to fit the whole gang in here?"

	"Give me two Terran months," she smiled toothily. "Now, when are you gonna tell the rest of the bunch that what we've got here is a union?"

	"When we've got enough resources to pull off a strike, and win." His expression hardened. "We'll need more than safe sleeping-space; we'll need stockpiled food, tools, any medicine we can get, heaters, fuel—"

	"Those heaters won't last forever," Muscles frowned. "We'll have to dig fire-pits and stockpile wood ...  Hmm, and I'll have to study the ventilation a little more, too."

	Bronstein frowned deeper, and stared at the heater. "I'm wondering how far down we're going to slide," he said quietly. "We can't lose metal-working! Metal is the key here. We've got to get the forge going before we show our hands at all—"

	"Hey, History-Man and Jablonski are working on that," she soothed. "And Lucinda's out scouting for food-plants every chance she can get. She's got gardening started, and the other women are collecting fibrous plants, and some of those Hindu-boys know about hand-spinning ... "

	"Yeah, I know." Bronstein pulled a deep breath and deliberately calmed himself. "Back when we first knew the gov was going to go after the unions, we made a point of giving everybody those notebooks, and crash courses on organizing. When they came for me, I was ready. Problem was, we didn't know which world we'd be shipped to, and there was only so much we could take with us."

	"Tell me about it," Muscles grimaced. "I got a mini-medical kit suitable for Comstock. I suppose a lot of the stuff is useful here, but ... "

	"Right." Bronstein rubbed his forehead. "We'll have to get applicable medic supplies, too." Jablonski's spinal injury ...  "Let me think about that."

	Muscles raised her head, listening. "Well, think about it somewhere else," she said. "The work-crew's coming in, and we'll be doing a lot of digging today."

	Bronstein laughed shortly and pulled himself to his feet, hearing approaching footsteps. "Yeah," he agreed. "I've got to catch up to Jablonski and History-Man."

	"Talk to the Chinese family, too. They've got some skills they're keeping close, but their hearts are in the right place."

	"Skills," Bronstein muttered, heading for the doorway. "Skilled trades. That's our real edge."

	"By the way," the old woman grinned, "My name is Marian."

	"Oh." Bronstein paused in the tunnel. "Uh, mine's Jack." It was odd that he hadn't thought of that since he was first shoved onto the ship. He hadn't thought of himself as anything but a deportee and an organizer—with a single task and a single name.

	Trouble started on the next working day's second shift. Bronstein was leading his team back to the main tent when he saw a bunch of, yes, Arabs mobbing the guard-shack and the guards puffing themselves up, fingering their stunners. Near the front of the mob—not in the very front rank, no, but just behind a shield of his cohorts—stood Hassan, yelling loudly in Arabic.

	Bronstein led his contingent quickly back into the tent and met Jablonski coming out. A fast question revealed that, yes, one of Jablonski's team understood Arabic. They grabbed the man and hustled him toward the mob scene.

	"Quick," Bronstein hissed in the bewildered man's ear, "What's he saying?" "He's saying they won't work until—" He blushed visibly in the low light.

	"Until they know which way Mecca is. They can't pray properly without knowing which way to pray to."

	"Oh, hell," muttered Bronstein, shoving the man forward. "Tell them Mecca's on Earth, and Earth is ...  in the direction of Byers' Star—Haven's sun, that damn bright thing there. Say it good and loud, so everybody hears."

	Jablonski's man gulped, then did as he was bid. Some of the mob looked around, puzzled, beginning to lose steam and concentration. Bronstein urged him to repeat the message, louder. Meanwhile Jablonski quietly slipped around the crowd to the guard-shack and explained things to the nearest of the Kennicott men, who looked first amazed, then relieved. In a moment the guards were bawling: "That way! That way!" pointing toward the distant sun.

	In another few minutes the mob eroded away. Hassan, scowling in disgust, went with the last of them. Bronstein paced beside Jablonski as the second-shift team made its way to the ore-trough, making some effort to keep out of Hassan's sight.

	"That was close," Bronstein whispered. "We can't let the Kenny-boys think anything's wrong until we're ... positioned."

	"Hassan's gonna be trouble," Jablonski murmured back. "He wants to be the big frog, and this is his way of goin' about it. Uh, do you think we should—take him out?"

	Bronstein thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No, that'll set off whoever he's got in his camp. We just keep preventing his little schemes while working all-out on our own."

	"Won't be easy."

	"We'll have to manage."

	"You know, he'll have to be taken out eventually or he'll get us all screwed."

	"Let the Kenny-guards do it." Bronstein thought for a moment. "In fact, it might be a good idea to give them his name."

	"That I can do—or get done."

	"Good." Bronstein peeled out from the team and headed for the latrines. As soon as the guards had moved on with the team, he came out and headed back into the main tent. He had some things to tell the rest of the organizing committee.

	When he came in, he noticed that another dozen of the Latinos were now sitting quietly among his allies near the central heater.

	Word spreads fast, he smiled to himself as he went to the food-dispenser.

	Payday came early, at the end of the week, and it was definitely in Kennicott company credit-chits. Likewise, the company store opened early—and yes, the goods inside were all clothes, shoes and blankets. It sold no electronics whatever. There was nothing in it made of metal.

	The guard-shack radio warbled about Kennicott leveraging the buyout of Krasnowic Tools.

	Next weekend History-man and his cronies got the smelter started. It was a tiny affair, a small fire-pit out in the forest, lined with tailings from the refinery, using some of the bowls for ladles, but the charcoal worked and History-Man's bellows worked, and by the end of the day they had two pounds of crude iron. Rajna came up, grinning to split his face, holding a ceramic mold shaped for chisels. Jablonski and one of the other workers, formerly a machinist, managed to turn the ladle, using tongs made of a rock-hard local wood, and poured the molten contents into the mold without spilling too much.

	"This," Lucinda announced, "Calls for a celebration." With that, she brought out, lit and handed around a clay pipe. Bronstein recognized the smell of the smoke before the pipe reached him, and only looked questioningly at her.

	"My first crop," she grinned. "I brought an envelope of seeds with me, and they grow pretty well here. The light from Cat's Eye seems to be enough."

	Marian caught Bronstein's thoughtful look. "Hemp's a valuable plant," she reminded him. "Gives food, oil, fiber, light wood, and a harmless high. It's a damn-sight safer than a lot of the local plants."

	"Got another one for ya," Jablonski smiled through a puff of the odorous smoke. "I heard that farmers way off downriver are growing grain, and made a deal to ship some up here—for the bosses, of course; synthetic food's good enough for the likes of us—but I figure a sack or two might just fall off the boat."

	"Grain?" Bronstein puzzled. "I don't see us raising a lot of it soon  ... "

	Jablonski laughed and passed the pipe along. "Not for planting, man; for sprouting."

	" ... And then what?" Bronstein puzzled.

	"Then ya mash it up in water, and ferment it. Know what that makes? Ale! We've got no hops to turn it into beer, but it's a start."

	Bronstein thought about that, then laughed and reached for the pipe. As he inhaled he wondered which of the local fungi would ferment grain-mash into edible alcohol, and decided it was time to check into his notebook computer again.

	Come to think of it, he should find a better hiding place for the computer, too.

	Just a week later, Hassan and his crew tried again. Bronstein's team was coming in at shift's end when they heard—then saw—the mob crowding around the guard shack. There seemed to be fewer of them this time, but they were fiercer and noisier. Bronstein's team marched past them without pause, hardly sparing them a look, which seemed to infuriate them further. Bronstein kept a covert eye on the mob all the way back to the main tent, where he saw Jablonski and his Arab translator lounging at the doorway.

	"They're bitching about the food," Jablonski said quietly as Bronstein stepped out of the incoming line to hear him. "Sayeed here says they're calling it 'unclean', something about pork in it."

	"He's dreaming," Bronstein snorted. "Nobody would ship anything as valuable as real meat all the way out here, not for us. Bet you gold to Kenny-creds, Hassan ate synthetic food back on Earth. What's his real complaint?"

	"Just flexing his political muscle." Jablonski smiled sourly. "And he's being stupid about it: acting as if there were media-cameras rolling, ready to spread his sob-story all over the news. He doesn't seem to realize that nobody's watching."

	"It probably worked for him back on Earth." Bronstein flicked another discreet glance at the howling crowd. "He doesn't seem to realize that this bunch here is all the sympathizers he's got. I take it the bosses know his face and name by now ... ?"

	"Oh yeah," Jablonski snickered. "Another stunt like this, and they'll have 'im."

	"Just make sure everybody else stays visibly separate from his bunch. We've got to keep looking neat and sweet for awhile."

	"No sweat. And speaking of which, my shift's rolling out now. Catch you later."

	Bronstein nodded and went into the tent, carefully sidestepping the men on their way out, and went looking for Marian Muscles and History-Man.

	Not until the end of second shift did he hear the rest of the story.

	Jablonski knocked briefly on the plastic door of Bronstein's hut and then pushed his way in. "The Kenny-cops busted Hassan's rally," he said without preamble. "Waited until we'd all gone down to the ore-trough or building huts, then waded into the crowd with stun-clubs. A chopper came out and hauled the bodies away to the brig, a brick building, somewhere downriver—where they'll probably be stuck for the next week. Bad news is, Hassan got away. He could be anywhere in walking distance now."

	"He'll have to sneak into the main tent sometime," Bronstein calculated. "He doesn't know what's edible out in the woods—never bothered to ask—and 'unclean' or no, the dispenser's the only food-source he's got."

	"And once he shows his face in there, somebody will spot him and turn him in for the reward. He'll be out of the picture for a week at least."

	"I wouldn't sell his sneakiness short," Bronstein reconsidered. "There's another way he can get food without showing himself."

	"Which is?"

	"Rob the huts while the people are out at work. He's got to have noticed that our people have food they keep there."

	"Ah hell, we'll have to post our own guards."

	"Wouldn't be a bad idea generally."

	"But who the hell can we spare from the real jobs?  ... The kids, maybe? Lemme think  ... "

	"Well, I've got to get some rest."

	Bronstein got up, leaving Jablonski still pondering, glanced automatically around the main tent to check on who was still there, then went out.

	The radio in the guard shack was pontificating about comparative risk-factors and interest-rates of proposed pension-fund investment plans.

	The chill wind caught Bronstein with a brief gust, making him shiver. He'd grown used to Haven's ever-shifting interplay of orange and blue light, but he didn't think he'd ever get used to the cold. The only way to keep warm was to wear layers and layers of clothing or else hang around the heating-units, and those wouldn't last forever. He'd spread the custom of turning off the heaters while people were out of their huts so as to save their batteries, but that made for a cold homecoming and would only put off the inevitable. The miners would need fireplaces, and that meant firewood, which meant a sawmill of some sort.

	That was when he came up to his hut's door and noticed that something had changed.

	He stopped for a moment, trying to think what the difference was. Something about the plastic-slab door, some detail ... It didn't fit the frame exactly the way he'd left it. Very cautiously, Bronstein pulled off one of his gloves and felt the door.

	It was warm.

	Bronstein drew the obvious conclusions, then turned and hurried back to the main tent. He nearly ran into Mama Yolanda the Mouth coming out, and she started her usual hoot of: "Whatchu think you doin'?"

	She'll do, was his first thought. He clutched her shoulders, making her actually shut up in surprise. "Shh!" he whispered fiercely. "Hassan's hiding out in my hut. I need some witnesses, and some muscle. Let's get—"

	She didn't let him finish. A huge and ugly grin split her face. "You doan' need nobody but me, organizer man," she pronounced, shoving him aside. She reached for something inside her layers of rough-sewn coats and marched past him toward the rows of huts. Bronstein couldn't think of anything better than to run after her, quietly cursing himself for not having brought any kind of weapon. She got to the hut before he did, and without a pause she yanked the door open.

	Sure enough, it was Hassan who jumped out, screeching something unintelligible, hands reaching for Mama Yolanda's throat. She met him halfway with what looked like a straight punch to the solar plexus, but from the way Hassan stopped in mid-leap Bronstein knew there had been something solid in her hand. As she stepped back and let Hassan fall, Bronstein got a look at what it was; a short length of rebar protruded from low in Hassan's chest, a dark stain rapidly spreading from it.

	Bronstein guessed that the buried end of the rebar had been hand-sharpened, and his next thought was: We can't let the Kenny-boys know!

	He stepped forward and clapped a hand over Mama Yolanda's mouth just as she was drawing air.

	"Hush!" he whispered fiercely. "Get your knife back and hide it. Then we've got to hide the body. We can't let the Kenny-boys know we've got weapons!"

	Mama Yolanda paused for a long moment, caught between her normal impulse to bellow righteously, and the common sense of Bronstein's warning. Common sense won. Grumbling quietly, she bent down and yanked the rebar out of Hassan's chest. He fell forward with a faint sigh.

	Bronstein wondered if the man was completely dead yet, even as he ran his hands over the body, searching for anything stolen. Oh yes, there were plundered clownfruit in his pockets, but nothing else, thank whatever gods there were. Mama Yolanda, still bent over and grumbling, wiped the blade of what was now revealed as a crude knife on the ground, muttering about bloodstains rusting iron. Bronstein retrieved his stolen fruit, picked up Hassans ankles and whispered: "Can we get him to the river without anyone seeing?"

	"Sure 'nuff. Just go behind the huts," Yolanda said, grabbing Hassan's arms.

	It took them twenty minutes of clumsy work to get the body down to the riverbank, near the ford. Bronstein was sure that somebody had seen them, but there was no sound or sight of anyone. Certainly nobody came to interfere as they shoved the corpse into the river and pushed it out into the current. As the body began to drift, the water stirred and splashed around it. For one heart-stopping second Bronstein thought Hassan was still alive, but then he noticed the small slick bodies darting and thrashing around the corpse, and realized that no, it was just some fierce river creatures attracted by the blood.

	Were they fish? Amphibians? Lizards? No matter: they'd eat any animal that got into their territory. It appeared they lurked around the ford, probably waiting for large animals to cross. That was something to keep in mind.

	"Somebody must have seen," Bronstein muttered as they walked back toward the main tent. "Word will eventually get around."

	"Why should it?" Yolanda sneered. "Nobody loved him, not even them other Arabs, and they all in lockup."

	"They'll probably assume that he's hiding out in the woods somewhere, waiting for the day he'll return to lead The Faithful ... " Bronstein shook his head. "But he won't be there to drive them into any more stupid stunts. We've got a breather, at least."

	"What we gon' do with it?"

	"Build!" Bronstein hissed. "Make food gardens, dig ore, smelt metal and make tools, make our own housing. We can't move against Kennicott until we can live without them."

	"Uh-uh." She gave him a thoughtful look. "Til we don' need them, but they need us?"

	"Right." He glanced skyward. "And even that won't last. They'll bring in more deportees, soon enough. We'll have to be able to absorb them, too."

	"You ain't just organizin' for a strike, is you?"

	"No. Much more than that."

	At that point they'd reached Bronstein's hut. He gave Mama Yolanda a curt good night and slipped inside.

	Sure enough, his bedroll had been turned inside out and tossed aside. His duffelbag had been emptied on the floor and the contents scattered. Even his spare shoes were tossed in opposite directions, but Bronstein knew where they'd stood. He pulled the multi-tool out of his pocket, opened the widest blade and dug down through the hard-packed clay soil until his fingers encountered the undisturbed plastic slab. He smiled as he dug it out and set it aside, then pulled up the plastic-wrapped notebook computer. One touch of the power-button and its lights glowed, undiminished, faintly illuminating the keyboard. Bronstein laughed softly and began to type.

	Two hundred and sixty-one days after Hassan's disappearance, at the beginning of first shift, a cluster of expressionless miners stood in front of the guard-shack door and made a simple statement: "We're on strike. We don't work until our list of demands is met." One of them shoved an incised clay tablet at the astonished guard, and then the lot of them turned and walked away.

	The astounded guards looked at the clay tablet and saw the clearly written list:

	1)  Workers shall be paid in real metal coins—gold, silver, copper or iron—and not company credits.

	2)  The company store shall provide real food, real medicines, real tools and electronics as well as cloth goods.

	3) Existing hours of work shall be maintained.

	4) Workers' housing shall be provided with clean water, sewage services and electricity.

	The senior guard got on the radio to headquarters. Twenty minutes later, the whole guard contingent, armed with stun-rifles, marched into the main tent with orders to deactivate the food-dispenser while announcing: "If you don't work, you don't eat."

	But nobody was inside. The tent was completely empty.

	The guards duly deactivated the dispenser. They opened the cabinet and it was cleaned out. They quickly returned to the guard shack's radio to ask for further instructions.

	Half an hour later they stormed the huts, yanking open doors and firing inside, then looking to see whom they'd hit.

	The huts, too, were empty.

	Back to the radio went the guards, and a long hour of chatter went back and forth to Kennicott headquarters. The guards duly searched the forest, as far as they dared among the alien plants and animals—which, rumor said, had carried off a few miners already—and found nobody. One guard noticed what appeared to have been a vegetable garden, but there was nothing in it now. Another found the remains of a large fire-pit, but even its ashes were gone. All they rousted was a large and angry land gator, which took several shots to stun completely. They returned shaken and subdued.

	More chatter with headquarters made it clear that the mining operations just couldn't stand idle until the next shipment of deportees came in, and there weren't enough guards to run the equipment by themselves. Management dithered over how to negotiate with the strikers when they couldn't be found.

	The conclusion was to take the loudspeaker out of the tent, aim it generally at the forest, and broadcast a prepared statement at maximum volume.

	It was a fine speech, artfully crafted by the company's psychologists, spoken by a voice carefully tuned to sound kindly, fatherly and authoritative. It spoke first of bewilderment that the miners should be so impatient; didn't they know that this was a raw new world, where everything had to be imported for a year's journey or else carved out of the wilderness? And hadn't the company set them first to making housing of their own? Didn't they know that Kennicott Metals had their best interests at heart, and was doing the best it could under these trying circumstances?

	And didn't they understand that the company too was hurting, having lost a valuable military contract just as its stocks had taken a 1.3% dip in the market? They all had to pull together, in a partnership, seeing that they really were all in the same boat  ... 

	At the edge of the forest, Jablonski sneered as he checked the threads that bound a note around an arrow. Then he set the arrow in his handmade crossbow and aimed it at the mouth of the loudspeaker. He fired and watched while the arrow soared.

	The speech cut off in a squawk as the arrow hit it dead center. Jablonski chuckled, then turned and faded back into the forest.

	Half a kilometer away, in the largest of a series of interconnecting caves, the organizing committee sat around a large wood fire and discussed the immediate future.

	"So they'll get the note," Lucinda was saying, "And they'll start stringing wires to the huts where we can see them. How will we know the wires aren't dummies, and the display isn't a trap?"

	"We send a delegation," Marian answered, her hands not missing a stitch with her crochet needle. "Probably three of the Latino boys from the west cave, who don't know where the main caves are and can't tell it. They go and look, and we tell them what to look for. If they don't come back, we go right on with the strike. We also watch to see if they're followed, and if so, we catch the followers and pump them for info. Either way, we don't come back until all the demands are met."

	"How long you think they gonna hold out?" Mama Yolanda grumbled, snatching a toddler away from the fire. "Our food gonna run low in ...  What, two hundred days?"

	"They'll give in before that. Every day that the machines stand idle, Kennicott loses millions," said Bronstein, hands steadily sharpening the edge of a crude-cast chisel. "To them, that's like a bleeding wound that doesn't heal. They'll pay, for all their howling. It's cheaper to give us what we want than to lose that income."

	"I not understand," said Rajna, huddled close to the fire in his layers of clothes and blankets. "Why do Kennicott think we be like machines, that they can run cheap?"

	"Corruptions of power," Bronstein shrugged, setting down the chisel and stone. "The problem with greed is that it makes people stupid: stupid enough to see only the goodies in front of them, not all the related effects to either side." He reached under his coat to a pocket on his innermost shirt, feeling for the little booklet he'd carried all this time, and all this way. "Folks, it's about time we gave our bunch a name, and connected it to the patterns of history. You know we're not the first, not by a long shot, to face exactly this kind of crap and find the same solution."

	"Say the words," Marian grinned, recognizing the booklet he pulled out and opened in the light.

	"Right. From this moment on, we're the Haven Miners' Local of the Industrial Workers of the Worlds. Now: 'Preamble to the Constitution'.

	"'The working class and the employing class have nothing in common ... '" He paused, and grinned. "Well, actually, they do have one thing in common; they both want all of the pie."

	"But who better deserves to have it?" Marion countered, smiling back. "They that actually do the work, or they that give the orders?" With that, she held up what she'd been working on: a child's shirt, knitted from hand-spun egg-tree fiber with a handmade crochet hook.

	The others looked, and understood, and laughed.

	"They like to think they're the brains, and we're only the muscle," Lucinda cackled, flipping one of her blades from hand to hand. "They forget we've got brains, and they don't have much muscle."

	"I'd like to see any of the Kennicott managers, " glowered History-Man, "Dumped here the way we were, do half as well."

	Bronstein picked up his handmade chisel again and studied the edge. '"Nothing in common'," he repeated. "Nothing of mind, or skills, or attitude. Nothing at all."

 

HELL'S-A-COMIN
John F. Carr

2045 A.D., Cat's Eye Orbit

	High above Haven in orbit around Cat's Eye, aboard the Kennicott Company ship, Lucky Strike, Mining Officer Martin Peltz sat with Director Ronald Waddell, officer in charge of Haven Mining Operations. They were watching the satellite feed of the latest demands from the striking miners at Kennicott Camp #2. The strikers were poorly dressed and unkempt. They looked like a bunch of starving refugees from a forgotten war back on Earth.

	Director Waddell was a small fussy man with a Van Dyke beard and unframed round glasses, an affectation that irritated the hell out of Martin Peltz. With today's medical technology, no one had to wear glasses anymore unless they were trying to make a statement: Waddell's appeared to be, "I'm a fastidious little prick."

	Martin Peltz, on the other hand, was broad-shouldered and almost twice the size of the Director and was dressed in off-world cammies. He had started out on ground floor as a miner and through hard work and a native ability to impress his superiors had advanced upward through the corporate ranks. There weren't many self-made men at Kennicott Towers, but he had worked as Stephen DeSilva's assistant when the DeSilva scion first joined the firm. Now, although Director Waddell was unaware of it, Martin was DeSilva's off-world troubleshooter. He had just spaced in from Tanith to determine what the problem was that was holding up the hafnium shipments from their delivery to Tabletop.

	He quickly ran through what he knew of the colony's short history. The moon had been discovered by a CoDo survey ship, and like many such craft it had included a spy in the pay of the Company. When Garner "Bill" Castell managed to wrangle ownership of Haven from the MIT/Cal Tech University Consortium, Kennicott had made a secret deal with the charismatic Harmony founder. In exchange for certain mining rights, they helped pay off Castell's "good faith payments" to the survey team and agreed to help finance a ship to transport his parishioners to Haven.

	What Kennicott Metals didn't know at the time was that Castell was as tricky as a card-sharp in Tabletop bordello. Not only had Garner Castell made some kind of accord with the CD Bureau of Intelligence, but he had also leased certain mining rights to both Anaconda Mining and Dover Mineral Development. The deal was they were to provide the colony with building materials, livestock, foodstuffs and basic supplies. In his own inimitable way, Old Man Castell had provided for the future, but had never bothered to inform his son Charles, and soon to be inheritor, about these agreements.

	Charles Castell was not half the man his father was, but he did honor his and his father's word. However, that did not mean he liked his father's deals and was known to call them "compacts with the forces of chaos." Although in truth, from a quick reading of how inhospitable the moon really was, it was obvious to Martin that without the drop shipments of supplies from the other mining companies which had arrived in the colony's third and fifth year there would be no colony nor Castell City—no matter how humble.

	Kennicott survey teams had arrived on Haven shortly before the Harmonies and they had quickly located several spectacular motherlodes of hafnium. However, Old Garner had included a codicil that forbade the Company from opening any mining operation closer than a thousand kilometers from the Harmony center in all directions. It was Old Man Castell's attempt, from beyond the grave, to keep the miners and the bottom feeders that followed the mining camps as far away as possible from his people. This codicil forced Kennicott to locate their mines a long way from Castell City, what passed as Haven's civilized center.

	However, as these things are wont to do, it didn't work out quite the way the Harmony Founder had planned. To keep the miners and survey teams entertained, Kennicott had been forced to subsidize the building of steamships so that the miners and company guards could visit Castell City and find the accommodations that made them comfortable. The boat trips were long and tedious, but cost Kennicott little. Shipping the miners back and forth by shuttle was not only ridiculously expensive, but prohibited by Castell's agreement. Still, despite Garner's foresight, the town was dirt poor and dependent upon the miners and their parasites—the brothels, gambling dens and bars.

	The resulting accommodations with the Harmonies were predictably strained and left them feeling as if they were the outsiders in their own community. Fortunately, Martin's problems were at Camp #2 with the miners and he should be able to avoid any entanglements with the Harmonies and their straight-laced leader.

	"Have you noticed the miners always send out the spies with their list of demands?" Waddell asked. "We still haven't ascertained who the camp's real agent provocateurs are?"

	Martin, who'd only arrived twenty hours earlier by packet ship from Tanith, replied flatly, "They send out the Hispanics because they don't know anything. I see from the records the guards 'questioned' the third negotiating team and all they learned was the miners are in caves outside Camp #2 and that two "white guys" are in charge. I personally vetted the passenger manifest and it looks like the Bureau of Corrections' transportee scoops picked up two union organizers, Jack Bronstein and Louie Jablonski. I suspect they're the brains behind the strike."

	Sweat started to bead on Waddell's forehead until they grew large enough to drift off in the ships micro-gravity. "We've got to settle this strike before the next ship goes out-system. If word gets back to HQ before we've settled this mess, we're all in trouble."

	"Director, if by settling, you mean giving into the miners demands. That's not going to happen. You know the Board well enough to know that will mean your job."

	From the worry lines bracketing the Director's eyes and mouth, it appeared he was well aware of the consequences of any further delays. "Time is money" was a well-used axiom in the upper ranks of Kennicott management.

	"Remember, these miners were sent here to lay the foundation for the next wave of transportees," Martin added. "The Bureau of Corrections will be bringing us thousands of new 'workers' in the next couple of years."

	"What do you suggest we do, Martin?" the Director asked.

	Peltz didn't like being addressed as an equal by subordinates, even when undercover. He made a mental effort to reign in his growing irritation. "I believe it's time to bring in the Marines."

	He knew the camp guards were next to useless; they were the castoffs and dregs of every off-world Kennicott operation. Only sent here because Haven and Tanith were the dumping grounds for the Companies fuck-ups and incompetents-like Director Waddell. The idea being it was cheaper to exile them on Haven than to buyout their contracts or payout their severance pay. Who else, but an incompetent hack such as Waddell, could have allowed a couple of hundred unschooled miners to close down an entire camp; Stephen DeSilva would have a stroke when he learned off it. He would have to send a memo to Stephen about reviewing this policy: it was proving to be a mistake. And Tanith had her own share of problems.

	"Marines, you mean the CoDo Marines! They're only here to keep the peace in Castell."

	"No, they're here to maintain order. Period. This strike is disorderly and it's time we used the Marines to their fullest capacity."

	"There might be bloodshed." Waddell's face turned as white as a bed sheet.

	"Time for peaceful negotiations has come and gone. The miners have proven their intransigence. Now, it's time to let the Marines do what they do best."

	"We don't want the Camp destroyed, nor any of the equipment ... " Waddell trailed off, all but wringing his hands.

	"I'm going to go down to Castell City and head up the operation myself," Martin stated. He didn't trust the Marines much more than the guards, since the soldiers on Haven were garrison troops, not line. They probably hadn't seen action in a while and might go off half-cocked.

	Jack Bronstein made his way along the perimeter of the mining camp, careful to mask his progress behind bushes and trees, noting the lack of any human presence. The guards were no longer at their posts; they were probably in the huts gambling, playing cards or video games. It bothered him that the Company appeared to have lost interest in both the camp and the strike.

	Things were not going as planned. The plan was that they went on strike and the Company negotiated until a settlement was reached. That was how it worked on Earth; it was beginning to dawn on him that there was an entirely different set of rules in play outside the Sol System.

	The miners had been in the caves now for over six T-months and the Company still refused to negotiate. Food was running out as the local wildlife was killed off or had left the area because of human predation. They were unable to plant much because the guards searched out their gardens and destroyed them; probably as much out of boredom as criminal mischief. Without anyone to guard, they were pretty much adrift.

	He felt a hand on his shoulder and cut off a gasp that threatened to erupt.

	"Sorry, Jack," he heard a familiar voice say.

	"What is it now, Louie?" he said, trying to keep the anger he felt out of his voice. Jablonski was becoming a real pain-in-the-ass. Their close living quarters, the cold, the moist cave, the constant bickering among the other miners, all of these had left Jablonski completely stressed-out. His leg was giving out on him now to the point that some days he couldn't even walk. Bronstein didn't even want to try and imagine the pain the man was in, but other than some rot-gut alcohol and marijuana; they were completely out of borloi and pain meds.

	It wasn't that Jablonski complained about his problem; it was the way his face contorted and the constant beating on his leg. It drove those around him for any period of time crazy. It was getting so bad Bronstein wanted to take his handgun and shoot the poor son-of-a-bitch, just to put him out of his misery.

	"The minute you left, everyone started complaining about the 'plan.' We're about to have a revolt on our hands. Between the overcrowding, the freezing cold, the boredom and hunger, these people are at the end of their tether."

	"You don't think I know that," he snapped. "We thought, based on our experience on Earth that Company management would cave in, but it hasn't happened." He stopped to rub his hands together, even with the mittens and over-gloves his ringers were growing numb.

	"It'll be truenight soon. What'll we do then?"

	"I don't know," Bronstein said. We need outside help. I thought the Harmonies might give us food, but our messenger never returned. But that was an outside chance to begin with. Let's get back to the cave before we freeze to death!"

	Mining Officer Martin Peltz took a small vertical lander down to Castell City, which had been covered by a light snow blotting out and covering most of the City's mud and grime. The air was thin enough that every deep breath hurt. He was going to have to be careful not to exert himself too much until he was more acclimated to the sparse air and biting cold.

	Castell City was a small town with few pretensions. The inhabitants slunk along the wooden sidewalks and frozen-mud streets with downcast eyes. The CoDominium 26th Marine garrison was headquartered in a cement block structure that was as solid as the Marines it quartered. Martin identified himself to the sentry, showed his I.D. and was given permission to enter. Discipline appeared good, which was a positive sign.

	The thick metal door slid open and he found the garrison Commandant, Lieutenant William Frasier, waiting for him inside the duty room. "Welcome to Niflheim, Agent Peltz."

	Martin had almost total recall and the definition of Niflheim instantly popped into his mind: In Norse mythology, Niflheim was the lowest region of the underworld. A place of mist and cold, which was sometimes called the home of the dead. He nodded. "Most appropriate, Lieutenant."

	"How can I be of service, sir?" the Lieutenant asked.

	Frasier appeared to be a much higher caliber officer than one might expect in a provisional garrison unit posted to a dead-end frontier outpost. Martin wondered which of his superior officers he'd insulted or made an enemy out of.

	"First, I've got a few background questions before I come to the reason behind my visit."

	Lieutenant Frasier nodded.

	Anything that shakes the boredom off his shoes in a post like this, Martin thought, is probably welcome. "I was a little taken aback by how built-up this town has become. I was expecting a small camp or a few tumbledown shacks."

	"The 26th only arrived two T-years ago at the Harmonies' request. As I understand it, from talking with Deacon Kev, Old Garner Castell had made secret deals with several of the big mining companies to bring in supplies, from saw blades to small blast furnaces, and livestock in exchange for mining rights. The Harmonies are very industrious and they had help when a second shipload arrived."

	Martin nodded. "I'm familiar with Garner's deals. Hell, our own survey teams arrived months before the Harmonies landed here. Kennicott even set up the first wharf. Of course, we had to move operations after the Harmonies landed. You know about the thousand kilometer provision."

	Lieutenant Frasier said, "Yes, that the nearest mining camps have to be a thousand kilometers from Castell City, but that doesn't mean that Reverend Charles Castell likes it. The fact that his father made all these secret deals behind his back with the mining companies still sticks in Charles' craw. But the troubles really began when Anaconda and Dover brought more than just goods and supplies with them. Since there were no operating mines on Haven to send return payloads, they shipped in convicts supplied by the Bureau of Corrections to help cover transport costs. That's where the colony picked up sewer rats like the half-breed Jomo, Yankee Dog, Two-Guns White Calf and DeCastro."

	Martin snickered. "Oh, I bet the Harmonies loved that."

	The Lieutenant nodded. "Charles Castell's complaints were picked up by the Humanity League and from there went all the way to the Grand Senate. The Colonial Bureau stopped the shipping of convicts, replacing them with Bureau of Relocation transportees. By that time, the companies—mostly Anaconda—had begun to realize they weren't doing themselves any favors by dumping Earth's trash onto Haven.

	"The Fleet ordered the 26th Marines, Company C, Third Battalion to Haven when the wharf rats tried to put the squeeze on the Harmonies and take over Castell City a few years ago. The only ones who stood up to us were Yankee Dog and his sidekick, Two-Guns; both were killed with most of their gang in the subsequent firefight. I would have loved to have put the rest of the crime bosses before a firing squad, but they went underground after Yankee Dog and his gang went down. The criminals are still busy with the usual vices and racketeering, but it's not the 26th's job to police Castell City for the Harmonies—just keep the gangsters from taking over the colony.

	"To keep the illusion of peace, the Harmonies built a palisade and live in a compound, like a pen full of sheep in the middle of a wolf pack—poor bastards. I've tried to help their Deacons organize themselves into an official constabulary, but Reverend Castell refuses to grant them permission. And things are only going to get worse. It's my understanding that the Bureau of ReLocation now sees Haven as the perfect dumping ground for dissidents, especially politicals. It's over a year away and return passage is too expensive for most to ever return.

	"Yes," Martin said, "and the thin air means that their birth rate will be far below replacement levels." .

	"That's something I will not speculate on," the Lieutenant said. "But I won't say you're wrong."

	Martin nodded, I think I've got my man, he thought. "How many men can you spare for a strikebreaking operation down at Camp #2?"

	The Lieutenant gave him a wolfish grin; it was obvious he relished the possibility of real action. "Will there be a possibility of casualties, sir?"

	Martin nodded. "We're having problems with the miners at Camp #2. An unauthorized strike. We need to end it and arrest the leaders."

	The Lieutenant rubbed his hands together. "I've got one under-strength company of the 26th CoDominium Marines to police an entire planet. I have one platoon, made up of three infantry squads billeted in Castell City. One of them is an Infantry Mechanized squad. They're all under strength. We've got about one hundred and sixteen men in total."

	"How many can you release for this mission?"

	"Sir, keeping the peace in Castell City is mostly a babysitting operation, trying to keep the scum from gumming up the works. It's been several T-months since the last deportee ship arrived and we've pacified the worst scourings of the transportees.

	"A single squad should suffice for garrison duty, sir. I can give you two squads, which should be more than enough to pacify a couple hundred miners, no matter how well they're organized. I will personally command the operation. What kind of weapons should we prepare for?"

	Martin shrugged. "Several guards have disappeared or been killed. So I suspect the strikers have accumulated some handguns and maybe a rifle or two. The ones who were interrogated mentioned bows and arrows, knives and primitive spears."

	"Miners know a lot about explosives, as well, sir. We'll come prepared."

	"Good. Do a good job here and the Company will do well by you."

	The Lieutenant nodded.

	Due to funding constraints and the fact that the USA and the Soviets were often at loggerheads, the CoDominium armed forces were always under-funded and thereby more amenable to political influence than most services. A young commander could go a long way with the 'right' backing. With one DeSilva in the Grand Senate and another a Fleet Vice-Admiral, Kennicott Mining had a lot of political clout.

	"What about transport, sir? We only have three helicopters."

	"I can get you all the company choppers you'll need. They can act as spotters and you can put snipers on them, as well."

	"Excellent, sir. I can have the men ready in four hours. It would be best if we left soon. We want to catch them before Eyefall."

	"Right, Lieutenant. The Company doesn't have a good infra-red satellite, because of the proximity to the local gas giant, Cat's Eye, so I can't help you out there."

	"That shouldn't be a problem for our scanners, sir. We should be able to read the heat signature of two hundred miners, unless they've dug their way through the core to East Continent."

	"Good. We'll meet at the Company helo pad at 0200 hours Terra-time."

	"Yes, sir."

	It was still dim-day by Haven reckoning, when Martin and the Marines boarded the choppers. Twilight was always a good time for an attack, the Lieutenant assured him. This was Martin's first "battle"—if such a small operation could be called such—and the anxiety it created surprised him. If all went well it would be another bullet point on his corporate resume, if not, then life would get very interesting. Or he would be dead.

	The Lieutenant had insisted that he wear a regulation flak jacket and a Marine visor-helm with infra-red sensors. As they flew over the shadowy trees and hills, Lt. Frasier related some of his own battle stories during his tour of duty on Frystaat and Makassar. He intimated that once the Harmonies were implicated in an insurrection, the moonlet would be incorporated into the CoDominium.

	"Haven's wonderfully isolated and hellish. A good prison world, like Tanith or Fulson's World. A perfect dumping ground for dissident minorities, criminals, deviants and politicals. It'll be interesting to see whether it ends up under the aegis of the Bureau of ReLocation or Corrections. Although, there's room here for both. The biggest benefit, although no politician or bureaucrat will ever admit this fact, is that few births come to term due to the thin air. Dump your dissidents on Haven and they don't breed back like they do everywhere else."

	In between the thwoop-thwoop of the rotors, Martin looked around to make sure none of the other Marines were within listening range. He liked the way Lieutenant Frasier's mind worked; he was wasted here on Haven. If Martin survived the attack, he'd do what he could to make sure Frasier was put in a position where he could do the Company the most good. If he showed loyalty to Kennicott, he could rise high in the Corps.

	"I agree, Lieutenant. The CoDominium resettlement program—if its real objective is to neutralize or get rid of dissidents and defective genetic genotypes—has been a complete failure. We've spread our problems over forty worlds, not just one. And, from what I've seen in my travels, they will come back to haunt us."

	"Exactly, sir. And, as I'm sure you know, the Fleet is stretched so thin that there isn't much we could do if there were more than half a dozen simultaneous revolts on different worlds."

	Such talk bordered on treason, but there was no doubting of both the sincerity and veracity of the Lieutenant's words. Such clear-eyed reasoning was rare on Earth in these decadent days.

	They continued to talk in this vein for some time before a sensor pinged, announcing they were within air defense missile range of Camp #2. Not much likelihood of finding a surface-to-air missile here; although, stranger things had been known to happen. He studied the dark terrain carefully, looking for evidence of human habitation or the muzzle flash of enemy rifles. The countryside was as desolate as a virgin planet. What a place to be dumped, he thought.

	"What's that?" Ward Bixby asked. Bixby, a retired CoDo Marine who had been picked up drunk and disorderly in a Bureau of Corrections sweep, was one of their sentries. And one of two men allowed possession of their only rifle. No one else in camp could hit the broad trunk of a clownfruit tree.

	Bronstein and a score of men came running to the jerry-rigged cave door. They made their way outside through the cutting and bitterly-cold wind. He looked around, but the black ink of truenight had already fallen and he couldn't see a thing. The only thing that was real was the slashing wind that tore through his parka as if it were made of cheese-cloth.

	Then he heard the thwoop-thwoop of helicopter rotors.

	"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 strikers 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."

	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."

 

COUNTERPOINT
A.L. Brown

Earth, 2045 AD.

	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.

	Harry Davis bounced hard in his canvas jump seat as the shuttle touched down. His back and neck already hurt, and with all this bouncing around, they were going to hurt worse tomorrow. The cheap CoDo bastards didn't even bother putting windows on these shuttles so you could see what was going on. Harry still burned with anger whenever he thought of how he got here. When he stood in front of that CoDominium tribunal, his Lieutenant didn't even offer testimony on his behalf, just shook his head and wouldn't meet Harry's eyes.

	It didn't seem to matter to these idiots that his gun hadn't been in his hand when it killed those two Guards. And why should it matter that he had a few drinks during lunch? No one even blinked when the hard-eyed lying bastard of a Sergeant had claimed he assaulted the phalanx and that their use of force was justified. So just like that, Harry Davis was a transportee, no rights, no justice. His ex-wife wouldn't even let him see his kids before he left, wouldn't even take his calls.

	But Harry had to admit he had landed on his feet. The miners being transported because of their 'revolt' were only just over half of the passengers on the BuReloc ship. And among the others, there was a truly smart woman, Erica she called herself, one name only, like a stripper. She had gathered together a group of women who were willing to turn tricks. And with three to one odds, there was plenty of business. There was no money on the transport, but there was food, favors, even drugs and booze to be had.

	Erica had taken a shine to him, and asked him to protect her and the girls. There was no way they could have carried off their enterprise without some muscle to back them up, and someone who knew how to cut deals with the crewmembers in authority over them. Harry soon found that the skills he had learned as a cop were perfectly suited for the other side of the law, and he gathered and trained a group of young toughs to help him.

	Erica was a tall curvy woman with a huge rack, and long blonde hair. She was always hot to have him, and even willing to share him with the other girls. Plenty of tail, plenty of booze, the power to push punks around. Life was good. Harry caught Erica's eye across the shuttle and grinned at her. There was no reason to think their little business couldn't pick up where it left off once they got a feel for this place. Erica smiled back, and Harry turned away, not noticing how she rolled her eyes and sighed.

	As the transportees flowed down the gangways and onto the docks, it was time to get to work. Miller, Nagel and their fellow Deacons and Beadles led the transportees to the long, low barracks buildings just above Docktown, separated them into male, female and family groups, assigned them bunks and work assignments, and got them to the mess hall for their first meal.

	After shepherding a large group of male transportees into a barracks building, Deacon Miller straightened his long brown robe, and stood at the end of the large, open room, the men crowded in front of him. He began his standard speech, polished by frequent use.

	"Welcome to Haven," he said, "And welcome to the barracks that will be your home for the immediate future. We have a program here that will help you get integrated into Havens society, and help build the infrastructure that we need to support you. You are all welcome to live in these barracks, with a bunk and three meals a day, as long as you are willing to work eight hours a day, with one day out of every twelve a day of rest, supporting public projects."

	That drew grumbling and protests from the crowd, who had protested against much lighter work schedules back on Earth. Miller told them that they were welcome to head out on their own at any time, although he warned that on Haven, alone often meant death. The discussion of work schedules led to an inevitable discussion of Haven's odd cycle of days and nights, driven by not only Byers' Star, but also the luminous gas giant that spent so much time in the skies above. Miller tried not to dwell on that discussion, knowing that it would take more than one explanation, and a few T-weeks on the ground, for them to catch on.

	The transportees' protests became even more heated when Miller explained that, after a standard T-year of satisfactory work, they could earn their place in a colonization program, be issued a small supply of tools and provisions, and be sent out to one of the many new communities growing along the Shangri-La River valley. "What are we?" cried a miner, "a bunch of slaves?"

	Miller tried to plow ahead with his lecture. He warned the transportees to be careful about too much exertion during their early weeks, to give their bodies time to adapt to the thin atmosphere. He spoke about the Church of New Harmony, and invited anyone whose heart sent them in that direction to seek out a service.

	He also spoke about other churches around the town. Then it was time for the list of infractions and their consequences. How Deacons and Beadles provided law enforcement on the streets, with the CoDominium Marine contingent to back them up. He warned that the food, especially in the coming winter, would mostly come from the nearby Protocarb plant, and that while no one would starve, food would be short and far from tasty.

	Almost nothing he said was received with agreement. Transportees were usually pretty quiet, and somewhat stunned, during their first lecture. But this crowd continued to be restive, and the afternoon stretched on far longer than usual. By the time the transportees were off to their first meal, Miller was more than ready to head out for a well-deserved beer before bedtime. But then, as he left the barracks area, he saw Lieutenant Frasier, the young head of the Marine contingent, waving to him on the street. He yelled something, but Miller couldn't hear what, until he moved closer.

	"More shuttles are inbound," he said, "I've been looking for you to pass the word."

	Miller's jaw dropped. "But the barracks are almost full. Where will we put them?"

	Frasier shrugged. "Sorry 'bout that, don't kill the messenger. And watch your back with these guys, you're getting over 3,000 total, and about 2,000 of those are miners who staged a revolt back on Earth."

	"If they're miners, why aren't they being dropped directly to the Kennicott camp?" Miller asked.

	Frasier flinched. "News of our recent union problems, and problems on other worlds, got too much media attention back on Earth, and the Humanity League forced changes to CoDo relocation policy. No more turning transportees directly over to private companies for transportation. BuReloc handles all movement of transportees. The mining companies have to attract workers to jobs, either on Earth, or on the outworlds."

	"That seems fairer, but sure makes my job a lot harder." Miller waved over Beadle Nagel. "Get the word out to the full crew of Transportee Supervisors, we have more inbound. We are going to have to double up on bunks and lockers. I want the full crew in front of Barracks One in fifteen minutes. And walking staffs for everyone."

	He waved off Nagel, and turned back to the Lieutenant. "They have been a difficult bunch, and are going to be even more difficult when we pack them in so tight. What support can you give me?"

	The Lieutenant gritted his teeth. "After what I've heard, just the sight of my men might set them off. But I can stage a platoon in the Docktown CoDo offices, close enough to come running if you need them." He looked quizzically at Miller. "Walking staffs?" he asked.

	Deacon Miller smiled back, "We call them that so Reverend Castell can pretend violence is never the answer. But you and I know that, in the real world, a sharp rap in the shins, or on the chin, is sometimes the only way to get through to certain people."

	The Lieutenant grinned back. "Understood. I will gather my men, and hopefully, won't see you later. Let's pray that my part tonight consists of a lot of 'wait,' without any 'hurry up.'"

	Miller nodded and turned back to his work. No beer and no sleep tonight  ... 

	When the trouble among the miners started, Harry decided to stay clear. He wasn't going to get caught in another riot with these losers. He had found a top bunk in the corner of his barracks, and sat in it with his back against the wall, and arms around his knees. When everyone was told to double up on bunks, he'd found a skinny young kid that didn't look like he'd be any trouble, and looked like he would appreciate someone telling him what to do. The kid sat next to him, staring wide-eyed at the excitement from between strands of stringy black hair.

	Some of the miners had tried to jump a couple of Beadles, and soon found out that their sticks were not just for show. And a whistle from one of the Beadles brought some reinforcements. Things got tense again when the miners pressed closer and closer to the Beadles, but all the fight went out of them when a maniple of CoDo Marines came in the door. Not as well equipped as the Guard unit that had taken Harry down back on Earth, and with broad-brimmed campaign hats instead of helmets, but tough looking bastards with murder in their eyes.

	A scrawny little guy with an Irish accent put himself between the miners and the Marines. Harry recognized him from the ship, he was one of the leaders, maybe the leader of the miner's union. The guy had some guts to put himself where he was, and had the gift of blarney, because he was able to calm the miners, get them to stand back and calm down, and convince the Marines and Beadles that they could go on their way.

	There was gunfire in the distance, some muffled as if it was coming from inside another building, some closer, from outside the buildings.

	Harry suddenly thought about Erica. Not only was she the best lay he ever had, she was his ticket out of these miserable barracks. So he told the kid to guard their stuff, slipped off the bunk, and out a side door. He ran between the barracks, in the direction he had seen the women going. Harry was careful. I'd hate to see the place they transport you to, he thought, when you get swept up in a riot on Haven.

	He stopped at the end of each building, peered ahead before rounding the corner, and doubling back when required. This paid off twice, the first time when a round from a Marine smacked into the building above him, scattering splinters. I guess that answers my question—they transport you in a pine box when you make trouble around here, he decided. The second time Harry's caution paid off was when he saw a crowd of miners striding down an alley, spoiling for a fight, with rude clubs in their hands—broken table legs, whatever they could get their hands on.

	He stopped at a barracks that, unlike the others, was dark. He opened the door.

	"Is this the women's barracks?" he hissed.

	"Who wants to know?" came back a voice, a husky alto that answered his question.

	"I'm looking for a woman named Erica. Tall, blonde."

	"Just a minute. Close the door and wait here," the voice came back, and he heard someone running across the floor.

	As Harry's eyes adjusted to the gloom, he realized that he was surrounded by a ring of women, all equipped with clubs themselves. But unlike the mob outside, these clubs had been plucked from a uniform source, a lumber pile perhaps. The women near him were all young and strong. Beyond them, he could see other groups of women clustered in the center of the room, women who were obviously less capable of defending themselves than those by the door. Someone had organized the occupants in this barracks, turned the lights out to prevent attention, someone who knew what they were doing.

	"Harry? Is that you?" The group of women parted, and Erica was there, a wooden slat in her right hand, looking for all the world like a military commander.

	"I came to see if you were all right," said Harry, starting to feel foolish.

	"Noble gesture. Not needed, but noble," she said. "But since you were out there, fill me in."

	Harry described the confrontation in his barracks. She nodded and said, "Fineal Naha. I had him pegged as someone to be reckoned with from the first days aboard the transport."

	Harry described the shot from the CoDo Marine.

	"They aren't afraid to shoot to kill in a fluid situation," Erica said. "That says a lot about their training and rules of engagement. Or maybe, their lack of training, given what you described."

	Harry ended by describing the mob. They heard more shots ring out, and a murmur of conversation spread through the room.

	"Calm down, ladies," said Erica, and then said to Harry, "That's probably your gang of idiots, getting themselves killed."

	Erica gestured with her head, motioning Harry outside.

	"I appreciate your concern," she said, "but I'm fine, and so are the other girls that work for us. What I need for you is to get back to your barracks, blend in and lay low until we can find a place to set up shop. Be patient—don't rock the boat until the time is right. Do your part, and there's lots of fun times ahead."

	She gave him a wicked grin, a quick pat on the groin, and slipped back inside the barracks. Harry took off for his own barracks, even more carefully than the trip out. That Erica was quite a woman. He needed to take care of himself, he had a good thing to look forward to. It looked like things would be even better than they had been on Earth.

	Harry grinned. Like a cat, he was going to land on his feet.

	The room Deacon Miller had been summoned to was low and smoky, a fire burning in the corner. Reverend Charles Castell would never be accused of lording over his church in luxury. His low house, set partially into a hillside, was one of the most primitive in Castell City. He had his inner circle gathered around him, his wife Saral and his First Deacon, Kev Malcolm, prominent among them. Miller felt like he was on trial. He had been awake for forty hours straight, and ached everywhere. He felt like he had cracked a rib, and his left eye was black and nearly swollen shut.

	"How many people were injured in the fighting? How did you restore harmony? How many of the new transportees were jailed? Why did you call in the Marines?" Miller slogged his way wearily through the answers, putting up with the inevitable criticism of his methods. At least he had handled the violence without fatalities on any side. As one of the more worldly Deacons, he was often given tasks that dealt with those outside the church.

	But the same worldliness that made him useful also made him an object of suspicion among the senior church leadership. The church had rescued him from a life of abuse and pain, but he still cringed at their naive attitudes on so many topics.

	"What're we to do with all these people?" Kev Malcolm asked. "Winter's coming on, and they're packed in so tightly, more problems are inevitable. Should we send them down the river, in hopes that Kennicott Mining can feed and employ them?"

	"Absolutely not," snapped Charles Castell. "Not after what Deacon Miller found when we sent him down the river last spring to meet with Kennicott. The way those people were treated was horrible. Like slaves. And butchered by Marines for protesting their lot." Reverend Castell would never forgive the Kennicott Company for intruding on Haven. No matter what CoDominium paperwork they presented, he considered their very presence a violation of the planetary charter signed by the New Harmony Church.

	"Lieutenant Frasier has admitted that there were mistakes in handling that incident, mistakes that he regrets to this day," Miller interjected.

	Castell scowled back. "Regret does not bring back the dead. Nor restore harmony. We have no choice but to keep them here, employ them in expanding the town, and building a new life."

	"Can I look at our charter again?" asked Miller. "And the Kennicott paperwork I brought back from their camp? Perhaps there's an answer there."

	"Waste your time as you wish," said Reverend Castell. "But don't hold any hope of another path. The song for this issue has been written, it simply remains to be sung."

	For a few days, Harry put up with the bullshit jobs these Harmony guys assigned him. During the evenings, he linked up with Erica. She set up a system where the girls, accompanied by one of Harry's young toughs, would find Johns who had a place to take them to, and turn tricks that way. But they really needed a base to operate out of, so Harry made his rounds of the bars, finding out who controlled which turf.

	The Harmonies were pretty strict, but their rules only applied to their own part of town, separated from the rest by a log palisade. In the rest of town, pretty much anything seemed to go. The Deacons and Beadles kept order on the streets, but other than that, anything that was going to happen, happened without restriction. Castell City was like one of those frontier towns in old cowboy movies, dirt streets, wooden sidewalks, and low buildings, some made of sod, or set into the side of hills. Some of the bars and merchants were legitimate, but many others, especially as you got nearer to Docktown, traded in not only booze, but also drugs and flesh. Gambling, especially with cards, was open and widespread.

	Harry used some of the money Erica had passed to him to buy a small revolver and shoulder holster. He was going to have to keep his eyes open and his wits about him in this town.

	A few days after the transportee riot had been put down, Miller sat in one of the booths that ringed the walls of his favorite pub, a place named after its owner, old man Harp. The sign over the door was a gold harp on a green background. It was a cozy little place in a nice part of town, partially dug into a low hillside. The Deacon had just finished his supper, and the pub glowed with the light of oil lamps, and as always, was full of the smell of cooking food and brewing beer.

	The musicians in a corner were in the midst of a set of jigs, with fiddles, flutes, a button accordion, and a guitar playing along. There was a painting behind the bar, green hills dotted with grazing sheep. This was Millers favorite place in the whole world. Not the type of music he would hear in a Harmony Church, but he considered all music a gift from the Creator.

	He realized that there was a man standing beside the booth, an odd little man with white hair, and a fringe of a beard circling a round face.

	"And would you be the man called Deacon Miller?" the man asked.

	"I would," Miller answered. "And who would you be?"

	"Fineal Naha," the man replied, thrusting out his hand. "At your service. May I sit down?"

	Miller took the hand and gestured to the open bench across from him. He gathered his paperwork into a pile. "With your accent, I imagine you'll fit right into this place," he said, waving a hand toward the band.

	Naha nodded and laughed, "Ah, yes, the music of the old country. And well played it is."

	"What can I do for you?" Miller asked.

	"Well," said Naha. "Let me first explain that I am formerly the President of Local 1187 of the American Brotherhood of Mine Workers. Alleged leader of what is now called the Great Lakes Iron Miner's Revolt. And to my great regret, I am a man who still feels responsible for the well being of the men and women who took part in that revolt."

	"If you can help me maintain order among that bunch, then you're a man I am glad to see," said Miller.

	"The sooner we have a purpose, gainful employment, and proper compensation," said Naha, "the quicker that order will come. Isn't there a short-handed mining camp down the river from here?"

	Miller described the conditions in that camp, the treatment of the workers, the recent strike, and the Marine intervention that spun out of control and killed over two dozen workers. "We don't want to deliver you people into a situation of indentured servitude."

	"And what would you call this year of mandatory public service we are bound to in Castell City?" Naha replied.

	Miller sighed. "Point taken," he replied. "But Reverend Castell has decided. You stay here."

	"My people are willing to work," said Naha, "but it seems foolish to waste our talents on occupations we're not suited to. If only there was a project we could work toward with a clear goal, something where everyone could see the benefits."

	Out on the dance floor, a group of people gathered, looking like they were about to attempt an eight hand reel. One of the barmaids, Moira, a tall, slender young woman with long black hair, was paired with a heavyset newcomer, obviously not familiar with the dance. As the musicians launched into their reels, and the dance started, the man blundered about, moving too slowly, running into the other dancers. He looked about to crash into Moira when she grasped him firmly around the waist, planted her heels, and turned his forward momentum into a circle maneuver that spun him into the proper place. Kind of a dance version of an orbital capture maneuver. The man grinned his relief, and the dance went on.

	"Nicely done," said Naha. "If only we could change the directions of our lives the way she took hold of him."

	Miller thought for a minute, the glimmer of an idea beginning to percolate in his head. "Can you come back tomorrow night?" he asked Naha. "I may have something to propose to you."

	Before too many days had passed, Harry found an enterprising Pakistani man, a Mr. Khan, who had built a small boarding house on the edge of town. When he had trouble attracting customers with enough money to make it worth his while, had set up a bar in the lobby. It was no wonder he had trouble finding customers, as the rooms he had built were small, cramped and windowless. Erica came by and deemed it perfect for their enterprise.

	Like most men, Khan found Erica fascinating. He objected to the idea of prostitutes, but Erica appealed to his business sense, pointing out that there was no sin on his part making money from the decadence of infidels, and he finally bought into the idea. Harry arranged a deal with the biggest gang in that part of town, and promised a cut of the action in return for protection.

	The bar would be a great place for customers to congregate, and the rooms in back were small, numerous and perfect for the task at hand. Since Khan wanted to be a silent partner and didn't want his name on the place given its new purpose, Ericas name went up in the window, and a new business was born.

	Miller and Naha met the next night as they had agreed, and the next after that. On the third night, Naha brought an engineer with him, Jonnie Johnson, and also a Mr. Brunet, who had served as the union's lawyer back on Earth. Another companion, a slender black man who introduced himself as Preacher Jackson, had experience with American Red Cross sheltering and relief operations that they thought would prove useful. They came up with a plan, and more importantly, Miller thought he had an argument and analogy that might breakthrough Castell's rigid convictions.

	Erica sat in the raised back booth in the bar area of her brothel, and looked over the crowded room with satisfaction. She gave Harry, who sat beside her with a glass of local whiskey in front of him, a smile. He was a tiresome man, prone to brooding and quick to anger, but he was useful, so she had every intention of keeping him around, at least until someone better came along.

	It turned out that her Mr. Khan was married, but watching him when he was around the brothel staff, she had seen his eyes lingering on the younger girls. She had encouraged this interest, sending some of the girls in his direction, and some sweet talking to a CoDo Marine had gotten her temporary use of one of the few digital cameras on Haven. So Erica now had pictures in her purse that would allow her to take sole proprietorship of the business, and be the owner in fact as well as name.

	Erica imagined this as the first of many businesses she would own on Haven. Her years of tricks for money had burned any enjoyment of sex out of her system. She didn't care for booze, drugs or gambling, and saw too clearly what those vices could do to their victims. She gave Harry a quick peck on the cheek, got up, and started working the crowd.

	A quick hello to an Anaconda Mining engineer, a snap of fingers at a busboy moving too slowly, a request for the guitarist in the corner, leaning into a conversation between one of the girls and a timid John, helping close the deal. She saw the expressions of the people who looked at her, and saw curiosity, lust, fear, affection, but most importantly, respect. She was the center of attention. She had them in the palm of her hand. This was what she wanted.

	Deacon Miller was back in Reverend Castell's home, with the church leaders arrayed before their leader. Deacon Miller had Jonnie Johnson on one side, and Fineal Naha on his other side, arguing their plan.

	"But sir," Naha said, "we want to go down the river and work for Kennicott."

	"I will not," growled Reverend Castell, "surrender people into slavery, even if they are stupid enough to desire their servitude."

	"But that's the point," interjected Miller. "They don't have to be slaves, they don't have to live in the company town. The planetary charter gives you the right to appoint officials to administer towns, and even regions, here on Haven. The miners can build their own town, surround it with farms, start their own businesses, and work for Kennicott only if they want to. The current occupants of their mining camp would have an alternative to their current lives, and could move to the new town if they wanted to. Kennicott would have to offer fair wages to attract workers."

	Castell fell silent, finally hearing what was being said, and Miller saw that Kev Malcolm was in full understanding, nodding along with the argument.

	Deacon Miller went on. "I know we want to find harmony, and balance, the chord that sustains the peace of the universe. But sometimes, events move more quickly than we would like. We need to adapt our melody, and our harmony, to these new strains, find a counterpoint that leads the tune back toward balance."

	Miller thought of Moira and her clumsy dance partner. Castell was the clumsy one in this debate, and Miller had to find a way to spin him into the proper position.

	"Countermelodies, eh? Quick tunes?" Castell snorted. "Listening to too much dance music, I think."

	So much for my clever analogy, thought Miller.

	Castell continued with his questions. How would we get these people downriver?" he asked. "That camp is almost two thousand kilometers away."

	Now it was Johnson's turn. "Sir," he said, "the key to that statement is the word 'downriver.' The currents of the Xanadu River will aid us. There are large stands of egg trees upstream from us, on the banks of the Jordan, which grow very tall and straight, and would make excellent rafts. We can use steam launches, burning local wood, to shepherd these rafts down the river. They can pull the rafts, but mostly, they just need to guide them, and let the current do its work. And at the other end, those logs can be used to begin construction of the new settlement."

	Johnson went on with details of his plans, how much raft space each person would require, how much food would be required, how many trips it would take to transport everyone.

	Deacon Miller entered into the conversation again. "The CoDo charter doesn't allow us to tax any firms that are licensed for operation directly by them. But we can charge them what are called 'user fees.' Maybe a charge per worker that would go to the town, be controlled by the mayor, and used to build schools, roads, other public works and services." There were some smiles around the circle at the idea of Kennicott providing funds for the public good.

	Castell still looked skeptical. "Who would be the mayor that I appoint?"

	He stared suspiciously at Deacon Miller, who stirred uncomfortably. Could Castell be suspecting him of political aspirations?

	"That, Reverend Castell," interjected Naha, "would be me. I served on Earth as the democratically elected leader of these miners, and they still show me loyalty. And as you should have noticed in recent days, I have been able to persuade them to go about their tasks in peace. And think about how much more peaceful your town will be when these people move along, and the overcrowding eases."

	And now it was time for the final point. "And we could offer transportation," stated Deacon Miller, "to more than just the miners. There are a lot of people in Castell City who do not like our customs, or our leadership. People who follow other religions, bar owners, gamblers and others who might prefer the company of the miners to our own."

	Castell smiled, and so did Kev Malcolm. Other leaders exchanged glances, smiles and winks. Miller knew the argument had struck home, and the day was won.

	"Of course we're going to move downriver to the new town, darling," Erica told Harry, who lay in the bed next to her. She tried to ignore his wandering hands as they groped at her breasts.

	"But we have such a sweet deal here," Harry complained. Like most men, he couldn't see past his next meal, his next drink or his next lay. If he did any thinking it wasn't with his brain.

	"Harry, think about it. The new town is going to have the same mix of sexes as the transport ship, more than three men to every woman. The powers that be are going out of their way to attract the kind of businesses to the new town that they want to get rid of in Castell City. The town here will still be the seat of government, and a trade nexus, but there's no industry here. The mine work is going to pump cash into the new town like water.

	"It's gonna be like Vegas down there, and Vegas in the early days, when empires could be made. What'll be left here will be the boring men who are content to suck down a beer on their way home to their boring wives after a day at their boring jobs."

	"I guess you're right," Harry said, his voice muffled by her breasts. His hand slid between her legs, and she faked a moan, let him climb aboard, and gave in to the inevitable.

	As the days grew colder, Deacon Miller found himself relieved of his other duties, and fully assigned to the "Relocation Project," as it was dubbed by Kev Malcolm. Be careful what you ask for, he thought, because you may get it.

	He was assigned an area at the end of one of the transportee mess halls that they partitioned into office space. Paper was piled everywhere, plans for rafts pinned to walls, even a rare laptop computer was assigned for their use. Fliers went out around the town, and the task for the first few days was cataloging who had volunteered for the voyage. The two thousand miners showed remarkable solidarity, with almost everyone opting to leave. And over a thousand residents of Castell City also volunteered. Some, like bar owners, prostitutes and gamblers, saw better opportunities in the mining town, and chafed at the blue laws and interference of the New Harmony Church in the public life of the city. There were women who saw a chance to find a good husband among the many unattached men, there were hunters, farmers, carpenters, people from all walks of life.

	Preacher Jackson, who collected the lists, called them the "huddled masses, yearning to be free." He began referring to the operation as the "Exodus," and the "Chosen People," and despite the resistance of Miller and the other New Harmony Church leaders, those names stuck and stuck hard. All told, there were 3,246 volunteers.

	The Church of New Harmony received a certain amount of supplies and funding to support each load of transportees when they arrived. Some of these resources were set aside to support the new venture, which was, after all, simply a larger version of some of the settlement efforts that had gone on before. And because they perceived this endeavor as a solution to some social issues, they were willing to lend even more support than usual.

	Deacon Millers problem was that this operation was an order of magnitude larger than any previous settlement effort, which created logistical problems that a lot of people didn't fully appreciate. He organized logging parties first, supported by Church funds. Fortunately, many of the miners were also outdoorsmen, and not strangers to surviving in the wilderness, or swinging an ax. The biggest constraint was not labor, it was equipment, weapons and food.

	But within weeks, reports from the loggers indicated hunting was keeping their parties fed, and that dozens of egg tree trunks were downed, trimmed, and staged on the banks of the Jordan River above town. They were well on track to have hundreds of logs ready by spring. The preacher proved to be a huge boon, organizing the Chosen into 100 person 'shops,' each with their own stewards and other leadership, disciplinary councils, specialties, tasks and duties.

	Erica beckoned Harry over to her corner booth. "Did you hear?" she asked. "The new Mayor, Naha, is recruiting for a sheriff and deputies to keep order on the rafts, and to set up shop when they get to their new town. You need to apply for one of those jobs."

	Harry looked at her suspiciously. "You want to get rid of me?"

	"No, silly," she said with a smile, running her fingers along his thigh "I want you to be a man with power in your own right. Someone I can come to for help if I need it. Think of how much power we will have in the new town if we have a foothold in the government, as well as the bars and brothels."

	Harry thought about it. He enjoyed the freedom he felt since he had come to Haven, being able to ignore the rules and morals that had held him back on Earth. But he did have to admit, he missed the power to tell people what to do, and the knowledge that if they didn't, there was a system designed to back him up. And if he had that power, without feeling like he had to toe the line, Erica was right, they were well on their way to ruling this new town. Besides, how many people applying for the new law enforcement positions would actually have a background in police work, and a couple of decades of experience? Harry grinned at Erica.

	"OK," he said. "I'll do it."

	"That's my boy," said Erica, as another piece of her plan fell neatly into place.

	It was time to hire the vessels they needed for the trip down the river. Deacon Miller, along with Jonnie Johnson, met with a friend of his in Harp's pub, a steamboat captain named Bob Doyle. He was a Nova Scotia man who liked to play the fiddle when he was in town. It was Doyle who had carried Miller down to the Kennicott camp and back last year.

	"How many boats are available for this venture?" asked Johnson.

	"Well," said Doyle, "I have my two boats. It'll have to be the wood burners that you hire, no diesels, since they'll need to collect fuel from the riverbanks as they go. That leaves maybe seven or eight other boats to choose from. How big are these rafts of yours?"

	Jonny answered, "They'll be 100 feet by 250 feet. Each will be designed to carry up to 500 people, although it will be pretty crowded for them. I wanted the rafts as big as possible, but not so ungainly that they are unworkable."

	"Ain't gonna be easy, that's for sure," answered Doyle. "It will take a minimum of two steamboats to control each raft, and you'll want at least two extra boats on each trip, just in case."

	"OK," said Jonny, "then we try to hire eight steamboats, so we can move three rafts per trip. Since we need nine rafts overall, that'll be three trips down the river. At seven kilometers per hour, about twice the speed of the river current, it would take two hundred and eighty-five hours of travel, and allowing for rest stops, I'm figuring on twenty T-days for each trip, and a similar amount of time for the return of the steamboats for the next trip."

	"OK," said Doyle, "I'll talk to the other skippers. One last question—who's picking up the bill? The other guys aren't gonna go for some sort of fly-by-night financing. They'll want cash upfront for each trip."

	"That part," answered Miller, "turns out to be easy. Reverend Castell will hire you out of Harmony church funds." He grinned. "To be honest, he can't wait to get this expedition underway."

	Deacon Miller and Johnson brought this news back to the committee, and with those arrangements behind them, they turned their attention to plans for the new town, temporarily dubbed "Minerstown." Deacon Miller produced the paperwork he had collected during his recent journey to the Kennicott Mining Camp. From those, they overlaid maps of deeded rights and locations onto a satellite photo of the area. The Kennicott camp was just before a bend where the river turned from west to south—their own settlement would be a couple of miles downriver, just after the bend.

	They began to organize what functions needed to happen first upon arrival, land to clear, crops to plant, structures to build. If they left as soon as the ice began to break up in the spring, they could be downriver in time to plan their first crop in their new home, and once that was in, the barns to store the crops would follow.

	Everyone had an idea what needed to be built first. Brunet, the union lawyer, ended up as organizer for these activities. A certain amount of the construction would be for the common good, and in the beginning, the farms would be communal. Some of the Chosen, such as bar and store owners, were willing to pay for construction. Others were bringing only the clothes on their backs. There were merchants in town who were willing to finance portions of the operation, in return for a share of any profits produced and priority for their own construction projects.

	Brunet put together a plan to accommodate these commercial requests, and came to one of their meetings with a large grin, and an announcement that some of their initiatives were paying enough that they could be used to finance other efforts. There was, however, an argument about one of the patrons for the expedition.

	"But doesn't this Erica woman run a brothel?" asked Deacon Miller.

	"Yes, probably the fastest growing brothel in Castell City," answered Brunet. "And I get the impression that if she wasn't planning to move down river, she would've invested in more businesses besides. She's built up a lot of cash, but she's saving it, and wants to use it to establish herself in Minerstown."

	"Is this a business we want to encourage?" asked Preacher Jackson.

	It was Fineal Naha who answered. "One of the aims of this expedition is to draw away from Castell City businesses that don't fit Harmony philosophies, which includes prostitution, gambling, drinking, drugs. If we discourage those activities, we work against ourselves."

	Miller blew out his breath and shook his head. "As Mayor, how on Earth, oops, how on Haven, will you control that?"

	Naha grinned. "With great skill," he replied with his customary flair. When the laughter died down, he gave a more serious answer. "There will be less rules, but we will have rules. Whatever happens between consenting adults is their own business. Physical violence will not be tolerated. Contracts will not be broken once agreed to. No one does anything that adversely impacts their neighbors without providing appropriate compensation. But beyond that, we want to create a society where people do what they wish. As long as this Erica doesn't abuse her employees, and contributes to the common good, I see no reason not to welcome her."

	They finally reached consensus on the issue, and the planning committee decided to take her money, but it remained a somewhat uneasy consensus.

	And so the plans and projects continued to take shape. It was an unusual winter for Castell City. Normally, everyone hunkered down for the season, and there was very little activity. But this winter, the overcrowded transportee barracks hummed with activity, and the town hummed with activity. There was a real energy among the miners and other Chosen, something that Preacher Jackson called, "the smell of Hope."

	Mayor Naha reached across the table and shook Harry's hand.

	"Congratulations, Mister Davis, you have yourself a job. First Deputy to the Sheriff of Minerstown. We just couldn't ignore the experience you bring to the job.

	The top job had gone to a former union official named Sorensen, a straight arrow who treated Harry with a bit of suspicion. He wasn't surprised that Naha had gone for a crony for the top job. But this would work, too. Harry knew how to manipulate bosses, he had done it for years.

	Harry had a spring to his step as he strode out of the barracks building, turned his collar up against the cold, and headed for Erica's. He couldn't wait to get back. She was going to be pleased and in the mood to celebrate. He had been pushing her to join him in a threesome, and while she had hinted for some time that she was willing, she had never given in. His eye had been on a tight-bodied little Korean girl who had just joined the brothel. Maybe tonight was the night, thought Harry, whistling as he strode down the frozen street.

	A T-month after the planning began, a Kennicott helicopter landed on Splashdown Island and picked up Lieutenant Frasier. It then flew to the Harmony compound, and besides the Lieutenant, four men got out, and demanded to see Charles Castell. Two of the men were obviously guards. One of the men, a short rabbitty man with glasses and a goatee, who introduced himself as Ronald Waddell, appeared to be in charge. But he often glanced at the large, silent man with him, Martin Peltz, whose function among the visitors was not explained.

	Reverend Castell might be an aesthetic, but he was no fool, and understood these men were here to discuss the new transportees. He had acolytes offer the men refreshments while Kev Malcolm, Mr. Naha and Deacon Miller could be gathered.

	Once everyone was gathered, Mr. Waddell got right to the point. "We're here to discuss the miners that arrived with the latest transportees. They need to be moved downriver to our mining camp, get settled in their new homes."

	Charles Castell was not a man who smiled, but he came close to it as he replied. "We already have plans to move them downriver in the spring. But they will not be moving into your mining camp. Unless they want to, of course. I am exercising my authority under the planetary charter to commission a new settlement. It hasn't been named yet, but we are provisionally calling it Minerstown. I have appointed Mr. Naha here, a representative of the miners, as the mayor for this town, and vested in him legal powers to manage that town and the surrounding region."

	"But our charter," answered Waddell, "comes directly from the CoDominium itself, and is not subject to your jurisdiction."

	"I understand that," said Castell, "and we have no plans to, shall we say, 'undermine' your efforts."

	"This is what I was trying to explain to you," interjected Lieutenant Frasier. "These folks have this all thought out, drawn up all legal and proper. In the future, I'll have to lend support not only to your mining camp, but also to the new town and mayor, who exercise legal authority under the Harmony CoDominium Charter."

	Waddell looked at Peltz, who gave him a baleful glance, and then looked at the others in the room like a cornered predator. "But these miners were sent here to support Kennicott operations, they simply ended up arriving at the wrong location because of interference from the Humanity League, who had some misguided ideas that all transportees should be treated alike. Surely you mustn't want to put up with the strains all these newcomers have placed on your community?"

	"Because of the CoDominium's interference, we've unfortunately become quite used to accommodating transportees," said Castell. "And from what I hear, we accommodate them better than your camp does. Now certainly, under the agreement made with my Father, you have every right to conduct your mining operations. And as free people, these miners have every right to work for you.

	"I have no objection to hosting a recruiting effort here in our barracks, and whoever you recruit, you can bring back to your camp. Or, you can wait until summer, and recruit workers from the new town. Although, I think you'll have to offer them better wages and benefits than your current workforce. And my people will give you information on the user fees you will be providing to promote social welfare and infrastructure projects."

	Castell was now clearly enjoying this, finally finding a vent for the frustrations he had felt ever since Kennicott had arrived on a planet he thought of as his own. Waddell was stunned, and you could see his mind working through the implications of this revelation. Every twitch on his face probably represented another hundred thousand credits that would have to flow to wages instead of profits.

	Peltz looked at Frasier. "Lieutenant, you need to do something."

	Frasier kept his face neutral as he replied. "The only thing I can do is what I always strive to do, uphold the laws of the CoDominium. And in this case, even if you don't like it, the law is on their side."

	The Kennicott representatives rose to leave, and stalked out of the room, with Lieutenant Frasier following at a respectful distance. It didn't help matters when everyone erupted in laughter behind them.

	Erica leaned back in the bed with a contented smile. This man Peltz was the first man in years that had gotten her to enjoy herself in bed. As soon as she had seen him at her bar, and learned who he was, she had the staff bring him to her. This was more than a trick, she felt that they had real business to discuss.

	The kitchen boy, Jack, who shared the bed with them, stroked Peltz's arm, and leaned in to kiss him, but was pushed rudely out of bed for his troubles.

	"Get out of here," Peltz growled, "your boss and I have business to discuss."

	Erica had quickly discovered that Peltz liked his sex with a lot of kink involved, and summoned Jack to help meet those urges. She was pleased to see that Peltz had mixed feelings about his own desires—shame was a lever you could use to bend a man to your will. Look how well it had worked with that Pakistani, Khan, when she first arrived in town.

	"It seems to me," she said as Jack closed the door behind himself, "that Kennicott will need some friends in our new little town."

	"Yeah, that's for sure, but why the offer? What's in it for you?"

	Erica smiled. This man was no fool.

	"These Harmonies and the miners seem to think that they have you boxed in. But you and I both know that money is power, and most of the money flowing into this new town will be yours. And while I have to pay lip service to the town government, it seems to me that I can do a lot for you. My former head of security, for example, just got the post of First Deputy to the new Sheriff. Imagine what a friend in the Sheriff's office could do for you, the information we could pass along."

	"Head of security?" Peltz asked. "Don't you mean boyfriend?"

	Erica's respect went up a notch. She explained her relationship with Davis, and they talked about things that they could do for their mutual benefit once she reached the new town. It was obvious that Peltz had done his homework, and hadn't just come in here to get laid. This was the kind of man she had dreamed of, the kind of man who had real power, the kind she could be a partner to. She felt a stirring that she hadn't felt in years, pulled him to her, stopped the conversation with a kiss, and lost herself in lust.

	A few days later, the Kennicott men opened their recruiting booth in the mess hall. While they were generally shunned, they did attract thirty-seven miners to their side with promises of perks and leadership roles. And a few days after that, Lieutenant Frasier met with the relocation planning committee.

	"I appreciate what you folks are trying to do, and it seems pretty fair and decent to me. But you're tweaking some pretty powerful noses here, and I'd suggest that you proceed carefully. I'll be flying a small contingent to that area soon, only a single platoon, to set up a small barracks to keep the peace. And I would suggest that you folks get some of your people down there in person to stake your claim on the town site."

	"Could you bring some of our people along with yours?" asked Deacon Miller.

	"Afraid not, that would be seen as taking sides," Frasier answered.

	Miller turned to the others. "He's right. Now that they know our plans, they could come up with some idea to disrupt them. The river is already frozen. How will we get them there?"

	There was a moment of silence, and then Naha grinned. "Where we come from, a river doesn't have to be liquid to be sailed on. Have you ever heard of an ice boat?"

	Along with the rest of the "advance party," Harry stood on the ice in front of a crowd of the citizens of Castell City, gathered for a grand send-off, eager to see the new novelty. Despite insulated boots, his feet were freezing. Although he had grown up on the Great Lakes, he was always more of a town kind of a guy, and had never gone in for camping or ice fishing or anything like that.

	The four ice boats were each about thirty feet in length, and crewed by six men apiece. Sheriff Sorensen stood in the first boat, Harry climbed into the second, and each of the other boats held at least one Deputy, duly appointed by Mayor Naha to enforce all laws and especially property rights. The other crewmembers were engineers and surveyors who would begin laying out the new community.

	The Harmonies would not allow their funds to be used in purchasing weapons, but seeing where their best interests laid, the merchant's society had raised funds to arm the party, and Harry had a new bolt action rifle at his side. The stated purpose of those guns was for hunting and protection from wild animals, but it was clear they could have other uses as well.

	First Deacon Kev Malcolm represented the Harmonies, and gave a nice speech, wishing the contingent a harmonious and safe journey. Mayor Naha rose to the occasion, and had the crowds laughing and cheering for the success of the new town. Preacher Jackson offered a blessing himself. Harry didn't give a shit about the speeches, he just wanted to get going.

	The ice boats had colorful sails, bright to make it easier to keep track of each other, and as they were unfurled, they added to the festive nature of the occasion. There was a stiff breeze out of the north, and Harry was surprised to learn that the boats could move at a pretty quick pace. He hadn't moved this fast since he had left the shuttle T-months ago. Soon he was whooping like a kid along with the others, and Castell City was soon lost from sight behind them. Harry would miss Erica, but she had packed him a number of bottles of her best whiskey, and whispered promises of what kind of welcome he could look forward to the next time they were together.

	Deacon Miller stood on the quay wall in Docktown in front of the first of the completed rafts, now being loaded for their journey. The great day had arrived. Spring was in the air, heather was blooming, and despite the continuing chill in the air, the river was running, open and unimpeded by ice.

	Lieutenant Frasier bent his neutrality enough to report that a recent supply run to his Minerstown Marine contingent had seen open water for the entire length of the river. Both Byers' Star and Cat's Eye were in the sky, and it was the start of a brightday, when the rosy glow made it almost possible to forget how harsh Haven could be. Docktown was bustling, as the last supplies were loaded aboard the rafts. Captain Doyle and Captain "Mike" were in the steamboats lashed to the first raft, which would also carry the planning committee—himself, Mayor Naha, Preacher Jackson, Jonnie Johnson, Brunet and Deacon Miller.

	The march of the "Chosen" through the streets had become a parade, led by a band that included, among other instruments, a cornet, an Irish fiddle, a Klezmer clarinet and some odd Asian stringed doohickey. They had found a musical compromise in an old American spiritual, and the people around them sang along; "Oh, them golden slippers ... " The band was followed by the livestock that was accompanying the first group, mostly working horses and mules, but with some barnyard animals among them. Some of the horses were skittish with all the excitement, and braying mules added to the general din.

	This group was probably going to be easier to manage than following groups, as it consisted of mostly tradesmen and farmers, serious folks that had some hard tasks ahead of them. But even they had joined in with the spirit, and smiled and laughed as they headed toward the pier, their belongings bundled on their backs.

	On the pier, one of the men approached Deacon Miller, and asked, "Brother Moses, which raft is Shop Four assigned to?"

	As Miller sputtered indignantly into a cup of Eggbush tea, Preacher Jackson leaned in and interjected, "Raft Three."

	As the man walked off, Miller called out to him, "Who told you my name was Brother Moses?"

	The man turned and pointed to the preacher, who had a huge grin on his face.

	"Well, you never shared your first name with us, so we had to guess. What is your given name, anyhow?"

	Miller replied, "Abraham," and flushed as the group burst into laughter. "Father of the Chosen People," howled the preacher. "Even more appropriate."

	Spring had finally arrived at the site of the new Minerstown, and Harry didn't think that anyone in the advance party was gladder than him to see the open water on the river, and know that the rafts were soon to arrive. The winds had been with them almost the entire way, blowing strongly out of the west. The ice boat trip had taken only twelve days, and they were fun days for Harry and the other boat crewmen.

	But once they reached their goal, Harry had spent some of the most miserable T-weeks of his life. He had to sneak whiskey behind the backs of the others, which he thought would make it last longer, but even still, it ran out far too quickly. There was a lot of brute force labor required to fell trees and build a shelter that would be adequate against the cold of the Haven winter. And after that, cutting and splitting firewood was a daily occurrence. Hunting parties, cutting through the ice to draw water from the river, scouting the area, none of these were tasks that Harry enjoyed.

	They had found the new Marine contingent just up the river, and at one point, Harry had volunteered to make contact with the Kennicott camp. Because the miners didn't want to make too many waves early on, they decided to limit their meetings to management officials. And while Harry reported back the hostility of the mining company, he used this as an opportunity to open some secret side discussions, as he had been coached by Erica and the mining official, Peltz. He didn't much like Peltz, but Erica had made him understand just what kind of benefits they could reap by playing both ends against the middle.

	But all that was behind him now. Spring was in the air, and soon he would be seeing Erica again.

	After all the preparations, the trip down the river was finally underway. Deacon Miller had never spent any time on the water, so this was all new to him. On good days, being on the water was a glorious experience, watching the banks of the river slide by, the air crisp and clear. But in bad weather, the days were miserable in ways that put a bad day on shore to shame. They couldn't raise awnings, as the sail effect played havoc with navigation, so the cold spring rains were miserable. The proximity to the water kept everything damp for hours and even days. Stack gas from the steamboats often blew across the rafts, bringing coughs and watering eyes.

	This got worse as they progressed down river, and started burning green wood gathered off the banks. But the trip would have been impossible without that green wood, and fuel turned out to be an area where they lucked out. Only once, when they were passing through a stretch of grasslands, did they have to borrow wood from the rafts to keep going.

	The food was primarily protein paste, and even with boards across the massive egg tree logs, the rafts were uncomfortable places to sleep. Water was collected at the bow of the first raft, and passed back as needed. The heads were located on the stern of the rafts, and consisted of rude shelters that hung over the end of the raft, which many men ignored, although they soon learned the full import of the old sailor's term "pissing to windward."

	Toward the end of the first day out, they had their first casualty. A miner was trying to get around some others, walking on the last log on the edge of the raft. He slipped and tumbled into the water. Before anyone could even reach out to him, he began to scream, the water filled with blood, and within a minute he was gone. Captain Doyle later explained that in many spots along the river, there were schools of what he called 'razor fish,' nasty creatures that threatened anyone who entered the water. The occupants of the rafts moved toward the center after that, and treated the river with more respect.

	Miller found the steamboats fascinating. Jonnie Johnson did also, and spent hours explaining to the Deacon how they were constructed, and how they worked. The boats were of local manufacture, a standard design about twelve meters long and four broad. One of the few successful bureaucratic initiatives of the Bureau of Relocation was the Indigenous Manufacture Program, or IMP, which had sent designs to the outworlds for simple machinery and devices. Printed on plasticized paper, and accompanied by books on basic trades and manufacture, these guides had been a great boon to progress on worlds too poor to import Earth technology on a continuing basis. The steamboats were among the many successful IMP designs, and had already begun to support a vigorous trade on the rivers of the Shangri-La Valley.

	As handy as they were, however, the steamboats were not designed for tug work. They sometimes had difficulty changing the course of the rafts, and it seemed like much of their effort was expended pushing the bows to either direction to keep them on track. The bows of the open steamboats had been reinforced for this purpose with heavy rope cushions and extra bracing.

	On occasion, a raft would catch up on a bar, the others would be anchored, and all six steamboats would be used to remove the passengers to lighten the raft, and then to pull it clear. Fortunately for the travelers, the Xanadu was much broader and more forgiving than the Jordan River that stretched east of Castell City. A trip of this scale, moving upstream on the narrow and often rocky Jordan, would have been impossible.

	Miller had some rather disgusted reports from Raft Three, where all the livestock was carried, in an area floored by lumber and surrounded by a sturdy fence. This naturally made the raft the least desirable one to be aboard, and there was much rude teasing of those who traveled with the beastly cargo. One farmer had wanted to save the manure the livestock produced for the fields at their destination, but he was soon overruled. The manure was shoveled ashore during rest stops, and mounded with seeds from BuReloc terraforming stocks. Weeds that would push out the Haven wildlife, and make this planet more hospitable for the spread of colonists.

	During rest stops, there were some mishaps as newcomers learned the dangers of plants like firegrass and pricklebushes. One of the guards bagged a cliff lion as it stalked the outskirts of their camp, and a few smaller animals were shot and found to be edible. There were a few fights, and arguments over assigned chores, but Miller noticed that the same spirit that had animated the group during their departure continued to dominate their moods. And he never would have thought he would enjoy sleeping on the ground, but found it a vast improvement over sleeping on the raft.

	It was also a pleasure to get out and walk about. Haven was not a pretty planet, but here on the riverbanks, surrounded by trees and vegetation, it was almost pleasant, and Miller imagined the towns that might grow near these convenient landing spots in the coming years.

	Twelve T-days out from Castell City, Miller was aboard Captain Doyle's boat, lashed to the bow of Raft One. Suddenly, the steamboat that was scouting the river ahead of them started blowing its steam whistle over and over.

	"Get those lines off," barked Doyle. "Stoke her and get her as hot as you can." He threw a lever forward, and the water behind the steamboat began to churn, the propeller cavitating, momentarily spinning too fast to be effective. Before long, they were moving quickly ahead.

	The boat ahead of them began to list. "Must've hit a rock," Doyle said to no one in particular.

	The damaged steamboat began to settle in the water, and the screaming began. Because of the heavy iron boiler, it went down fast. The razor fish were obviously plentiful in these waters, and by the time the solemn boat crew was alongside the site of the incident, there were only stains of blood and soot in the water to mark its passing. The river had claimed four more victims.

	It was exactly twenty T-days after their departure from Castell City when the rafts passed the Kennicott camp, and Deacon Miller and the others found their presence greeted by sullen stares from guards posted along the river. The occupants of the rude structures of the camp looked curiously at the passersby. Miller wondered how much information about this new venture that Kennicott had shared with their workers.

	A half mile further down, a log palisade marked the CoDominium Marine detachment, its eagle, hammer and sickle flag flapping over a guard tower. There, the rafts got a wave and a sardonic salute from the corporal who climbed into the tower after being called by the sentry.

	A freshly constructed dock was their first sign of the new town, and cheers broke out on the rafts. The remains of the ice boats were on the bank above the dock, and their bright sails had been converted into flags to greet the newcomers. For two dozen men, the advance party made a lot of noise, and they were answered by the roar of over a thousand in reply.

	Before long, they had tied off, and the crowds eagerly left the rafts and flooded the shore with people. Mayor Naha climbed up on top of a crate, and made a speech, thanking any and everyone for their hard work. A work party piled other boxes around him, and he cried out so that all could hear. "As my first act in our new home, I am authorizing the issue to each man of two bottles. These will be used to store and carry water and other liquid refreshment. Don't break them, because you'll not get a replacement. Before we left, I made sure that each bottle was filled appropriately, with beer from Harp's Pub, we kept them busy for weeks with the brewing. Slainte!"

	This was greeted by a huge cheer, and a great party broke out. Music and song rang out from every corner of the camp. The party was conducted among the stringing of tents and the digging of latrines, and the only food was protein paste, but it was a party nonetheless. That beer trick had taken quite a commitment of resources, and a lot of deception and secrecy was required to ensure the beer would survive the trip. But if Mayor Naha could keep engineering pleasant surprises like this, his popularity could carry him through years in office.

	Back in Castell City, Erica continued her liaison with Martin Peltz. The man offered her financial support for the information he wanted from her, and from their discussions, she began to see his intentions toward the new town. At this point, there wasn't much he could do to stop the venture, so his aim was to harass their efforts, and do what he could to limit the impact they would have on the mining operation and their profit margin.

	Their sexual relationship continued, and that she found extremely satisfying, to say the least. They both had a taste for rough sex, and took turns in the dominant role. After years of only enjoying playing the top, she found herself craving the bottom role, trembling and eager to please him. Although she did draw the line, and refuse to play the bottom whenever members of her staff were also part of the fun. She had an image to maintain, and didn't want to undermine her authority.

	Ineed to be careful with this relationship, she thought. Over time, I might forget the boundaries between fun and business.

	Two days after their arrival, Deacon Miller watched as a small group approached from the Kennicott camp. Miller recognized two of them, an older American woman named Marian, and a Latino woman named Lucinda. They were with three other men. One was a hunched and crippled man who walked painfully with a cane, who was introduced as Jack. The other two were introduced as Rocky and Kim, and helped Jack as he navigated the path. The two women brightened when they saw Miller, pleased to see someone they knew among the strangers.

	The visitors were ushered into a tent with the planning committee, and were briefed on the new town, its purpose, and its goals.

	"We thought that was what was going on," Marian answered, "although Kennicott has done their level best to confuse things for us. And you say that new Marine contingent is here for us, not just to keep us in line? Will wonders never cease."

	"How have things been since I left?" Miller asked.

	"Rough," she said. "They've used everything except whips to keep us working hard, and every penny you make goes right back into the company store if you want to keep from starving and keep decent clothes on your back. We haven't been able to organize, can't have spokesmen, can't gather in any groups at all except at the work sites. We do what we can to keep a cell structure going to pass the word, and cooperate where we can to make our lives easier."

	She paused for a minute, her voice catching. "Oh my God, we're so glad you are here."

	The older man, Jack, began to weep quietly.

	Marian went on. "You didn't meet Jack last time you were here, did you Deacon Miller? He's the union man, Jack Bronstein, who organized the strike that the Marines broke. The Company men tried to convince us to blame him for the strike, but Lucinda and I pulled him away from the mob and hid him from the Company. And I will never forget how Yolanda stood over him and fought off the others—no one better piss off Big Momma!"

	Deacon Miller put his hand on Jack's shoulder. "In that case," he said, "I guess we need to welcome him to Minerstown. May you find the harmony here that has eluded you in the past."

	"Harmony, eh?" replied Jack. "Used to think that life was all about conflict between folks that had nothing in common. But seeing where that has led me, I may give some thought to this Harmony stuff."

	Harry was excited to get the hell out of the barracks, and back to Castell City. The leaders had decided to bring six of the Deputies back in the steamboats, so they could enforce rules aboard the rafts. In addition to keeping order on the rafts, the extra weapons could help in protecting the emigrants during stops ashore.

	Harry was sick of being crowded in with the other men and their body odors. He couldn't admit it to the others, but the first few days after his whiskey had run out had been agonizing. He craved a drink so bad he could taste it. Those two beers when the rafts had arrived had only whetted his appetite, and reminded him of what he was missing.

	And he craved women. It was all he dreamed of. He fantasized about screwing his way through every woman at Erica's, saving her for dessert. He wondered how many women she would allow him when he returned. He had certainly given her what she had asked for and then some. He could see how valuable his presence in the town government would be for her and her enterprises in the future.

	But most of all, he found himself having doubts and fears about what Erica thought of him, and what his place was in her life. He would have to have been a fool to miss the connection she had developed with Peltz. Harry hated to admit it, but it was clear that he needed her more than she needed him, and that rankled him. He needed to see her to be sure she still cared about him.

	When the time came for the steamboats to leave for Castell City, Mayor Naha and Jonnie Johnson stayed behind to lead the construction efforts, while Deacon Miller and Preacher Jackson boarded the steamboats for the trip back. They traveled with Captain Doyle, and it proved to be a delightful journey, with Doyle's fiddle and Jackson's voice to entertain them. A couple of deputies, Davis and Fischer also rode back with them. Miller learned more than a few new songs, many of them about redemption, and more than a few about rivers, which seemed to be a recurring image in both Jackson's singing and preaching.

	During one dimday, as the tree-lined riverbanks slid past them to either side, Miller was approached by one of the deputies, Harry Davis.

	"So," the man asked, "what got you transported to this hell-hole?" he asked.

	"I didn't get transported," answered Deacon Miller, "I came with the New Harmony Church, as a voluntary emigrant."

	Harry looked at him in surprise. "Sorry if this question pisses you off, but just what do you see in that outfit? You seem like a pretty practical guy, and with all their mooning about, and strange songs, they seem like a pretty odd bunch."

	Miller seemed thoughtful, hesitant to answer, but he did. "I was abused as a child, and spent more time than I should have on my own, out on the street. A Harmony preacher took me in, got me out of the weather, gave me a life, and a purpose. They may not seem too worldly, but that's the worlds problem, not theirs. It's sad that the people who believe in peace, and love, and harmony are the ones that look like oddballs, and have to keep themselves walled up away from the world."

	With an edge in his voice, Miller continued. "And it's a crime that those who believe in hatred, and cruelty, and wallow in vices, are the ones that walk the streets. But you know that. I saw your resume, I know you spent years as a cop back on Earth. Deacons and Beadles in the Harmony Church may have religious titles, but our duties have more than a little of the cop in them. Our business is not too different."

	Harry nodded. He thought about the street kids he had dealt with during his years on the force, and how so many of them gave into a life of vice and crime. He thought about the drive of those few he had met who climbed their way off the streets. The story explained the young Deacon's intensity, and despite his practical nature, his devotion to the Church.

	Harry thought back to the reasons he had become a cop. Then he thought about how far he had fallen from those ideals, and for a moment, he felt ashamed of what he had become. The Deacon had crawled out of a hole, while Harry had willingly crawled into one.

	Davis wasn't the only one who approached Miller for conversation. The Deacon and Preacher Jackson had more than a few theological discussions, with Jackson warning him that the Harmonies were growing a bit too comfortable with political power and CoDominium backing.

	"The Creator," Jackson said, "is no friend to tyranny, and those religions that traffic with power turn their backs on the people. I'm not criticizing your religion, heck, the Creator is so huge that none of us really has a corner on defining Him and his wishes. But in my mind, you're not heading in the right direction in your methods, no matter how noble your goals are."

	These talks gave Miller much to think about. One day, he asked Jackson why he planned to stay in Minerstown among all the riff raff and sinners. "Where better to spread the word of the Lord," the man replied, "than among those who ignore him?"

	Miller remembered the Harmony Compound in Castell City, and wondered how long it had been since Charles Castell had left it. Surrounded by his acolytes and favorites, Miller wondered how much he really understood about the situation on Haven. Oh well, he thought, at least I'm doing something to make it better.

	Erica met Harry with great enthusiasm when they returned. She plied him with whiskey, took him to her bed, and then set him up in a room with girl after girl, until he pleaded with them to stop coming. His time in Castell City went by in a happy haze of booze and lust. He began to regain confidence in his relationship with Erica, who seemed truly happy to see him, and eager for the time when both of them would end their journeys in the new town.

	The night before he left, she pulled out a knapsack.

	"This can't go through inspection on the raft," she said. "So since you won't be searched, I need you to bring it aboard." She gave him instructions on delivering it to one of the farmers when he arrived in Minerstown.

	"What is it?" he asked.

	"Better that you don't know, my love," she replied.

	And because of all the attention she had given him, he was willing to trust that. She took him to bed, and when they were done, gave him a kiss goodbye. He picked up the bag and left.

	Those poppy seeds, she thought, and the opium they produce, are going to create a major new revenue stream when we arrive down south.

	The second trip, from a navigational standpoint, went even better than the first. The steamboat crews had begun to get the hang of pushing the ungainly rafts in the right direction. They brought back some outdoorsmen to teach the emigrants the ways of the wild, which kept more of them out of trouble during shore-side rest stops.

	But this group was a more diverse group, with more townspeople, less miners, and more of the folks that chafed under Harmony rules, and who naturally rebelled against the regimentation required to spend time on a raft in cramped quarters. The two deputies per raft helped, but were nowhere near enough of a presence to maintain order. While the same spirit of excitable chaos permeated the group as it did on the first trip, chaos was still chaos.

	Miller and Jackson found that much of their time was spent soothing hurt feelings and resolving arguments. The 100-person shop concept, which had proven effective for the first rafts, often broke down, and protests went to the highest level.

	On the second day of the trip, Deacon Miller was summoned to a crying woman. The young man beside her was saying, "Why didn't you tell me? You know you shouldn't have come on this trip."

	"But I needed to get away from momma, I couldn't let her know."

	It turned out she was pregnant, not showing too much, but eight months along, and whether anyone liked it or not, it was time. Up until now she had kept that pregnancy a secret, although Miller thought the boyfriend must be pretty dim not to have seen the signs. There was no doctor on the trip, none could be lured from Castell City, so they summoned the nurse practitioner who provided medical care.

	Six brutal hours later, it was over. The girl's cries had died down to a dull moaning. There was no cry from the baby—like so many on Haven, it was stillborn. Since the youngsters were Christian, Preacher Jackson offered them comfort, and presided over the burial the next time they pulled alongshore.

	Deacon Miller found himself deeply troubled. Would the first generation on Haven also be the last? With so few children being born, how could a normal society be built? Was this a sign that their presence on Haven disturbed creation's harmony, and was the planet itself trying to restore the balance? He hoped that someone would be able to solve the problem—this world was filled with too much pain, and this was the ultimate loss.

	A few days later, Miller found himself called to a crying mother and daughter, and a sullen man held between a group of other men. To his horror, he soon realized that he was dealing with a case of molestation, that the man had attempted to rape the little girl while she and her mother lay sleeping.

	Soon, he found himself surrounded by an angry crowd, which was starting to get ugly. At some point, however, he was joined by Preacher Jackson, who worked with the crowd, and Captain Doyle, wearing a pistol and accompanied by Deputy Davis and two armed crewmembers. Doyle listened to the statements of the mother, the suspect, and then the little girl. He turned to Miller and said, "I've got this one," and climbed up on a wooden box.

	"As you know, as Captain of this vessel, I have the power to enforce discipline, and keep the peace. This man," and here he pointed at the suspect, "has disturbed that peace, and while I don't have the power to impose punishment, I do have the authority to remove him from this vessel, and put him ashore."

	Deacon Miller gasped. They were hundreds of kilometers away from the nearest civilization. This was virtually a death sentence. But then he thought about it some more. He had been a victim of some pretty vile treatment when he was young, and the scars of that treatment had followed him throughout his life. This was not the Harmony way, but it felt right. So he kept his mouth shut, and limited his involvement in the situation to ensuring the man left with a box of matches, a kitchen knife, and a blanket in addition to his other possessions.

	The man did not go gracefully. He cried for mercy, and when there was none, howled with anger. He tried playing the victim, he tried logic, he tried threats—but to no avail. Doyle loaded him onto his steamboat, and drove him to shore. The man fought Deputy Davis and the crewmember when they dragged him ashore, and wrestled with them when they removed his bonds. Deacon Miller hardened his heart to the screams that slowly faded behind them.

	When Doyle returned, he took Miller aside. "Someone had to play the heavy there, that was nothing to fool around with. If he had been around much longer, he would have been a victim to mob justice. And once that cat is out of the bag, there is no putting it back again. You Harmonies have trouble playing the heavy, even when it's required."

	Davis nodded in agreement, "It had to be done," he said.

	Miller thanked them, although his heart was heavy.

	Minerstown was humming when Harry stepped ashore. There was construction everywhere. His first stop, as he had promised Erica, was to deliver the package to the farmer. He got the impression that, whatever was in the package, he had done something of great benefit to Erica and her interests.

	He went to the site where Erica's new place was under construction. Because of her contributions to the emigration effort, it was one of the buildings that was at the top of the priority list. It almost looked like there would be a roof over it by the time she arrived.

	The happiest moment of all was when Harry found a tent where someone was already serving local booze. It tasted pretty hideous, but it was drinkable, and it had a satisfying kick to it. Once the women came down on the next trip, all would be right with the world.

	Deacon Miller was amazed at how much had happened in the new town in only six short weeks. The main street leading down to the docks was already taking shape, and some low buildings were already under construction. A steam engine, imported from Castell City, had already become the heart of a sawmill, and heavy logs were dragged by mules from the newly cleared fields to be cut into lumber. The giant rafts from the first trip were already gone, cut into hundreds of planks and beams. A blacksmith shop was in full operation. Nearer the river, where buildings could not be set into the ground because of the water table, there were raised platforms, now with tents atop them, but which would soon become homes, shops and warehouses.

	Everyone who arrived at Minerstown was obligated to work for the common good during that first summer, and that meant everyone. Even the merchants who had commissioned buildings were put to work on those buildings themselves, or depending on their skills, helping someone else with another task. This frenzy of activity served to keep everyone too busy, and too tired at the end of the day, to cause much trouble.

	Some of the miners from the Kennicott camp had walked out on the company and joined the building efforts. Other newcomers had been released from their duties to take positions with Kennicott, with the proviso that their wages during that first summer would come back to town for the common good. Reports were that Kennicott had given in to demands for higher wages in order to keep the remaining miners, and were even allowing organization of the workers, and entertaining inputs from workers councils and representatives.

	After a few whirlwind days, Miller, Jackson and Davis again found themselves aboard Captain Doyle's tug, and fell into comfortable companionship. The preacher would get Miller's goat by singing songs about Moses with a wry grin on his face, and would only quit when threatened by a rap from Miller's walking staff.

	Harry was back in Castell City, and it was almost time for the final trip. Erica's place was already closed up, so he sat in another bar down by Docktown, one that still had furniture, and booze behind the counter. He was surrounded by others who were also leaving in the morning, departing in the last group of rafts that would be traveling to the new town. Erica was not with him, she had told him to go have fun while she finished packing. Besides, she had told him, now that he was a law man, they had to keep their distance, at least in public.

	A man came up to Harry, and invited him to join someone in a dark booth in the back of the bar. A large man sat there, his face in the shadows. There was a bottle of whiskey in front of him, and as Harry sat down, he poured a drink and pushed it across the table.

	"Hello, Harry," he said.

	Harry recognized him. "Oh, hello Peltz," he said. Peltz was an ally of Erica's, but not one that had gained Harry's full approval. And if Erica couldn't be seen with Harry, it would be even worse for him to be seen with a Kennicott representative.

	"Whadaya want?" Harry slurred.

	"I have a package here," said Peltz, gesturing to a gym bag on the bench beside him, "that needs to be delivered to the new town. Erica and her people can't take it, because they are subject to search when they board. But you can come and go as you please."

	"What is it? asked Harry.

	"You don't need to know, and probably don't want to know," answered Peltz. "But trust me, it will be well worth your while to transport it. I'll make sure that you get a house of your own in the new town. You must be sick of living in the new barracks, and it certainly would not go over well to have you living with Erica."

	Harry nodded. After all, this wouldn't be the first mystery package he had delivered.

	"Besides," said Peltz, "you don't want to be too dependent on Erica. You are a powerful man, and need to show the world that you stand on your own two feet. And I can help you with that. This can be a personal side deal between you and me—she doesn't even need to know about it."

	Harry nodded again. The guy was making sense. Erica was treating him well, but it wasn't good for a man to be too dependent on a woman, hell, to be too dependent on anyone.

	"Done," he replied, reaching across the table to clasp Peltz's hand.

	Peltz smiled. "When do you leave?" he asked.

	"Tomorrow at 0700. The leaders have a meeting on the dock at 0600, and a half hour later, we board the rafts."

	"That's what I thought," answered Peltz. "Then everything is all set. Good luck."

	Peltz turned and left through the kitchen and back door.

	Harry looked at his watch. He'd better get going. Like some of the other Deputies, he had decided to sleep onboard the raft, so he'd be there first thing in the morning to start his duties. He picked up the bag, and carried it out the door.

	After a few blocks, the bag began to get heavy, and he realized he was next to the last bar before the docks. The doors opened to the Away Spot as a patron left, and the smell of booze and muskylope steak wafted out the door, along with music and a happy buzz of conversation.

	A few more drinks won't hurt me, he thought as he walked in and ordered a whiskey.

	A few hours later, the bartender pointed into the back booth, where Harry slumped against the wall, snoring loudly. "What should we do with him?" he asked.

	"Ah, hell," said the owner, "just another drunk sleepin' it off. He looks too heavy to carry. Throw a blanket over him, and we'll head for home. When he wakes up, he can let hisself out."

	In the dim light of dawn, Harry woke with a start. He looked at his watch and cursed. 0613. He was already late for the goddamn meeting. He grabbed his bag, and headed for the door of the bar, but at 0615 the timer in the bag clicked over, and ten kilos of plastic explosive went off.

	Harry and the interior of the bar were consumed by the blast, and burning debris rained down on nearby buildings.

	Deacon Miller looked up in surprise at the sound of the explosion, and all heads turned for shore. A plume of black smoke rose in the morning air above Docktown. Fire bells began to ring.

	The others turned to him. "What do we do?" they asked. "Should we delay our departure and help?"

	He thought about it and shook his head. "No, let's slip our lines. The town will be getting along without us eventually, they might as well start now. If we let people go now, there will be hell to pay getting them gathered up and back aboard. And it will be tough enough to keep this crowd under control without having them sit for hours, waiting to see what happened."

	So, with a mystery behind them, the rafts slipped their lines. Smoke belched from the stacks of the steamboats around them, and the occupants of the rafts coughed as the smoke blew over them. Propellers churned the river water, and slowly, the rafts gained momentum, and the town grew smaller behind them. Their journey had begun.

	Miller saw the madam, Erica, talking to one of the Deputies. After she went back to her place, he went to the man and asked him what she had said.

	"She was wondering where Deputy Davis was, sir," the man answered.

	Miller realized that was a good question. But he knew the man had a reputation for drinking, and wouldn't be surprised if he had missed the boats, He sighed with disappointment. He hated to see people fall victim to their vices, but it wouldn't be the first time. And if the man had ties to the madam, perhaps he wasn't the best choice to be a law enforcement official.

	After the excitement of their departure, however, the third trip was even more stressful than the second. Deacon Miller found himself dealing with many of the malcontents that he had punished during their early days as incoming transportees, and more than a few who had spent time in Castell City's jail. Not to mention prostitutes that expected to continue to ply their trade, even in the exposed conditions of the open rafts. Even a conversation with the Erica woman hadn't stopped that, although she tried to stop what she referred to as "freelancing."

	This time they even had to deal with a murder, a knifing and theft. It took a few hours, and some searching ordered by Captain Doyle to solve. Doyle issued the same sentence he had on the previous trip, and Deacon Miller found he had not a single regret over this decision. He often felt uneasy with the middle ground that he navigated between pacifism and violence, and wondered if he still was, if he ever had been, a true pacifist.

	And all through the journey, Miller heard singing. Preacher Jackson didn't do much actual preaching, but his songs sure did spread the word for him. Although Miller would never get used to the way people looked at him as they sang songs about the Promised Land and Moses. He certainly didn't want anyone to get the idea he was some sort of prophet—that was the sort of activity that would not go over well with Reverend Castell and the other Deacons. He was just a man, trying to do his part to bring more harmony to a world that so desperately needed it.

	When the last of the rafts arrived, they found a feast awaiting them. Amazingly enough, Miller found there was already alcohol available, although it was of a type that required mixing to be palatable. The new town finally had all of its inhabitants. In a few days, Deacon Miller would board Captain Doyle's steamboat for one last trip, and make his way back to Castell City, saying goodbye to Preacher Jackson, the proud new Mayor, Jonnie Johnson and all the others he had worked with side by side.

	The leaders in Castell City might see this as the dumping of undesirables, but Miller was proud of what they had achieved. Most of these people had not asked to come to Haven, had their lives destroyed by BuReloc. But here they were, celebrating the birth of something new. And Miller couldn't help but think, despite all its warts, and all the sinners collected here, it could become something good.

	Erica stood among a happy and boisterous crowd. She felt a glow of satisfaction. There was already a new "Erica's" on a side street a the south end of town. And she had a financial stake in two bars, and a gambling hall that was competing for construction workers with a host of other projects.

	The inhabitants of the town had decided that one more task remained to be completed. No one seemed to like the name Minerstown, so the planning committee gathered one final time, along with representatives from the various 'shops' that still provided a loose organization for construction efforts.

	Erica stood in the crowd that gathered around that outdoor meeting, beside one of the Deputy Sheriffs, a German man named Fischer. He was tall, muscular, blond and handsome, and glanced at her from time to time with infatuated eyes. She had begun flirting with him on the journey down the river. And it turned out, as gorgeous as the man was, his upbringing had been strict.

	So in the few days since she had arrived, she had been able to completely win him over, opening his eyes to acts he had never dreamed of. She sometimes wondered what had ever happened to Harry, but with his drinking and moodiness, she had known for some time he would have to be replaced. And this handsome young stud was certainly a step in the right direction.

	Under the cover of customers for her brothel, Kennicott had already gotten in touch with her, and information was flowing in both directions. She had re-established her link with law enforcement and the town government, not just with Fischer, but a couple of other notables as well. She was being looked up to as a leader among the local business community, who didn't care how she earned money, just admired her ability to make lots of it. Erica could almost feel the power in the air, shifting in her direction. Life was good.

	Deacon Miller looked around the crowd. Mayor Naha was, of course, at the center of things. There were some representatives from the Kennicott camp workers there, Bronstein, Lucinda, and even Yolanda, whose voice didn't make it hard to figure out where the nickname "Big Momma" came from. There was even a representative from the CoDominium detachment watching over the proceedings.

	For names, Preacher Jackson suggested "Canaan." Someone suggested "Moses," but that died with a harsh look from Deacon Miller. Himself, Miller suggested, "Counterpoint," and tried to explain how the new town and Castell City represented different melodies that would interact in the future, but no one seemed to understand what he was getting at.

	A cry of "Kennicott Vale," the Company's term for the area, was greeted with derision, and may not have even been serious in the first place. There were other ideas thrown out, some serious, but more and more sarcastic, or even ribald suggestions.

	Suddenly, Big Momma saw the CoDo Marine and his uniform. "Oh, God," she boomed. "Hell's-A-Comin'." Her friends tried to reassure her that he meant no harm, and explained to the crowd around them that her last encounter with the Marines was a traumatic one. But she kept repeating the phrase again and again. "Hell's-A-Comin', Hell's-A-Comin'."

	Suddenly, someone else took up the phrase, and then another, and then another. For whatever reason, this cynical name seemed to appeal to the crowd, cast-offs in a world of throwaways.

	Always the politician, Mayor Naha saw which way the current was flowing, jumped up and called for a voice vote. The crowd stopped chanting "Hell's-A-Comin'" only long enough to cry with one voice, "Aye!" The new town had its name.

	Brother Miller sighed and rubbed a tired forehead. How am I going to explain this, he thought, to Reverend Castell when I get home.

Epilogue

	Ronald Waddell and Martin Peltz sat at the conference table in their headquarters building at the Kennicott Mining Camp.

	"I'm not going to repeat this again," snapped Peltz. "I wish the bomb idea had worked, too, but getting a bomb in the right place at the right time is tough, especially when you want to target the leadership of an operation. I thought I had a perfect inside man for that third trip, but the idiot must have gotten drunk and missed his boat."

	"I just don't see there's much I can do to turn things around at this point," complained Waddell. "These wages are killing us. The mines are still wildly profitable, but we are laying out far more money than the corporation projected to operate them. And no matter what the situation is here on the ground, those projections are what they measure my performance by. With alternative places to live, and other jobs to go to, the workers can afford to be picky. Our camp is full again, but only because we are offering room and board as a perk, on top of salaries."

	"I understand," said Peltz, "but you need to stand up, be a man, and continue to fight this every way you can."

	"But that CoDo Lieutenant is taking their side, too," Waddell said.

	"Not taking their side," answered Peltz, "He's too smart for that. But he sure as hell isn't taking our side. You won't be able to use the Marines the way we did last time we had trouble, you will have to be more subtle. Use the channels I opened with that whore, Erica, and her people. Undermine the mayor and his people politically. Squeeze them every way you can, fight them with every trick in the book, use every loophole you can find."

	"Don't you mean, WE will have to do those things?" Waddell asked.

	"No," replied Peltz, "I'm heading home to Earth with our next hafnium shipment. I need to brief Mr. DeSilva on this. They want to play by the CoDominium book, Mr. DeSilva knows the people that wrote the book. And can rewrite it."

	Waddell looked at Peltz, and tried not to shiver. The Haveners had made some new and powerful enemies, and might soon find their cleverness coming back to bite them.

 

ON JORDAN'S STORMY BANKS
A.L. Brown

ASTRONOMY LESSON
Class Notes for Lecture #1, 
Applied Astronomy (Overview)
Second School, Castell City

All of you here were born and raised after our arrival on Haven. You have grown up with Cat's Eye as a normal presence in the sky and with Haven's climate, such as it is, surrounding you. Perhaps you have heard the old folks tell the tales of far-away Earth and other worlds, and perhaps you know that our system, the Byers System, was considered odd by the discoverers and founders. You know it, but you do not believe it because Haven is your home and your only basis for reference. By the time you finish this class you will not only believe, you will understand why it was considered strange and how that strangeness affects your lives.

As strange as the planetary arrangements of Byers' Star may have appeared to the early observers, it took close study to realize how really odd the system is. Only the fact that the Galaxy is thought to hold over 100 million stars makes the Byers System improbable rather than impossible, but even then it is a long shot. If you are capable of dealing with three impossible concepts before breakfast, you are ready to study the Byers System.

To start with, Cat's Eye, the largest planet in the system, should not exist where it is. Why? Because it is too close to our star. Less than 1.5 AU from Byers', it is well inside the Terrestrial Planet Zone and should have had all of its hydrogen blown away long before it could achieve a mass of 1.3 times that of Jupiter. But achieve that mass it did, and it almost made the system a binary star. Even now, it is unusually hot, with an effective temperature of over 650 degrees Celsius. The gravitational contraction of the interior, combined with the breakdown of the exceptionally high levels of natural radioactives at the core, has generated the heat we see leaking out from the roiling, glowing cloud-tops.

With that heat output, the planet can be considered a borderline brown dwarf, not quite hot enough to ignite hydrogen, or even deuterium, to start its nuclear fires burning. The planet is the only one within the borders of the CoDominium to approach brown dwarf status. The system would have been overrun with astronomers and theoretical physicists were it not for the appalling distance from Terra and the equally appalling transportation arrangements needed to travel there.

Haven is another rank improbability. Were it not for Cat's Eye, Haven would be almost as cold as Mars, the fourth planet of the Sol system, and as dead as Hel, the fifth planet of ours.

Averaging 1.4 AU distance from Byers' Star, Haven is well outside the narrow band that forms the ecosphere of a G-class dwarf. At that distance it gets only 55% of the amount of sunlight that falls on the Earth. As a historical comparison for those enrolled for a classic Terran education, remember that an estimated 1% change in the heat output received from Sol caused the two C estimated drop in the climate of the European subcontinent and led to the Little Ice Age. What keeps Haven from freezing solid is Cat's Eye.

First, the gas giant emits and reflects enough energy to provide Haven with between four and five percent additional heat input above that received from Byers' Star. Second, the tidal stress on Haven adds another few percent to the interior, keeping the oceans liquid all the way up to the polar caps, and even causing the ground itself to be somewhat warmer than would otherwise be the case. Not, as you well know, warm enough to warm your bottom, or even to melt snow, but, in a refined instrumental sense, warmer.

The tidal stress has caused Haven's core to remain more molten than expected, and has fostered extensive vulcanism and mountain building. One result is a plethora of geysers, warm springs, and geo thermal power sources which, alas, we do not have the technology to properly exploit. The vulcanism may even contribute to warming the planet by replenishing the several "greenhouse" gases found in the atmosphere.

Unlike Earth, Haven has a relatively low density. Perhaps, like Earth's Luna, it struck Cat's Eye a glancing blow early in the formation of the system and now represents just the lighter outer crust of its former self. This would explain the lack of heavy ores or radioactives and the relative dryness of the planet. Or perhaps the planet just formed in a metal and water poor portion of the proto-stellar disk and was later captured. Given the sadly reduced state of knowledge today, we shall probably never know.

The Byers System is thought to be relatively young, as these things go. Not over three billion years old. Cat's Eye undoubtedly shone much brighter in the recent past, and has still not had time to radiate away all its heat of formation. The wide range of sophisticated life forms on Haven points to a much warmer time and a complex ecology much winnowed by the encroaching cold. No coal or oil has been found, so the planet was never jungle-warm. But some low-grade peat deposits indicate that the northern plains of the main continent were once much warmer and wetter. Parts of the tundra and semi-arid steppe may even have been shallow marsh with tall reeds and tides which reached miles inland across the flat plain. Bones unearthed at the shimmer stone mines are those of giant muskylopes and dire lion, long extinct progenitors of the standard muskylope and cliff lion.

The future of life on Haven is as bleak as its once-verdant steppeland. Cat's Eye can warm it for a few hundred more millennia, but soon even that mighty heat source will cool and the cold will win. Life will be forced back into the tidally-heated oceans, to eke out a Spartan existence near cracks in the ice or fumaroles in the seabed. Until then, we go on living, fighting the cold and each other, secure in our little victories and the knowledge that the Fimbulwinter will not come in our brief lifetimes.

2047A.D., Earth

	"Sit down," said the small, pale man behind the large wooden desk. "Your name for this next mission will be Sergei, Sergei Pulatov. We will not attempt to hide the fact that you are Russian, only where your loyalties lie." He slid a packet of paper across the desk. "You will have four hours to study and memorize the contents of this folder, and then you will return it to me."

	Sergei smiled inside. He was not a tall man himself, but these case workers were always smaller, and their desks were always huge. And they always had a reek of vodka about them. As if the stresses of working in an office were anything like the stresses of working in the field. They were deep in the bowels of a large non-descript building in the middle of Moscow, and Sergei wondered if the case worker had ever done any duty outside this building, or just moved up the ranks of Federal Security Service by issuing orders to others. Sergei was a proud soldier, a Leytenant of the Spetsnaz, Spetsgruppa Vympel, and dealing with these FSB bureaucrats was one of the prices he and his brethren had to pay for their autonomy in the field.

	"You have done well in your last few missions, achieving your goals with good speed and little collateral damage. In fact, the record from your eighteen years of service has been commendable overall." the man said.

	Sergei nodded, thinking to himself about the blood left on his hands after those missions. To grow and thrive, Russia needed to eliminate those who threatened her stability, to find information on plots that threatened the Rodina. But even when the collateral damage was reduced, there was still a price.

	The man looked at him closely, "You have few ties at this point. Sad news about your parents. Your father was a pillar of the Navy." Sergei flinched at the thought of the terrorist attack that destroyed the family apartment in the heart of Saint Petersburg, the anger that followed, how it had fueled him through a mission to find and eliminate those same terrorists. "And you seem to have ended a relationship with a woman recently," the case worker went on.

	Sergei flushed with anger, and snapped back, "Her motivations were not what I thought. As soon as I was no longer son of the Admiral, she was no longer interested in me."

	The caseworker seemed to want to smile, but thought the better of it, and went on. "And your ties to your brother are not strong."

	Sergei thought of that older brother, in whose shadow he had grown, a cruel and ambitious man, rising quickly through the Navy's officer corps. Sergei tried to be a good uncle to his niece and nephew, but there was no love lost between the bothers, and nothing but pity for his sister-in-law.

	"Have you ever thought of taking a mission off-world?" asked the case worker. For the first time in the interview, Sergei became interested, keenly intent in what was being presented to him. From a young age, he had wanted to go into space, had read book after book on other worlds. But his father, the Admiral, was firm. The space services were an arm of the CoDominium, and no man in his family would ever serve as a tool of that corrupt alliance with the decadent Americans. So the dutiful son had followed his brother into the Russian armed services, and his only act of rebellion was to enlist rather than attend an academy and immediately join the officer corps. "Say more," he replied.

	The case worker noted his reaction with satisfaction. "There is a new world that has been discovered, Haven, actually a moon of a gas giant. The world is habitable, but barely so, and the CoDominium has been dumping religious fanatics and undesirables there. The planet does have some mineral wealth, and there is open activity by the American company, Kennicott Metals, mining hafnium. But another company, Dover Mineral Development, is also operating on the planet, and there are rumors of great sources of wealth. Which is where you come in.

	"We need to know if these rumors are true. We think that CoDominium bureaucrats with American sympathies are keeping information from us, information that will keep them, and their capitalist masters, wealthy beyond imagining. You have spent much of your service along the Arctic sea lanes, working on the frontier and in the wilderness. We need someone like you to go there, find out what is going on, and then use the methods described in your packet to get word back to us.

	"We have few agents on this world, and none of them have been able to uncover any of the information we need. If these rumors are true, and Haven is not just a dumping ground, but a source of riches, we will need to change the priorities of who we send there. Instead of riff raff, we will send good Russian settlers, military men and their families, forces who can seize control of the world. This will be a long mission, as it takes nearly a year simply to get to the planet, but we think you are the man for the job.

	"Are you willing to take this mission?" the bureaucrat asked.

	Sergei nodded, "Yes, I will go on your mission. He felt a surge of anticipation, a feeling he had not had in years.

	The case worker smiled, and replied, "Good. If it is necessary, we will make the rivers of this planet run with blood before we let it serve the rivals of the Rodina."

	Sergei's anticipation ebbed, and he felt a chill down his spine. Even though he was leaving the Earth, it appeared the price of his profession would be following.

2048 A.D., Haven

	Sergei stood on the gangway, breathing in the air of a new world. After nearly a year of shipboard stinks, it was a welcome relief. There was much that was strange in the air of Haven, but much familiar as well. The smell of a waterfront, the tangy scent of pine, the smell of wood fires. The air was crisp and cold—the crew had told them as they neared the planet that winter was approaching. He smiled for the first time in many days, a real smile that came from his soul. Thoughts of the mission would come later, now he would just enjoy the feeling of freedom. He grabbed his duffle, and turned around to the woman behind him; Pamela was her name, with a child on her hip.

	"Here, let me carry your bag."

	She smiled with relief. "Thank you so much. After all you have done to take care of me and my family and our friends on this trip, I don't know how I can ever repay you."

	He flinched a little at that. His heart had gone out to these people, the transportees torn from their homes. His orders were to draw no attention to himself. Besides his long ponytail and beard, shabby clothes and lack of possessions, his behavior was supposed to give no clue to his background. But there was so much theft, bullying and just plain violence on a CoDominium transport ship, he couldn't bear to stand aside and watch.

	A man could only read books, watch videos or do calisthenics for so long before he craved some meaningful task. So in at least a few compartments, there was some order, where women, children and their men could remain in peace.

	"Think nothing of it," he replied, "we transportees have to stick together."

	The sky had a reddish-gold glow to it, and he turned to see the huge disk of the gas giant, Cat's Eye, in the sky behind the shuttle. An amazing sight. It drove home the point that he was not in Russia anymore, not on Earth, light-years away from anything he had known.

	The first day ashore was a busy one. He was led to a long and low-ceilinged barracks building, filled with bunk beds. The room and its furnishings reminded him of the rustic dacha where he had spent so many summers in his youth. He picked the third and highest bunk in a far corner of the room. Sergei carefully marked where men he knew were bunking; those whom he liked and trusted, and those who bore watching. He put his bag in a cubbyhole that was marked with the same number as his bunk. He used the combination lock that they had issued him on the ship to secure his belongings. Issuing those locks to the transportees was a wise precaution for those who wished to cut down on thievery and keep the peace in tight quarters. Strong locks made for good neighbors.

	A large young man in a brown robe stood at the far side of the room, holding a quarterstaff and looking like he knew how to use it. He introduced himself as Deacon Miller, and gave the assembled men a briefing on their new lives. They were welcome to live in this barracks, with a bunk to call their own, and three meals a day, as long as they were willing to work eight hours a day, with one day out of every twelve a day of rest, in supporting public works projects, and the care and feeding of transportees.

	If they wanted to head out on their own at any time, they were welcome to do so, although the Deacon warned that doing so could easily result in their deaths from hunger and exposure. At the end of a standard T-year of satisfactory work, however, they could earn their place in a colonization program, be given a small supply of tools and provisions, and be sent out to one of the many new communities growing along the Shangri-La River valley.

	The Deacon tried to explain the days and nights on Haven, although his explanation left many of the transportees confused. A day-night cycle on Haven was long enough that the human settlers generally divided into four 'days' that were just shy of a Terran day in length. So you would spend two T-days in full daylight, followed by two days in at least partial darkness. This was further complicated by the fact that, during two of the three periods of darkness, the gas giant Cat's Eye was in the sky, far brighter than the brightest moon on Earth. The times when the sun was down, but Cat's Eye was in the sky, were known as "dimdays," while the times when both the sun and Cats Eye were down were known as "truenight."

	The fact that the skies were bright so much of the time was very favorable for the growing of crops brought from Earth, and one of the reasons this cold moon was habitable. Sergei looked at the heavy curtains on the windows of the barracks, and realized that their presence had just been explained. He also realized that the one day of rest every twelve days would probably be when the waking cycle occurred during a truenight, when it would be difficult to work on a planet where electric lights were rare.

	The Deacon spoke briefly about the Church of New Universal Harmony, and explained that anyone whose heart sent them in that direction would be welcomed into the church, but no one would be forced to join. He stated that there were a variety of other churches in the city, and that religious freedom was encouraged. Sergei wondered if there was an Orthodox Church among them—the chaplains aboard the transport ship had left much to be desired, most being of the irritating American fundamentalist variety.

	The Deacon grew serious. He went through a list of infractions and their consequences. The city had a rather large jail, with Deacons and Beadles providing law enforcement on the streets. While these officials bore religious titles, it appeared that their duties had become primarily secular. And even though the Deacons and Beadles were unarmed, they had a CoDominium Marine contingent backing them up, providing a menacing deterrent to those who might break the peace.

	That military contingent was berthed near the one fusion plant on the world, which largely provided power to the Petrocarb plant that kept most of the city's populace fed. From the geological surveys it appeared petroleum was rare on Haven. The only known small field was in the Atlas Mountains and its production was dedicated to the food plant and to Kennicott which had set up the oil rigs. That protein ration provided the calories needed to survive, but was certainly not satisfying. Sergei realized the Harmonies had relaxed the strict pacifism that had distinguished their church in the early years—not surprising, as it would have been difficult for them to remain in political control without some force to backup their rules.

	Names were called, tasks were assigned, and Sergei found himself learning a protein distribution route, delivering the bland staple to a variety of barracks and homes in the eastern part of the town.

	Civilization was raw and new on Haven. Only a few modern devices were to be seen, reminding him that he was not in some historical video. Certainly there was nothing modern about the wooden pushcart that Sergei used to complete his rounds and make his deliveries. At the end of a hard day of work, one that ended at the start of a truenight, Sergei was given a few coins and sent on his way.

	The man showing him the delivery route called this pittance the 'beer money,' and Sergei decided to use it in that manner. Bars and pubs were an important source of information in a new city, and had been Sergei's first stop during many a mission. In the first bar, he found that the coins would buy him three beers, as long as he stuck to the less expensive homemade brews. There was also a good market in harder liquors; vodka, whiskey and gin. Sergei drank alone, drinking each of his beers in a different bar, and listened carefully. The second bar was also a whorehouse, the Golden Parrot, and the third was also apparently the source of harder drugs.

	Sergei heard of stress between miners and the mining companies, clashes with CoDominium Marines, conflict between the mining companies and the church, and the recent formation of a new town, called Hell's-A-Comin', down the Xanadu River. The church was doing an inconsistent job of maintaining control, nearly overwhelmed by new transportees, with little CoDominium support to keep the situation in check.

	There was much conversation and excitement related to the Kennicott Metals and their activity down the Xanadu near Hell's-A-Comin.' There were also other company operations: Dover Mineral Development was rumored to be doing more secretive work at the headwaters of the Jordan River, while Anaconda Mining had mining works north of the Devil's Heater. These operations were creating a variety of jobs, and many of the new transportees listened raptly to promises of good pay, less regulations, and a way out of the dead-end life in the barracks.

	As he was leaving the last pub, Sergei walked the streets to get the lay of the land, peering into windows as he went. Streetlights were few and far between, especially in this part of town, and the streets and most of the buildings were dark. At one point, he was in an alley, when he heard raised voices ahead of him. Without thinking, he clambered up the side of the building, and hunched up on the edge of the thatched roof. Two men came by, arguing loudly. Sergei pulled out a loop of discarded electrical cable that he had obtained on the transport ship, and wrapped each end around his hands.

	Just as they came to where he lurked, one of the men pulled a knife and stabbed the other. He bent over the body, and began rooting through pockets, taking what he found. Sergei dropped silently behind him, slid the cable around his head, and pulled.

	In a moment, it was over, and Sergei robbed the robber. He left the knife, as he didn't want to be carrying a murder weapon, and found some drugs in a small plastic bag that he discarded. He found quite a bit of cash, and a small handgun, a pocket revolver, which he kept. He would need resources for his mission, and this was a good start. He melted into the night, and returned to the barracks for some much-needed rest.

	Sergei's first T-weeks on Haven blended together in a blur of too much work and too little sleep. His elimination of the murderer had given him some new resources, but he decided to limit any violence to situations vital to the mission, or situations where he came upon those who preyed on the less fortunate.

	He found a new job on the docks, as an armed guard for a private company that dealt in luxury items. The job gave him enough money to buy a winter coat, and afford a small room, with the privacy he needed for his efforts. He continued to make his rounds of the bars in Castell City, in the seedy areas that were becoming known as 'Docktown,' until one truenight he came upon one that was different.

	The sign was green, with a yellow harp painted on it. The name under the symbol, "Harp's," was somewhat redundant. The building was very much in the style of the oldest structures on Haven, partially dug into a low hillside. It was in a nicer part of town—there were even electric streetlights on some of the corners. It had small windows that glowed with the light of oil lamps, and the smell of cooking beef and brewing beer wafted from the back rooms. There was also music, of a type Sergei had never heard, a jaunty dance tune. But despite the jauntiness, the tune itself had a dark color, a feel that reminded Sergei of the music of his homeland.

	He entered the room, and found a cozy area with a bar at one end, and a ring of booths around the walls. The musicians were perched on wooden stools in a corner in a tight circle, playing violins, flutes, an old accordion and some sort of large mandolin. The bar had a painting behind it, a picture of green hills with sheep grazing. The bartender nearly stopped Sergei dead in his tracks. She was lovely—a bit taller than he was, slender, with jet black hair and eyes as blue as the sea.

	"And what'll you be havin'?" she asked, with a smile on her face that would melt a stone. He sat on a barstool, ordered a beer, and another and then another. No wandering for him tonight. He couldn't remember afterward just what they spoke of, only her eyes and the lilt of her laugh, as the music whirled and spun behind them.

	A few days after his first visit to Harp's, Sergei made his first contact with the Russian intelligence network on Haven. He was down at the docks, where an amphibious shuttle had just landed. While most of its cargo was destined for the CoDominium Marine contingent, there were also some imported items that Sergei's firm had been waiting for. The pair of Marines actually had a military truck, incongruous among the draft horses, muskylopes and wagons. Sergei had wondered about all the animals when he first arrived, but finally realized that when you import a dozen trucks, years later you will have less than a dozen in service. Import a dozen horses, and years later you will probably have a few more than twelve.

	As the cargo was being loaded, one of the Marines turned to Sergei, and asked, "Are you Russian?"

	"Da," said Sergei.

	"Where from?" asked the Marine.

	"Saint Petersburg," Sergei replied, "and you?"

	"Vladivostok," the Marine replied. "You know, there is a Russian neighborhood here on the west side of town. You would feel quite at home there. Stop in at Dzhigurda's, and tell old Fyodor that Ivar the Marine sent you. Bring a little coin, and you can get a meal to remind you of home, instead of the swill they feed you in most places in this town."

	"I'll do that," said Sergei with a smile. The Marine might be simply recommending a restaurant, or he might be a contact.

	After work, Sergei went to check the place out. Its exterior was not too much different from any other building in the city, but its sign consisted of a brightly painted cutout of a Russian city skyline, with onion-domed church spires above the other buildings. The name 'Dzhigurda' was painted at the bottom in bold Cyrillic letters.

	Old Fyodor was a heavy man with a huge beard of black hair, shot through with grey. A samovar sat on a corner table, and Sergei smelled tea, real tea, for the first time in over a T-year. His mouth began to water. Perhaps he could even get some good borscht here. The old man invited him over to his corner booth. Evidently his practice was to greet newcomers personally.

	After some of the same 'where are you from' chitchat Sergei had shared with the Marine, the old man dropped a phrase from Sergei's briefing packet. Sergei responded with the counter-phrase, and soon the men had established the fact that they shared the intelligence profession. Fyodor invited Sergei to a back room, and gave him a large mug of tea that tasted as good as it smelled. Fyodor continued to sip from the glass of vodka that had been in front of him when Sergei had entered the restaurant.

	"Finally they send me some real help, after ignoring message after message, my fingers worn to the bone from typing requests. A professional intelligence agent. And not just some young idiot, a man of experience," he said. "Up until now, I have had to settle for gossip, and gather what I can from a few clumsy informants. There are three things that the Russian community here shares.

	"The first is our language. The second is the taste for food and drink that keeps my restaurant in business." At this the old man paused and gave a mercenary grin. "And the third is an unfortunate contempt for the Rodina. Not the makings of a good intelligence network. Oh, if only my lot in life were to work with better materials than I have here."

	"I'll do what I can to make up for those shortcomings," Sergei said modestly. He smiled inside. Fyodor's complaints reminded him of home. He remembered a housemaid from his youth, who in fortunate times complained that God sent her good luck so she would be boring, without anything to talk about with her friends.

	"To preserve your cover," Fyodor said, "I imagine that they sent you without any gear, weapons or funding. I will have to do something about that."

	"The weapons and funds are already taken care of," said Sergei. "Although I could use your help obtaining a small personal data device that can record and store pictures and audio. To buy such a device myself might draw unnecessary attention. And if possible, a night vision device. Which will probably be even harder to obtain."

	Fyodor beamed, "As I said, a real professional. Taking care of things already. The data device I can provide you soon. The night vision gear—that might take a bit longer."

	Sergei recounted what he had learned so far, and it squared with what Fyodor had been able to gather. There was much mining activity on Haven, but also hints that there was more afoot than was discussed publicly. They both agreed that the key seemed to be the activities of the Dover Mineral Development Company.

	Sergei promised that he would stop in on occasion to keep Fyodor informed, although not so much that people would become suspicious. And before he left, Sergei confirmed the fact that the food was indeed worth a return from time to time.

	Sergei continued his visits to other bars, hearing more and more about Kennicott, Dover and their mining activities. He followed a number of suspicious characters, robbed them when he felt it justified, searched some of their dwellings for clues and information, and was forced to beat one senseless when the man came home unexpectedly. He left another, a busy drug dealer, near death in the night, and emptied his pockets of money providing more resources for the mission.

	Sergei was tempted to kidnap another man, a Dover Mineral official, and interrogate him, but that would be difficult to accomplish on his own, and he certainly had no place to detain the man while he broke his resistance. And besides those practical concerns, forced interrogation had always sickened him. If he was going to find hidden wealth on Haven, which was being concealed for American gain, he needed to travel to the east, to the headwaters of the Jordan River, and see what this Dover organization was doing.

	Sergei justified his lingering in Castell City with thoughts that a trip to the east should not begin until well into the spring, but that was not the only reason. More and more, Sergei found himself spending evenings at Harp's. One night, as he stepped in from the cold, the bartender, whose name was Moira, greeted him with the words, "How is my fine man tonight?"

	When he asked how she knew what kind of man he was, she pointed back to the kitchen, where the dishwasher gave him a shy wave. It was Pamela, the woman from the ship, whose duffel he had carried off the ship. Suddenly he was glad for the altruism that had made him feel guilty before. He felt a glow inside, and smiled.

	Moira pointed to a corner booth. "There's someone here who wants to meet you."

	Sergei looked, and saw the Deacon who had spoken on his first day ashore, Brother Miller. Moira led him to the booth, and he followed, somewhat uneasy about the direction this conversation might take.

	"Sergei," Moira said with a smile, "I would like you to meet a local hero, leader of the Exodus, our own Brother Moses."

	The Deacon let out a good natured snort of exasperation, and replied to Moira with a rueful smile, "How many times have I asked you not to call me that?"

	He turned to Sergei, and stuck out his hand, "The name is Miller, Abraham Miller. Pleased to meet you."

	Miller ordered a pair of drinks, and as Moira went back to the bar, Sergei asked, "Why does she call you Moses? And what's a Deacon doing in a bar? I didn't think your sort went for this."

	The Deacon smiled and replied, "The Moses thing is something I'm sure you'll hear about eventually. As for why a Deacon hangs around a pub, I come for the music. Everywhere there is music, the spirit of the universe is revealed. Old Harp, the founder of this place, has a close relationship with the Harmonies. He's even bankrolled a music shop and luthier up at our end of town, where many of our children buy instruments. And why should you be surprised that a pacifist who sometimes knocks heads together would also have a taste for beer?"

	Sergei nodded. "This is good beer. And fine music, once you get used to it. Sometimes it sounds very Western, but other times it sounds almost Russian."

	"That would be the modes," the Deacon replied, "a distinctive feature of both Irish music and the music of your homeland." He went on for quite some time in that vein. Music was central to the Harmony faith, and like many of them, the Deacon had obviously studied musical theory. Sergei had himself always loved music, and even sung in a male choir during his youth, but had trouble following some of the more arcane musical terminology.

	"But now I want to ask you something on another topic," the Deacon said, finally getting down to business. "This town is getting difficult to manage. Harmonies may be willing to use force when required, but we haven't bent our principles to the point where we want to carry arms. And yet, we face a lot of situations where we don't feel it appropriate to call on the Marines. They're soldiers, not law enforcement personnel.

	There's been a rash of crimes in Docktown in the past few T-weeks, all involving rather unsavory individuals, but disturbing all the same. I've been trying for years to convince Reverend Castell that a force of armed constables is a good idea, and I think if I can present a few likely candidates, my chances of persuading him will improve. During your trip here, you built a reputation among the transportees as a man of character. Would you be interested in a job as a constable?"

	Sergei concealed his discomfort. Did this man also suspect that he was behind some of those same violent acts he had mentioned? "I'm sorry," he replied, "I don't care for the thought of working in law enforcement, in fact I don't enjoy my security guard position that much. I find that, as I get older, I don't have the heart for conflict and confrontation anymore, even for a good cause. I have thoughts of going upriver, to see if I can make a go of it as a hunter for the mining encampments. I have to decline your offer."

	The Deacon nodded. "I suppose I can understand your reasoning," he replied, "but please, give the offer some thought, and keep an open mind."

	Later that night, as he walked home in the cold, crisp air, Sergei realized that the words he had spoken were truer than he thought. He was sick of conflict and violence. Even when the mission called for it, even when he targeted those who preyed upon society, he hated it.

	As the days went on, Sergei continued to work as a security guard, and gather information in what time he could spare. He forced himself to limit visits to Harp's to every other day. When Moira was too busy to speak to him, he would often sit with Deacon Miller, enjoying the music. Miller turned out to be a very interesting man, and his faith, while strong, was rooted in a very practical and realistic world view.

	It turned out that he had gained his nickname of Moses by leading the movement of thousands of miners and others to found the town Hell's-A-Comin,' in an operation that people now referred to as an Exodus. You could tell that this modest man was proud of what he had accomplished, even though he made jokes about it. And Sergei was surprised to discover that a man who had wielded so much power had done nothing to use that power to his own advantage, and after the project was completed, went back to his previous duties without complaint or demand.

	Before long, Sergei realized that his new friend was also one of his best sources of information. He knew as much as anyone in Castell City about what went on in the Kennicott mines to the west. And he had a friend, Captain Doyle, who ran a steamboat between Castell City and Hell's-A-Comin,' and came to Harp's to play his fiddle whenever he came into town. From Doyle, Sergei was able to hear about the latest developments in the mining operation. If only he had such good sources regarding operations to the east, up the Jordan River.

	But as much as he enjoyed the company of Deacon Miller, and the others who frequented Harp's, it was the chance to see Moira that brought him to the pub so often. One night, Moira, who loved to dance, dragged Sergei out to the center of the room, with a group of others, lined them up, and taught them a dance called the "Siege of Ennis." The dance involved a lot of whirling around and changing partners, and he felt an electric thrill whenever Moira ended up in his arms.

	It was later that night he worked up the courage to ask her out to dinner, and the next night found them at a restaurant, up the hill, close to the town square where the representatives of the mining companies lived. Moira wore a long dress, deep blue with a white bodice, while Sergei wore black pants and vest, with a new white shirt, smelling of bleach and stiff with starch. They spoke of their childhoods, and Sergei found himself telling more of the truth than he should have, while she related a tale of childhood bliss that ended with sorrow.

	Moira in her teens had become embroiled in political activities. After decades of peace, angered by British collaboration with the CoDominium, nationalists in Northern Ireland had risen up again in another attempt to unite Ireland. Moira had joined the movement, but been betrayed by a boyfriend, swept up and turned over to the CoDominium Bureau of Corrections for transportation. For himself, Sergei focused on describing his military career before he had been a covert agent, and implied that political actions had led to his own transportation to Haven.

	The meal and the wine had been excellent and the evening flew past. Sergei found himself standing with Moira in front of the boarding house where she made her home. They were bundled in coats and their breath was steaming in the cold.

	"Thank you for a lovely evening," she said, as he put his hands on her shoulders.

	"Thank you," he replied. He put a hand on the back of her neck, and leaned toward her. The kiss was chaste, but sent a flush through his body. He put his arms around her, and pulled her to him, but relented when he felt her tense up.

	"I'm sorry," she said, "I've been hurt too many times to be quick in romance. Would you be a patient man?"

	Sergei said he was a patient man, but as he walked home in a daze he realized that was a lie.

	Springtime grew closer, and Sergei began to buy supplies. He saw no way to find out what was happening in the mining camps to the east without going there himself. He made one of his rare visits to Fyodor, and filled him in on his plans. Fyodor had obtained the data device that Sergei had requested, a rugged and field-ready piece of gear, with a solar panel on its side for recharging. He had also obtained a set of night vision goggles, a bit old and shabby, but CoDominium military gear still in good working order. The old man agreed with Sergei that it was time for a field trip, and sent him on his way with his new gear, some hard sausage, and a bottle of vodka for the voyage.

	Sergei found a company that was building wooden steamboats and running them up and down the river. Arranging transport was simple, and he bought supplies that included a heavy pack, sleeping bag, cooking gear, a hunting knife, and fine, sturdy new boots. The revolver he had obtained on his first night in Castell City would do for a sidearm, but he bought extra ammunition for it. For a shoulder weapon, he bought a bolt action rifle with a five cartridge magazine, about 7mm, a sturdy and reliable weapon with good sights and accuracy. A rifle that would fit his cover of being a hunter, but also would be good in a fight. The weather was getting warmer, and it would soon be time to go.

	Moira was not pleased with Sergei's plans. They spent a lot of time together, but she refused to speak of him leaving, or to engage in any talk of the future. One night, though, as they sat side-by-side on a bench in front of Harp's, she pulled him toward him, and kissed him fiercely.

	"Your name may be Sergei, but to me you are mo chroi," she said.

	"What does that mean?"

	"It's Gaelic; it means 'my heart.'"

	Sergei felt like his own heart was in his throat.

	"If you don't come back to me," she said, "I will never forgive you."

	"I will come back, I promise," he said, no thought of any lies on this night.

	One day as he was standing guard, while a wagon of beets and winter wheat from one of the outlying farms was being unloaded, Sergei watched as a man stood on a wooden box on the sidewalk. The man was a preacher, ranting loudly and angrily. He was speaking out against the CoDominium, comparing them to the Roman Empire, oppressor of so many nations in ancient times. Then he launched in on the Harmonies, comparing them to the Pharisees of ancient Israel, collaborating with those Roman occupiers. He warned that this collaboration was going to lead to destruction, death and pain.

	Then he pulled a small guitar from a bag on his back, and began to sing in a loud voice, "On Jordan's stormy banks I stand, and cast a wishful eye to Canaan's fair and happy land ... " Sergei saw Deacon Miller standing across the street in his brown robes, and approached him.

	"Is it safe to let him talk like that?" Sergei asked. "He comes a step away from advocating revolt."

	The Deacon nodded, but smiled as he replied, "Perhaps we need to be reminded about the limits of earthly power. He certainly is devoted to his God. And I love his singing, what a gift it is."

	The preacher spotted Deacon Miller, gave him a grin, and brought his song to a quick close. He stepped off the box, strode over, and Sergei was stunned to see the two men embrace like old friends, pounding on each other's backs and grinning like a pair of boys. He was introduced to the preacher, whose name was Jackson, and discovered that he, along with the Deacon, had played a large role in the Exodus operation.

	"So," asked Miller, "did they finally get tired of you down in Hell's-A-Comin?"

	"I guess you could say that," answered Jackson. "Sometimes, as the Savior once said, they stop hearing your words, and all you can do is shake the dust off your feet and move on."

	He looked closely at Miller, "And I hate to say it, but it looks like people here may not be willing to listen either. I've only been in town two days, and already been asked to move along by some of your fellow Deacons."

	Miller sighed, and replied, "Unfortunately, I think moving on might be a good idea."

	Jackson looked wounded, "You too, Abraham?"

	"Don't misunderstand me," answered Miller, "They don't like what you say because they think you're wrong. Me, I don't like what you say because I'm afraid you're right. Now, let's put politics aside, and I'll buy you a beer at Harp's."

	Jackson laughed, "Thank the Lord some things never change. You know, beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy."

	Miller laughed, "Did the Savior say that, too?"

	"No," answered Jackson, "That one comes from Ben Franklin, I think."

	As the two men said goodbye and walked away, Sergei stood silently, wondering about what they had said. The situation here was unstable, and looked like it could easily get worse. Perhaps it was his age, perhaps he was affected by the reading he had done during his year of forced inactivity on the transport ship, but he found himself becoming much more thoughtful about political issues.

	One night at Harp's, a flute player approached him. "You like our music so much; you should learn to join in." He handed Sergei a small silvery tube with holes in it, and a sheet of paper. "This is a tin whistle, and directions to learn how to play it. We figured if you took it with you on your trip, by the time you came home, you would know enough to play along with us."

	Deacon Miller, who had been sitting with Sergei, laughed and agreed. "Yes, Sergei, it's time you learned to play music, it would do your soul good."

	Sergei's eye was caught by a seedy looking man who had entered the door, and walked briskly toward Moira at the bar. As the man's hand went to his pocket, Sergei leaped into action. There was a gun in the man's hand, but before he could bring it to bear, Sergei had stripped it from him, reached up to grab his head, and twisted hard. The man fell in a heap, his neck broken. Sergei stood above him, his panting the only sound in the suddenly silent room.

	Deacon Miller walked over, felt for a pulse, and addressed the room. "This was an act of self defense. This man entered this establishment with murderous intent, and Sergei did what was necessary to stop him. Pull the body to the sidewalk. I'll arrange for it to be removed."

	He looked at Sergei with concern, but also with a bit of wariness, an uncomfortable mix of feelings. "And get Sergei a drink, he doesn't look well."

	Moira poured Sergei a small glass, of whiskey rather than his usual beer. She sat with him silently. He did not know what to say, and apparently, neither did she. The music didn't start again, but conversations around the bar soon picked up and returned to normal. When it came time to leave, Moira thanked Sergei, and told him he had done the right thing.

	But Sergei wasn't sure he could agree. He kept thinking of ways he could have responded differently, stopped the man without killing him. He had changed in the past T-months, and he wondered about how it would affect his mission. Suddenly, he realized that the Rodina, and her interests, seemed very abstract on a world so far away from Earth.

	The day Sergei left, Moira made excuses, and chose not to see him off at the docks. She had kissed him nervously, with tears in her eyes, and watched him as he walked off down the street, his pack heavy, and his rifle across his shoulders.

	Sergei boarded the wooden steamboat, and stared about with some interest. The vessel was about twelve meters long and four across. In its center, there was a large black boiler with a high stack. Behind that was a wood-burning furnace, and on the stern, a tiller and control for the clutch and gears that drove the propeller. A canvas tarp on a wooden framework, open on all sides, provided some protection from the elements. The boat was equipped with some solar panels, a radio that worked inconsistently because of the terrible atmospherics of Haven, few electric lights, and a small computer full of charts and navigational information.

	Other than the electronics, the vessel could have been an artifact of the early Industrial Age back on Earth. The captain was a burly old man they called "Cap'n Mike," with a bushy mustache and a black wool hat that never left his head. The engineer was called "Squint" because of a set of tiny eyes, a small man who hovered over the machinery with a nervous air. Two men who served as deck hands and stokers completed the crew.

	There were ten passengers, a mix of miners and settlers, perched on trade goods, and surrounded by their own bundles and possessions.

	Suddenly, as the lines were being slipped, there was a cry from the shore, and a man leaped aboard with a ticket clutched in his hand, a bag slung over his shoulder and a small guitar under his arm. Sergei looked and saw that it was the street preacher, Jackson, who ranted about Romans and Pharisees.

	"Why hello, son," the man said with a grin on his face, sticking out his hand, "I recognize you. Who will guard the wagons now that you are leaving?"

	Sergei shook the preacher's hand and introduced himself using the name that had appeared on his ticket. The preacher raised an eyebrow at the change of names, but kept his peace. Sergei asked why the preacher was traveling upriver.

	"As you heard me say to our mutual friend the Deacon," the man replied, "people in this town aren't willing to listen to the truth anymore. So once again, I shake the dust from my shoes and go elsewhere."

	This late addition to the passengers would certainly make the trip interesting.

	The initial stretch of river was a tricky one, rocky narrows that extended for miles above the town. Once past these, however, the river settled into a wider, calmer body of water, much easier to navigate. There was always a risk of sandbars, and a crewman on the bow, but Cap'n Mike seemed to have a sense of where unseen dangers might lie.

	The cycle of days and nights on Haven had a large impact on the steamboat's travel. During the relatively few periods of truenight, the boat was unable to travel, and the crew and passengers made camp ashore. There were also periods during the dimdays, when it was often difficult to make out the landmarks. During these periods, the boat often tied to the shore, with the crew and passengers alike gathering wood to stoke the furnace.

	Sergei imagined that after a few T-years of this practice, the banks would be bare for hundreds of yards in every direction. There was always a guard posted, as the wildlife were becoming used to humans and predators were common. "Cliff lions," similar to the lions of Earth, were the worst, but there were also the mole-like "drillbits," nasty little creatures with strong jaws and sharp teeth. And there was always the threat of renegades or other undesirables attacking the vessel. Many had left Castell City, some to farm and colonize, but others because they could not fit into society, degenerates who fell quickly into criminal activities.

	The further they traveled upriver, the more strange the vegetation became. Oaks and firs gave way to native trees, with odd shapes and names like egg trees, bottle trees and fan trees. The shrubs grew strange and wild, with some, like sword ferns and prickle bushes, dangerous to approach. But despite these differences, it was amazing how close the plants and animals were to Earth life. This had been the subject of much discussion in the early years of exploration; some attributing it to the spread of spores throughout the cosmos, some to parallel evolution and some to alien, or divine intervention. Whatever its cause, this had certainly facilitated the explosion of human colonies into the cosmos in recent decades.

	Despite Sergei's early fears, the preacher was not nearly as intrusive as he had been on his wooden box in Castell City. He had inquired among crew and passengers, found a few like-minded Christians to minister to, and while he sang frequently while they traveled, as often as not, those songs were secular rather than sacred. Because the magnetic fields of Cat s Eye caused radios to work poorly, and because of the rarity of electronic devices, public singing was a common entertainment on Haven.

	One day, Sergei came across the tin whistle in his pack, and the preacher helped him figure out how to play it, and even accompanied him with his guitar as Sergei learned how to play some simple folk tunes and hymns by ear. Sergei found himself befriending the minister, and discussing philosophy and other topics that would have bored him in his youth. He noticed grey in a wisp of hair that fell across his face, and wondered if age had something to do with this more thoughtful approach to life.

	From time to time, hunters were sent out to search for game to feed the crew and passengers. More often than not, it was Sergei and one of the crew members, Tom, who were chosen for this task, as they rarely returned without something to eat. Tom was an American, from a place called West Virginia that was apparently the home of some pretty capable hunters. He was curious about Sergei's plans, and when Sergei told him he thought he might be a freelance hunter, Tom drew his breath in through his teeth, and looked thoughtful.

	"Whatever you do up there at the headwaters," he said. "Watch your step. Them Dover Mineral folks are awfully suspicious and secretive. Most folks either work for them, or put up with being watched pretty close. Purity is a Company town. They probably won't want a freelancer wandering around—they might see you as a threat, unless you get on their payroll.

	Shortly after that, Sergei was able to bring down a muskylope, a large moose-like animal. It was too big to drag through the brush, so they skinned it, wrapped the best cuts of meat into the skin, and built a frame to carry their bundle as they dragged it behind them. The crew ate for three days from that hunting expedition.

	One long dimday, after they had gathered wood for the next stage of their journey, and cooked up a dinner of stew, everyone sat around the fire singing and telling stories. Sergei had gotten more than serviceable on his whistle, and he and the preacher entertained them with a few tunes. One of their favorites was the hymn that Sergei had first heard the preacher sing in Castell City, and this time, many of the passengers joined in on the chorus, " ... I am bound for the Promised Land, I am bound for the Promised Land ... "

	After the tunes were over, Sergei and the preacher began a conversation about the politics of Castell City. The preacher had a rather dim view of what the future would hold, and Sergei was inclined to agree with him. With the CoDominium and mining interests growing in strength, the Harmonies would soon be at a decision point. The preacher thought there would soon be violence, and speculated that the Harmonies would turn to force to keep their power, but like many pacifists, only turn to force after it was already too late for it to be effective. If the CoDominium were the Romans, said the preacher, and the Harmonies the Israelites, he feared that they would follow the path of the doomed Zealots, crushed under the boot heels of the oppressors.

	Suddenly, there was a faint noise in the brush. Sergei reached into his duffle, and pulled out his handgun, shifting it to a pocket. He rose and began to walk toward the latrine, trying to act like nothing was amiss. But as soon as he was among the trees, he circled back. Sure enough, there was a gang of men arrayed around the camp, readying for an ambush. Sergei picked a spot behind a fallen tree, set a row of cartridges on the tree in front of him, screamed loudly to warn the camp, and began to fire. He emptied his pistol quickly, flipped it open and dumped out the empties. He thumbed in the new cartridges, closed and spun the cylinder. He turned to scan behind himself, and it was a good thing he did, because two of the bandits had gotten behind him, and as he fired at them, he heard the whistle of shots passing close-by, and slapping against the tree trunks around him. Then he ducked behind a tree as he realized that some of those shots were coming from the camp. Gunfire was gunfire, whether it came from friends or foes.

	When the shooting stopped, they checked over the bodies. The bandits were a pathetic bunch. They were whipcord thin, their faces covered with sores, and with gaps in their teeth, obviously suffering from vitamin deficiencies and malnutrition. The steamboat crew stripped them of their weapons and whatever pitiful belongings they had, both as restitution for the attack, and to keep the firearms out of the hands of compatriots that might still be lurking in the woods.

	After that encounter, which fortunately left only two of the passengers with minor wounds, Sergei could do no wrong onboard the vessel. They all felt they owed him their lives, and he found there was not much he could do without receiving offers to help.

	One evening, as the boat made its careful way upriver through the faint light of a waning dimday, Sergei lay on the bow, resting his head on his bundle, thinking about Moira, and the folks back at Harp's. This world was a harsh one, with more than its share of hardships, and hard people. But despite that, it was also populated with good people who wanted to do the right thing, and make a good life for themselves and their friends. Their music and their friendships, shared drink and shared food, brought simple beauty to a life hard enough to drive many to despair.

	The preacher was right, greed and power would soon bring woe to this fragile frontier civilization. Sergei vowed to finish his mission as quickly as possible. And if Moira would have him, he vowed to send word back to Russia that he was resigning his commission, and do what he could to make a new life here. He had trouble keeping his mind off her, her blue eyes, the smell of her hair, the feel of her touch. He was no boy, a man of experience, but this woman whom he had never even slept with made him feel like no other woman ever had.

	It took twenty days of travel to get to the headwaters of the Jordan. Hours before they arrived at Oasis Town, they could see the dormant volcano that stood to the north of it. An impressive sight. It was far broader than it was wide, a shallow cone with the top appearing to be sliced off. Sergei wondered if there was a lake inside that cone. He had seen mountains that looked much like it in western Siberia.

	But while the mountain was impressive, the town at its base did not appear to be worth the price of the long journey. It was carved out of the heavy forests that cloaked the hills, and most of the buildings were on the south side of the river. The north side was reserved for those in the employ of Dover Mineral Development, and that restriction was enforced by hard-eyed men with automatic weapons.

	There was a vertical launch space shuttle in a flat field a few hundred yards away from the buildings on the north bank, a squat cone with broad landing legs. A small industrial building next to the landing field looked like it was set up to separate water into its oxygen and hydrogen components, refrigerate and compress them, and fuel the rocket for its return to orbit. Someone was flying in and out of here directly, which suggested space travel outside CoDominium channels and knowledge. A tightly controlled ferryboat ran on a cable from one side of the river to the other.

	Sergei and the preacher found themselves in Purity on the south bank; where some bars and mercantile establishments had set down to earn money off the miners. The biggest attraction in the village was a bath house, which offered baths in naturally heated mineral water, evidence that perhaps the volcano to the north was not completely dead. After their long journey, many of the steamboat's passengers gave the baths a try, and came out smelling clean, but a bit sulfurous.

	A Dover Mineral man met with Sergei, and asked him what he intended to do during his stay. When Sergei told him about his plans as a hunter, the man gave him a crude map of the area, with most of it, especially the land to the north of the river, marked off as restricted areas.

	Sergei found a bunk in a small rooming house, while the preacher found someone to take him in and sponsor his ministry. Some of the passengers got jobs in Purity, while the rest got jobs working for Dover Mineral. While Sergei spent most of his early days in the town hunting where he had been directed to, he knew those marked off areas were where he would find the goal of his quest.

	About three T-weeks after he had arrived, during the dim starlight of a truenight, Sergei made his move. The tightlipped miners gave no indication of what had been found to the north, but their strict silence spoke volumes. One night in one of the bars, two DMD security guards had beaten a talkative drunk to within an inch of his life, without any repercussions that were obvious to Sergei. He had always considered the FSB a ruthless bunch, but these Dover Mineral men put the Russian security services to shame.

	Sergei had constructed a small raft and poled his way across the river just above town. He wore a camouflaged suit, constructed of burlap sacks with local vegetation woven into the coarse brown material. This obscured his silhouette, and made him difficult to see from even a few meters distance. His face and hands were mottled with mud of varying colors. The night vision goggles over his eyes, however, would help him see those who could not see him. Most of his gear was left behind, and he carried only his weapons and a small rucksack with ammunition, his data device, and some rudimentary provisions.

	When he made it to shore, Sergei concealed his raft and moved carefully through the brush. The buildings were silent and dark. He picked one in particular that had looked like an office, and was able to jimmy his way into a window. There was a bank of desks at the far side of the room, and each desk had a lid that was closed by a heavy lock. Sergei leaned his rifle against the desk, pulled a long hooked pick from his pocket, and soon had the lid on one of the desks open.

	His night vision goggles blurred, and he was having trouble figuring out what he was seeing. He pushed the goggles up on his forehead, and pulled out a small hand-cranked flashlight with a red lens, which he held cupped tightly in his hand, pointed at the desk. And there he found the answer to the secrecy and the violence, glittering in the faint light.

	It was a bowl full of shimmer stones, reflecting the light of his flashlight back in a hypnotic, pulsating glow. One of the most valuable jewels ever discovered. They had been all over the news before he had left the Earth, the ultimate bauble of the rich and powerful. No one knew exactly where they came from, although much of the speculation centered on the colony worlds of the CoDominium. Certainly the Earth was so well explored and cataloged that such a treasure would not have waited so long to be discovered.

	This bowl alone represented enough money to buy a dozen luxury ocean liners or a fully armed space cruiser. Sergei reached in and pocketed one of the stones as proof. He had his answer, much more quickly than he had ever imagined. He closed and locked the desk, and drew out the data device Fyodor had obtained for him. He needed to gather as much information as he could. But then he heard the scratching of a key in the lock at the doorway.

	Someone must have heard something, seen the glow of his flashlight, or perhaps this building was guarded by some sort of more high tech alarm system. Sergei dove out the window just as the room was bathed in the harsh glow of electric light, and a voice bellowed, "Stop where you are."

	He ran quickly toward the woods, followed by a spray of bullets. He felt a sting on his leg and an impact on his shoulder, but now was no time to stop. He had to get out of here, and get out of here fast. He pulled his night vision goggles over his eyes, and ran quickly into the night, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the pursuers he knew would soon be following.

	Sergei cut west, along the lower slopes of the volcano. An alarm was sounding behind him, powerful lights were coming on, and men were swarming out of barracks buildings like a swarm of angry bees. Soon there was a group of them hard on his heels, or at least close enough that they felt like they were on his heels, firing randomly into the woods in front of themselves.

	He came to the crest of a ridge, and realized that he would have to fight. Fight, but then run again. He picked three good sites to fire from, a good route between each, and an escape route. Sergei crouched behind a rock, his first firing position, used the bolt to lever a round into the chamber of his rifle, and sighted as best he could with his goggles on. He was going to have to use instinct as much as he used his sights.

	As he waited for the first pursuer to appear, Sergei remembered an argument he once had with an old naval Kapitan, a friend of his father's. The man argued that on frontier worlds, with their sparse supplies, it would be best to equip soldiers with bolt action rifles. That way, the old man said, they would think before they pulled the trigger, and not waste ammunition in a promiscuous manner. Sergei wished the old man were here now. He wondered how he would feel to be alone with his bolt action rifle, facing a company of men with automatic weapons, men who, from the way they were firing, seemed to have unlimited supplies of ammunition.

	Sergei held his breath as the first man appeared on the hillside, climbing quickly. He squeezed off a round, and without even pausing to see if it hit, rolled left and scrambled to his second firing position. A spray of bullets erupted from his pursuers, pinging off the rock. Sergei paused, got another man in his sights, and fired off another round. This time he scrambled to the right, ran past his original firing position, and halted at a third position. Again, return fire came in, although this time it appeared to be the fire of men shooting from cover.

	More slowly this time, he saw two men creeping carefully up the hillside. He sighted in on the closest one, and squeezed off a third shot. Again, he spun and ran off at an angle, angry bullets whizzing behind him. Any more shooting from him, and they would have time to flank him and pin him down. With any luck, they would be so careful moving in on his position; he would be long gone before they realized that he had given them the slip. He didn't know what casualties he had left behind him.

	For practical reasons, he hoped he had left men wounded. Dead men could be left where they laid, but the wounded required tending, and would help tie down his pursuers.

	Sergei moved swiftly, and drew on all of the woodcraft of his long military career. After setting his ambush, he didn't fire again, but instead went to ground three times in as many hours as search parties passed close to his hiding place. He wondered again what had given him away back at the camp. It might have been something someone had heard or seen, or perhaps an alarm system. It was difficult to remember that among the simple technology of the frontier lurked modern devices of the highest complexity. He certainly felt like he owed his life to his night vision goggles. He never would have been able to move so fast in the inky blackness of truenight without them.

	He moved generally to the northwest, but kept his path random, following the ground contours and avoiding ridgelines. He thanked the Lord that there were no horses, or especially dogs, in the Dover Mineral encampment. The former would have allowed his pursuers to get ahead of him, while the latter would have allowed them to track him much more effectively. The heavy forests worked in his favor, giving him plenty of cover, but allowing him to move quickly. He ran until he felt he could run no more, and then kept on running.

	It was forty hours before he stopped to rest, and then only for a short catnap. Two times he had slipped into a streambed, once moving north, and the other moving south. Both times he'd had to kill a large animal, the first time a muskylope and second a spiny boar, putting their corpses in the streams to draw off the razor fish and other fresh water predators.

	He lived off the vitamin supplements and dried salted meat from his rucksack, while the streams allowed him to replenish his canteen. His socks were wet, and his feet were blistered. He was tired to the edge of stupidity, one step away from a mistake that might cost him his life. His running had long since slowed to a stumbling walk.

	Eighty hours into his escape, during the full light of a brightday, he paused for a full eight hours of sleep, curled under the branches of a broken tree. During his recon, he had left behind much of his equipment, and lacked the sleeping bag and ground cloth that would have made his rest comfortable, but he still slept like a dead man. He awakened to the sound of a helicopter in the distance. He hadn't realized there were any such aircraft outside of Castell City—yet another example of the resources available to his pursuers. Fortunately for him, there were enough large animals in these woods to make it difficult for his pursuers to distinguish the form of a man, even if they had thermal imaging and other devices at their disposal. The helicopter reminded him that at this point, lighting a fire would be suicide.

	Twenty hours later, he paused again to check his wounds. The leg wound was just a graze, the shoulder wound more serious, with the bullet entering his arm just above the triceps muscle, and exiting the front. Fortunately, he had bought antibiotic cream and tablets in Castell City, and was able to treat the wounds effectively. If they festered, and became infected, it might slow him down enough to cause his death.

	Signs of his pursuers began to wane, and he hoped it was because the trail was getting cold. At one point, he had a pursuer in his rifle sights, only a hundred meters below him on a hillside. He did not take a shot, deciding that there was too much of a chance that the man would not be alone. Later however, he wondered again if he had lost his edge, if his distaste for violence might cost him dearly.

	Three T-weeks went by, with him still sleeping furtively, but with a more reasonable sleep cycle. He had a fairly good map, and some navigational information in his data device, and he plotted his path across the forests north of the Jordan to Castell City. No river travel for this trip, for now he had to avoid the company of others. His raw feet and his wounds began to heal, and he swapped his socks and bandages frequently, washing them whenever possible. He took a few chances with local vegetation, and found some nuts and tubers that provided some sustenance.

	He also set up snares before sleeping, and sometimes woke to find breakfast in those snares. At night he dreamed of sitting at Harp's, drinking a beer, and talking to Moira. Or dreamed of burying his head on Moira's shoulder, kissing her, lying beside her, dreams so real he often awoke feeling around to see if she was there.

	He wondered again what she would say if he returned, no, when he returned, and offered her a new life at his side. Occasionally, he would come across the shimmer stone in his pocket, and remember his mission.

	Sergei stood on a rock that protruded from a steep slope. The forests had thinned as he gained elevation on a line of high hills. He was able to look back to the southeast, along his escape route. There was no sign of pursuit at this point. He looked forward, scouting his path for the next day. There was a large open plain to the north—he would have to tend to the south to keep under the cover of the forest. There had been no rain for the last few days, and he saw no sign of water, which was a little bothersome, as he was running low. If he didn't find a stream before the end of the next day, he might be getting thirsty soon.

	Sergei suddenly realized that he had quite a bit of room on his data device, marked his position, snapped a few pictures, and recorded some verbal observations. He might as well keep a log of his journey. There was no sign of civilization in any direction, and Sergei thought he might be treading where no man had stood before. The records might someday do someone some good, give them ideas of areas that would be habitable, and which were not worth visiting.

	Sergei had another thought. Perhaps he could guide people out here himself. Like someone from a historical book, a scout and an explorer. An honest profession, but one where he could use his skills to good advantage. He smiled as he climbed down, using the rifle as a walking stick to steady himself on the slope.

	After six T-weeks, Sergei began to see other people—a hunting camp, a few farms, and a small settlement. He had been spending nearly every waking hour walking at a punishing pace, and had put about 1,500 kilometers between himself and the Dover Mineral encampment—roughly halfway back to Castell City, although his journey was far from following the path of a crow's flight.

	He still kept out of sight of others, but decided it was time for a rest. He also needed to do something about his appearance. He built a small camp, improving a rock overhang with a small lean-to. He killed a couple of muskylopes, a T-week apart so he wouldn't waste the meat, skinned them, and filled a rock hollow with water and oak leaves to tan the hides. He had enough thread in his pack to fashion a serviceable leather tunic and breeches. He also left the fur on one hide to fashion a warm cloak for sleeping during the truenights, chilly even during the summer.

	He used his small pair of scissors to trim his beard, and shorten his ponytail, with the blade of his knife serving as a crude mirror. Now he looked more like a hunter than a fugitive, and he trapped and skinned a score of small furry beasts called firewalkers. When he felt ready, he restarted his journey, and stopped at a small settlement to trade his firewalker skins for some provisions.

	One day, on the eighth week of his journey, Sergei came over a rise, and found a lovely hillside meadow, surrounded by trees, but with a beautiful view of the rolling hills that stood between him and Castell City. At the bottom of the hill was a stream. He marked the spot carefully on his map. This was a perfect spot for a small farm, in fact, a cluster of small farms. It reminded him of the setting of the family dacha back in Russia, the site of happy memories of his youth.

	Something to discuss with Moira when he saw her. He smiled to himself. Somewhere in the past few days, the feeling of if he would see her again had become when he saw her again. He marked the occasion by playing the whistle that he had found in the bottom of his rucksack, eating a leisurely meal as he admired the view.

	Just a few days later, Sergei's journey almost ended. Later he wondered if he had begun to slack off as he got closer to his destination, missing something he might otherwise have noticed. It was morning after a truenight, with the temperature just starting to rise. He had been walking through some rocky hills, and following the floor of a small canyon. It was a shadow that warned him, something behind him casting a shadow to his right, a quick motion in the corner of his eye.

	He spun and brought his rifle up to his shoulder instinctively. The move probably saved his life. It was a cliff lion, a nasty animal not too different from the lions of earth, a large one, probably massing over 100 kilos. It hit the barrel of the rifle, which drove Sergei onto his back as the butt of the rifle slammed into his shoulder. He screamed in pain and anger. The lion screamed as well, as the rifle barrel gouged an ugly wound in its ribs. It tried to claw at Sergei, and snapped its jaws, but the length of the rifle threw off its attack.

	Sergei pulled the trigger, and howled as the rifle kicked against his broken collarbone. The lion went over his head with a shriek of anger, and turned again. Sergei scrambled around, grabbed his pistol out of his pocket with his left hand, and as the lion hit him again, he emptied the cylinder into the beast. He ended up underneath the lion, its last breath hot against his face.

	He lost track of time—didn't know how long he laid there—too weary to push the animal off and check his wounds. It was pain that finally got him to move, pain from his right shoulder, pain from his left ear where the lion's claws had raked the side of his head, pain from his back where the rocky floor of the canyon had impacted against his spine.

	The first thing he did was clumsily reload his pistol. He didn't bother chambering another round in his rifle. It wouldn't be of much use one-handed. He thought about taking the creature's hide, but that would be a long struggle with only one arm functioning. He didn't know if these things traveled in packs, or in pairs, or alone, but he figured he should get moving.

	He cut a strip off the side of his cloak and fashioned a crude sling for his right arm. He tried to put a bandage around his head to protect his ear, but couldn't raise his right arm enough to be successful. He slung his rifle over his back, and turned to his route. Nothing to do but keep moving.

	It took a few T-weeks for Sergei to feel anything like normal again. His collarbone seemed to heal pretty well, although he grew weary of wearing his leather shirt continuously. The shirt had no buttons, and he couldn't get it off over his head. Little tasks became difficult with only one good arm, and he had to carry his pack slung only over his good shoulder, which caused it to ache as well. He practiced firing his rifle left-handed, dry-firing to save ammunition, with the barrel resting on a forked branch he had cut for the purpose.

	Sergei found a small farm where the husband and wife took pity on him, took him into their log cabin, bathed and dressed his wounds, gave him a good meal, and some dried meat and bread for the road. The woman had clucked with sympathy at the wounds the lion's claws had left on his ear and the side of his neck. She said it was too late to stitch them, and that there would be some nasty scars. Sergei tried to pay them for their troubles, but they refused. Wouldn't want to take profit in the misfortunes of a stranger.

	This was the spirit that had caused Sergei to grow to love this world, and so many of the people in it.

	Sergei continued to record his journey, taking pictures and recording comments. He described what plants and animals were edible, which posed some sort of a threat, what the best routes were. He also began to record information about the people he encountered, more numerous as he moved west. There was much information to capture, about their settlements, their farming methods, their customs, and other information. He was amassing quite a travelogue.

	Sergei arrived in Castell City at the end of twelve T-weeks of travel. That was on top of three T-weeks on the steamboat followed by another three T-weeks at the Dover Mineral camp, so he had been gone from the city for eighteen T-weeks, well over four months on the Terran calendar.

	His shoulder still ached, and the scars on his neck still pained him, but he had largely recovered from his encounter with the cliff lion. He unrolled a long-ignored pouch of coins, and rented a room in a boarding house that catered to trappers. He went to a barber, and for the first time in almost two T-years, got a clean shave, and got his hair clipped short around the ears and the back of his neck. A bath in the back room cleaned dirt that had been with him for many T-months.

	A general store provided a new khaki shirt, denim trousers and boots, and he felt like a new man, and hopefully looked like a new man as well. He had to be careful. With so few people at the Dover Mineral camp, they might have figured out who had been prowling around their offices, although they may not have realized that he had gotten the desk open and seen the shimmer stones. With luck, anything they might have figured out would end with the false name and cover identity he had used during the trip. But now that he was back in Castell City, since he had no intention of reporting in, he must also avoid being recognized by anyone in Fyodor's intelligence network.

	The city was tense and unhappy, and many people were moving about the streets openly armed. So Sergei did the same, with a new holster for his revolver, and his knife on his other hip. The tensions between Harmonies, miners and the CoDominium had obviously become worse.

	To avoid being seen in public, he decided to wait until the end of a shift, and approach Moira as she walked home from work. He sat in his boarding house room, and looked at the shimmer stone. He thought of his mission. He remembered the words of the caseworker, "If it is necessary, we will make the rivers of this planet run with blood before we let it serve the rivals of the Rodina."

	If he reported in, everything he had grown to love could be destroyed. He thought of what that might mean for Moira, for Deacon Miller, for his preacher friend, for the musicians and other regulars at Harp's. He thought about how even Fyodor and the Russian community on Haven would be swept into the conflict. He closed his hand, and put away the shimmer stone. Russia no longer mattered to him. The concerns of Earth were not his concerns anymore. He would not make contact with Fyodor—there would be no word coming home from his mission.

	Sergei felt a sudden sense of relief. He had put this decision out of his mind, but it had followed him ever since he had run from the Dover Mineral camp. And now that it was made, it was time to find Moira.

	Sergei called to Moira from an alley as she walked by. She looked puzzled for a moment, staring at him without recognition. But then her face lit up, and she rushed to him with open arms.

	"Sergei!" she cried, "I thought I'd never see you again!" She kissed him, so fiercely he felt like his lip would split open. "I like you with a clean chin and short hair! But you look so thin, mo chroi."

	She touched his left ear with concern. "And what are these scars? You poor dear, what have you been through?"

	"You wanted to see me again?" he asked, with hope in his heart.

	"Of course I did, you silly wee man."

	They found a small park and a secluded bench to sit on, she recounting gossip of the past T-months, and he giving her an abbreviated version of his travels up and down the river.

	Sergei took a deep breath. "Has anyone been asking about me?"

	She looked at him quizzically, "No, why would they?"

	"I was on an intelligence mission, gathering information. In my trip east, I saw things people didn't want me to see. And there are people expecting to hear from me, people I must disappoint. I can't stay here in Castell City, it wouldn't be safe."

	She looked at him closely. "I had a feeling there was something more to you than met the eye. Who have you been gathering information for, and why?" She had tensed up, a worried expression on her face. Sergei remembered her tale of betrayal back in Ireland.

	"No one, anymore," he said, "And you were not, no one at Harp's was, ever part of my mission. The Russian government wanted to know what the mining companies here on Haven were doing."

	She stared at him intently. "Can I trust you?"

	"Yes, you can trust me," he answered. "I would never do anything to hurt you. And I don't ever want to keep anything from you again." She began to relax and hold him more closely as he went on. "My mission is over. I decided it could bring harm to you, to the people here on Haven. So I won't complete it. I want to put Earth behind me, build a new life, a life with you. But we can't stay around here. It wouldn't be safe. I need a new identity, a new name."

	"You don't like to be called Sergei?" she asked.

	"It was never my name," he said, looking at her closely for her reaction.

	She was thoughtful for a moment, but then smiled, and kissed him again. She stroked the hair on the back of his neck. He began to relax himself.

	"It doesn't matter to me," she said. "No matter what other people call you, I will always call you mo chroi. You can tell me the whole story later, we'll have plenty of time. Where will we go?"

	Plenty of time. Sergei liked the sound of that. He thought of the old preacher, and one of his songs. He thought of the hillside meadow he had found above the creek. He smiled and replied, "We are bound for the Promised Land," and sealed that promise with a kiss.

2054 A.D., Luna Base

	Maxwell Cole waited patiently while Marshall Wainwright, Assistant to the Director of the CoDominium Bureau of Intelligence, studied his viewscreen. The 3-Vee wall mural displayed a forest scene out of the Pacific Northwest instead of the stark lunar landscape outside. As Cole watched a squirrel run up a large conifer, he mused that he and the squirrel had a lot in common; they were both trying to set something aside for the coming winter.

	Cole was a short timer, only three more years and he could put in for retirement. After twenty-seven years in the intelligence service, ten of them with the Navy, he was used up, tired of sticking his fingers in numerous holes in the CD's ever-leaking dykes. Let the younger operatives save the peace; his time was just about up.

	Or was it? he wondered, as Assistant Secretary Wainwright discreetly coughed.

	"Agent Cole, we have a situation developing on an outer world called Haven— a misnomer if there ever was one. It's a newly colonized world by some sect that calls itself the Church of New Universal Harmony. You've read the files."

	Cole nodded. The anxiety that had begun to gnaw at his lower stomach, ever since he'd been sent that file, began to grow. Haven, an almost lifeless iceball of a moon, was all the way at the outer edge of the envelope of CD explored space— seven Alderson Jumps away from the nearest habitable world. Haven was certainly, this close to retirement, no place he ever wanted to visit.

	The Harmonies, one of the Neo-Millenniumite Sects, had bought the settlement license, so officially Haven was not part of the CoDominium. In reality, however, all human occupied worlds belonged to the CoDominium; the only question was whether they were or were not valuable enough for an "official" CoDo presence. Cole had a nagging suspicion that this iceball was about to change ownership.

	"The Bureau of Colonial Government," Wainwright continued, "was not displeased to see the Harmonies settle Haven as long as it remained the worthless piece of real estate it first appeared and a final "resting place" of sorts for the Bureau of Corrections. However, the situation has changed now that shimmer stones have been discovered."

	Right, thought Cole, and now somebody doesn't want to pay the Harmonies a licensing fee for shimmer stone mineral rights when they can obtain one for a much smaller fee from the CD Bureau of Colonial Government probably the same Companies who've been looting hafnium from Haven's so-called "worthless" crust.

	The Assistant to the Director stroked the length of his long, thin nose. "It appears that we have one of those situations developing that requires a senior agent with great skill and discretion. Since, obviously, our part in the events that are about to occur on Haven must never become public knowledge."

	Cole shook his head in agreement, wondering if somehow his superiors had agreed to blame the mess now developing on Comstock on him, the last agent assigned to that hell-hole. If he'd learned nothing else in his lengthy career it was that in intelligence often what appeared to be a nod up was in actuality a shove down.

	"Serendipitously, for all involved, it appears that the Bureau of Relocation also has a rather strong interest in the Haven question. It appears to be the ideal location for subversive elements within the confines of the terrestrial CD to be permanently isolated without invoking the offices of the Bureau of Correction or the Fleet."

	Good conundrum: When is a prison planet not a jail? Answer: When it's called Haven and is over a year's travel from Earth with little or no possibility of return.

	"Your job, Agent Cole, will be to find legal justification for CoDominium intervention."

	It sounds so easy rolling off the Assistant to the Director's tongue, Cole thought. What it really meant was that he had to organize or foment a revolution; or what could pass for such on a misbegotten world like Haven. Thus providing, for the Grand Senate, an excuse to appoint a Consul General and send a battalion of Line Marines to restore the benefits of CoDominium order and civilization.

	"You will be provided with a list of contacts and a review of certain 'unstable' elements there by someone who has just returned. We've had an ad hoc team in Castell City—provided by BuCorrect—for some time, but they've been unable to close. In fact, initially, they did such a poor job that the stink they raised reached Luna Base and the Marines were sent in.

	"That won't happen again, due to the rider on the last Fleet Appropriations' Bill in '52. In fact, the Marines were recalled last year."

	Cole remembered that rider; he'd thought it odd at the time when he learned that both Grand Senators Adrian Bronson and Gordon DeSilva, traditionally bitter enemies, were behind a rider to keep official CDAS forces off non-CoDominium colonies. Now, it made sense: they wanted the Marines off Haven so they could foment a big enough crisis that would bring in the Fleet. That would force the CoDominium to take charge of Haven and they could run the place through their proxies, in this case probably a CoDo viceroy or consul-general.

	"I'm afraid that budgetary demands," Wainwright continued, "make it impossible to give you all the resources you might need; however, you will be given a rather 'free hand' in carrying out this operation. Kennicott Metals has graciously offered their services in the way of funds and operatives upon your arrival on Haven. I suggest you take them up on their offer."

	Cole nodded.

	The Assistant to the Director of CD Intelligence Services turned his attentions back to his viewscreen. Looking up, he said, "My Secretary will provide you with a travel chit and the necessary documents and discretionary funds."

	Knowing full well that no objection by him would be tolerated, Cole cursed under his breath and left the office.

 

JANESFORT WAR
Frank Gasperik & Leslie Fish

2055 a. D., Haven

	The zodiac raft with the name Black Bitch painted on her side growled away from the off-planet shuttle floating in the lake laden with crates marked Mining Equipment. If one inspected the invoices attached, as the Bitch's captain had bothered to do, one would find they were destined for one Max Cole, delivery at Castell City, or the port thereof, to be placed in bond until called for. This could have presented a problem, Castell City Port being nothing but a rough, pontoon dock, except that Max Cole stood wrapped in off-planet cold weather gear, in the full light of Cat's Eye, waiting for his cargo.

	He wasn't alone.

	The man accompanying him was as recognizable to the locals as Cole was a stranger. His name was Jomo and he was a thug. He inspired fear and the kind of respect born of it. He was tall and broad and scarred and of mixed parentage, the result of the usual problems one found in the Transvaal. He had received a message three T-days earlier from the Ayesha Refueling Station about the crates delivery and their contents. He knew that someone off-world had it in for the Harmonies, but he didn't care who or why as long as they provided him with credits and guns—and stayed out of his way when the blood ran.

	Jomo watched the boat as it moved towards shore and, like Cole, was dressed warmly. They didn't speak but stood patiently as the cargo was unloaded.

	Cole identified himself and signed the receipt, and the Black Bitch, reeking of the alcohol she used for fuel, turned back to the shuttle for another load. A motion from Jomo, and his crew—not the usual dockworkers—began hauling the crates onto handcarts and trundling them towards the rough jumble of buildings known as Docktown. Somehow it already had the indefinable aura of "slum" that most port communities seemed to acquire.

	Jomo and Cole slowly followed the handcarts toward a large, for Haven, building dug into a low bank with a freshly painted sign proclaiming it to be the Simba Bar. They trailed the crates inside after the unloading. Another motion from Jomo and the pair were left alone in the main room of the establishment.

	"I hope the shipment is as I require," said Jomo, with carefully elaborate politeness.

	"Better than you could imagine," Cole replied, just as carefully. "You asked for arms to enhance your—ah ... 'business' and I have done better than you asked." Jomo and his crew had been sent to Haven on a BuCorrect ship over ten years ago to foment trouble with the ruling Harmonies and provoke an excuse for CoDo intervention. Unfortunately, Jomo had been unable to do the job on his own; he was greedy and vicious, but not the sharpest tool in the box.

	"Look." He produced an odd tool from under his coat and pried open the nearest crate. "The latest CoDominium crowd control weapon: the sonic stunner. Forty of them."

	"A weapon that stuns? It does not kill?"

	"You should find it most effective for your purposes, Mister Jomo. No damage to the subjects, and they awake in an hour or so with nothing but a headache."

	Jomo lifted the bell-mouthed weapon.

	"Yes, these will do well ... After all, a live captive can always be made dead at a later date, but the reverse of that cannot be accomplished."

	Cole smiled, and shrugged. "This is the method of loading and the manual for maintenance. Simple enough, as you see."

	Jomo smiled in turn, not prettily.

	His purring whistle brought a man from the back room, carrying a small box that had once contained boots. At Jomo's gesture, the man put the box on the table and stood attentively to the side.

	In a single quick motion, Jomo lifted the weapon and fired.

	The sound of the stunner was only moderately loud. The target crumpled in his tracks.

	Jomo went to him, bent over and cruelly pinched the right earlobe. There was no reaction. "Yes." Jomo grinned widely. "These will do well indeed."

	"Ahh, Mister Jomo, my remuneration?"

	Jomo handed him the boot box. A brief inspection proved that it was full of CoDominium and Trade credits, a small fortune on Haven.

	"Would you enlighten me as to how you acquire such tools?" Jomo nudged, studying the stunners.

	"Such things are possible, if one knows just whom to blackmail or bribe  ... " Cole shrugged again. "And as long as they're not found on Earth, or a planet under CoDominium control, they're quite safe to own."

	Jomo nodded, put down the stunner and opened the manual.

	"I must go now," Cole reminded him, "as I wish to ride the shuttle back to the ship. The sooner I'm out of this icebox, the better. I'll send down the rest of the ammunition with the next load. As it stands, you only have twenty rounds."

	"I have no choice but to trust you in this matter," Jomo admitted. "But without the weapons the ammunition is useless. Also the converse. It is nice to do business with a professional."

	They turned to the door and walked back to the dock. Before boarding the zodiac, Cole stopped and turned to Jomo.

	"You'll need this," he said, handing Jomo the very special tool. "You can't open the other crates without it. The security devices would ruin the control chips if you tried any other method."

	Neither of them noticed that the zodiac captain, although turned away and occupied with unloading cargo, was close enough to hear.

	They did not shake hands on parting.

	Jomo mused on how much easier this would make the takeover of Docktown, the outlying farms, eventually, Castell City and the rest of the planet. Jomo considered himself a man of great plans.

	Owen Van Damm was watching quietly while his immediate boss Maxwell Cole hung up his off-ship over-clothes and readied himself for the briefing. He felt that he was like that, layer on layer, persona under persona, and at the center? I don't know anymore. I know that I am unhappy with Earth, and the CoDominium. The Fleet is a home, but I know too much to go back to being a Fleet Officer.

	"Here's the situation, Owen ...  Jomo has the weapons and appears willing to use them  ...  He didn't press too much on where they came from and was willing to pay cash ...  I imagine that we have the majority of hard cash on the planet. That means a serious retreat into barter, as Charles Castell doesn't seem to want money of any kind here. He might be a hell of a leader, but his knowledge of economics is primitive.

	"With the breakdown of the economy it shouldn't be hard to nudge Jomo into a full takeover ... I'm afraid that the religious gambit is out. They are still pacifists. Kennicott has an agent in place, and another from Reynolds Offworld is present. The Reynolds man is in Jomo's gang; the Kennicott rep runs a bar and whorehouse called the Golden Parrot. His name's DeCastro. Your job will be to provide some resistance to Jomo ...  Make it bloody enough so it will hit the off-planet news."

	Van Damm considered the options. "You mean put a bunch of farmers and religious nuts in a position to be slaughtered?"

	"Exactly. You handle this one well, and I'll recommend you for a job on Luna in charge of the Haven desk. It will be small, but will require a man with on-planet experience."

	"Especially in light of the planned mining operations and BuReloc's policies."

	"It will mean a promotion for you. " Cole said.

	"So this whole thing is a setup for making a planetary prison mine for BuReloc and the mining companies?"

	"Yes, and you have ninety days to pull it off. The captain of this ship can hold only that long, no longer. Kennicott can't afford to have a filled ore ship waiting any longer than that, so get to it."

	Owen took that as a dismissal, and started to leave. Another thought made him pause in mid-step.

	"Mister Cole? What if I don't pull it off?'

	"If I don't get a report on the start of an uprising inside of ninety days, then you will stay here until you do it. Good luck."

	"Thank you, Mister Cole."

	Owen Van Damm considered that there was no choice involved. In fact, a field agent on Haven could be a better deal than assistant to some bureaucrat on Luna.

	Kennicott Metals, Reynolds, Anaconda Mining, Dover Mineral Development and BuReloc.and probably a couple of big politicians behind it all.

	There were greater dreams than Jomo's out among the stars.

	Captain Makhno steered the Black Bitch back to the waiting shuttle, considered what he'd seen, and kept his own counsel. There was much to see here, and much to think about.

	He eyed the last passenger he took ashore with the same sharp eye he'd turned on all the others. This one had the stamp of toughness about him, but not the sort Makhno was used to seeing: not the obvious bluster of the bully or the cold disinterest of the cop, but more the quiet confidence of someone who could use violence quite competently when needed. There had been another like that on the last ship, six months ago, but that one had been older, and talkative. He walked with a cane and was now in Castell City somewhere.

	That one, unlike most of the voluntary settlers, was full of questions about the planet, the town, what kind of work there was to be found and where, the availability of lodgings, and the rest.

	This one was silent. He was in his thirties, perhaps, and he stood about 170 cm. tall, shaven of jaw and head with gray eyes and a scar on his left cheek. He was well-muscled and seemed fit. He had a familiarity with small craft, and helped casting off from the shuttle and the docking.

	The duffel bag he carried had an insignia freshly painted over, but looked to be that of the CoDo Marines.

	Interesting, Makhno thought to himself..Not in uniform ... Maybe a wounded retiree ... Perhaps senior enlisted ... Not the usual sort at all. Janey would be interested.

	He had a lot of news this trip, and not all of it good. The sudden change of ownership at Harp's Place, for instance: how had Jomo managed that? What had become of Old Harp? Where was Harp's family, and how were they doing?

	And just what was Jomo going to do with those loads of mining equipment? Jomo wasn't the sort to be interested in hard work of the legal variety, and running a mining operation took long hours and a lot of sweat. Maybe he got it cheap, and was going to sell it to the highest bidder; but that didn't fit either. Cole hadn't acted like a machinery dealer. The military type was another interesting factor.

	Makhno's fees for hauling passengers and cargo from the shuttle should be enough to fund a lot of pub-crawling, greasing a few palms, collecting all the news he could. Something had gone seriously wrong in Docktown while he'd been away.

	Jane Wozejeskovich strolled through the upper field of South Central Island, examining her current crop and grinning in joy at the sight of the tall stalks, huge palmate leaves and already-forming flowers.

	Of all the seeds she'd brought with her from Earth, this Illinois-bred hemp had adapted best. Something about the light/dark cycle and climate pattern had stimulated the plant growth to the point that she was getting a full, harvestable crop every other full cycle of Haven around Cat's Eye. She knew—who would know better than an organic gardener?—all the practical uses of marijuana, but the accelerated growth was a bonus she hadn't expected.

	Gods, yes: a very good crop, and a very good year.

	Well, so much for the main crop: now on to the latest project. Jane strode out of the field and up the guided course of the islands sole reliable creek. Long before she reached the new mill-pond and dam, she could hear Benny Donato arguing high and loud with Big Latoya. Jane grinned again. She'd bet a bushel of medicinal-quality "euph-leaf" that Latoya was sweet on Benny, was trying to get him housebroken to suit her before she made any moves, that Benny had some idea what was going on and wasn't exactly running away.

	Benito Donato—volunteer settler, master machinist complete with a Multimate machine shop—had been a prize catch for her settlement, but he did need an occasional kick into line.

	With his pal, Jeff Falstaff, he'd come to the island with a head full of delusions about being the only man among a co-op of eight women. The reality—that he was one of three men, counting Makhno, and would have to work his butt off like everyone else—had left him a bit miffed. Well, he'd get over it.

	Falstaff had caught on, and settled in, a lot quicker. His little brewery was already producing a good enough beer that the miners downriver were trading rough copper and zinc for it. He had been a general science teacher Earthside, until caught teaching things not required by the curriculum of the Greater Los Angeles School System and the requirements of the CoDominium—such as original thought and Scientific Method  ... 

	Her course took her through the main hall/dining room and the kitchen beyond, where Maria-Dolores and her mother tended the ever-burning fire and the still-kettle set into the wall behind it. Granny calmly stirred the stewpot on the fire while Maria-Dee fussed with her baby in the crib and watched the temperature gauge on the brew-kettle.

	Falstaff was in his laboratory down the passage. So were the kids: Latoya's big-eyed toddlers, Muda's gawky ten-year-old boy, the teenagers Nona and Heather—all of them staring in fascination at the current demonstration by Mister Wizard. Jane wondered if he'd ever had such devoted students back on Earth.

	Falstaff—tall, bald, dark and reedy—looking like his Shakespearean namesake, had designed and made a "caseless" ammunition to replace the dwindling supply Jane had brought with her from Earth. Right now he was busy showing the kids how to package the stuff. Even the toddlers were fascinated.

	Hopefully, Donato would start teaching them gunsmithing next. He had modified her "coach gun" to use a piezo-electric igniter for the new shells, which were better than the ammo she had brought with her. The pair of them were a treasure beyond belief out here on Haven.

	A quick stroll through the rest of the house showed little Muda and Lou fussing over the hemp-cloth loom, arguing over how much fiber they'd need to keep the settlement in clothes with the children growing so fast. The treasured cat that Heather had brought from Earth lay curled in her basket, buzzing contentedly as she nursed her new litter of kittens; the previous litter had sold for incredible prices in Castell City.

	Jane paced up the stairs to her bedroom, her one indulgence, a semi-tower room whose glassless window looked out on the cultivated land, most of the island and of the river beyond. She never tired of the view. There was the house and the home-acre, the outbuildings and kitchen-garden, the pens of rabbuck and pigs and cattle, the hemp-fields beyond, the trimmed and cultivated forest of nut, fruit, resin and timber trees beyond that, divided by ditches and greenthorn hedges, then wild forest down to the waterline. All her doing: her dream, her seeds, her labor ... 

	Hold on, there. Never forget the labor of the others: they'd been in it from the start. Those seven women she'd recruited at the landing had worked harder and longer hours than she had asked; even the children had worked too, as best they could. The men had provided needed skills the women didn't have.

	And don't forget the help of the neighbors, all the squat-farmers on the river—little settlements hidden behind thick forest along the riverbank proper—living in dugouts, scratching bare existence out of the forest, hardly surviving before she came with her offers of seed and tools. They'd prospered too, repaying her in shares of their hemp or useful plants and animals discovered in the forest. Oh, yes, one needed to have good neighbors here.

	Of course, what she offered them was worth the work: land of their own on her homestead, but who could have guessed they'd all do so well? Let the stupid CoDo bureaucracy sneer at "welfare bums," not that she would ever tell the CoDo about it; she knew better.

	She wished the Earth-normal corn was doing as well, but her people wouldn't starve. The pigs she had traded from the Harmonies were thriving on local flora, as were the two heifers. One had taken to insemination, and she hoped the calf would be a bull.

	Now if only Leo Makhno would come home soon, her contentment would be complete.

	Tomas Messenger y DeCastro was no fool, as anyone in Docktown could tell you. He could see the writing on the wall—or on the new sign over what had been Harp's Place. He also knew how to move fast when he had to.

	Therefore he had the advantage of surprise when he strolled into the Simba Bar and calmly asked to see Jomo. He drank a beer while various underlings slipped in and out of the back room. Eventually a flunky waved him toward the rear door. DeCastro coolly finished his drink and strolled to the inner sanctum.

	Sure enough, Jomo was there—curious enough to ask what DeCastro wanted and listen to his answer.

	"Very simple, senor," purred DeCastro, lighting a large off-world cigar. "Everyone in Docktown knows of your new, ah, equipment. Everyone in Docktown has also seen your, hmm, acquisition of this establishment. It is only logical to assume that your next target will be none other than my estimable self. Correct, Senor Jomo?"

	Jomo answered with nothing but a smile. Only his lips moved.

	"I see you have considered it," DeCastro continued, blowing an almost perfect smoke ring "Certainly I have considered it, and come to the conclusion that I must join forces with you to survive."

	Jomo raised an appreciative eyebrow, saying nothing.

	"I ask not for equality with your most estimable self," DeCastro continued smoothly. "No. I ask to be your segundo, your teniente, your caporegime as it were. In exchange, I will ensure the loyalty of men and carry out your every command with great efficiency."

	He leaned back in his chair and puffed another smoke ring, letting his words take effect.

	Jomo was silent for a long moment, then laughed harshly. "You expect me to believe this? You: a proud, independent Castillano, willing to bow the neck and swear service to another man? You expect—"

	DeCastro was ready for this. "I am no facisto Castillano" he broke in, calculatedly indignant. "I am Mestizo, ten generations' worth." His voice turned calm and ingratiating again. "And I have the good intelligence to prefer being a small and wealthy frog in a large pond to being a big and very dead fish in a small one. You, senor, are clearly Going Places—and I wish to go there too."

	Jomo nodded acknowledgement, and considered the offer. He knew DeCastro to be smart and as good as his word when it came to holding a bargain. He had not progressed much because he was somewhat lazy, content to be comfortably wealthy and safely powerful, not terribly ambitious.

	After inspecting the deal from all sides—and considering the value of one Paul Jefferson who currently held that position—Jomo pronounced: "I have a second in command already. It must be settled between you as to who will have the position."

	DeCastro smiled, bent his head formally, and stubbed out his cigar.

	Jomo got up from the desk and walked toward the door, motioning for DeCastro to come with him.

	The only people now present in the bar were Jomo's men. Paul Jefferson was drinking at a table with one of the "safe" women. At a gesture from Jomo all noise and movement ceased.

	"Paul," Jomo announced, "this man wants your job. Do you wish to give it to him?"

	DeCastro raised an eyebrow as he recognized the Reynolds off-world man.

	"Hell, no!" was the shouted answer, as Jefferson came up from the table, drawing his sheath knife.

	Jefferson's next step was met with the roar of a large caliber pistol. He collapsed on the floor with a bullet hole through his right eye. The woman at the table carefully reached for her cup, and drained it.

	"Discipline must be sure and quick," said DeCastro still holding his pistol in a combat marksman's stance. "Is there anyone else who wishes to dispute my authority?"

	Nobody answered.

	"No? This is good. I will now have a drink with each of you. We must get to know each other." DeCastro went to the bar, holstering his pistol.

	DeCastro pointed at the first two men at the bar. "Dispose of that corpse, then come back and speak to me," he said.

	Jomo smiled as he went back to the office; Jefferson had been with him for the last eighteen months but had been getting independent ideas of late. This had been the ideal solution.

	Makhno threw the Black Bitch's engines into fast reverse at the last possible moment and came to a foaming halt just at the edge of the north shore rocks. He killed the engine, threw out the anchor and reached for the dangling bell-pull in almost the same motion. The bell clanged overhead, louder than the laboring pump.

	A grizzled head peeked over the ledge far above. Makhno waved frantically at it. The head withdrew. From above it came a creaking of gears. A rope with a padded loop at the end came snaking down toward the water. Makhno grabbed the loop, shoved his upper body through it and yelled: "Enough! Haul me up!'

	At the ledge, hands pulled him in. He wriggled out of the loop before the crane's gears were properly locked, and panted: "Where's Jane?'

	"At the fort, checking the stores," said Tall Lou, raising her gray eyebrows at him. "Why didn't you come around to the dock?"

	"No time. What's the quickest way?"

	"Up the new stairs, there. What about your cargo?"

	"Haul the cargo up with the crane!" Makhno yelled back, already running. He clambered his way up the newly cut stairs, rebounded around twist after turn, ran panting to a thick steelwood plank door in the towering cap-rock and pounded madly on the knocker. "Jane!" he roared. "Goddamn-it, lemme in! News!"

	Nona opened the door, batting her eyelashes furiously. In answer to his snapped question, she pointed fast directions to the storeroom. By the time she had the door closed and bolted, he was already yards off and running.

	The dim-lit rock tunnel let out into a low-roofed rock chamber packed with rough-cloth sacks and homemade wooden boxes. Jane was there, just turning to see him. The ceiling-hung oil lamp threw startled shadows across her broad Polish face.

	"Jane," he panted, bent over with the effort of sucking enough air. "It's bad news. Old Harp's dead. Killed. And Jomo's taken over Docktown. And he's got CoDo weapons."

	"Whoa, hold on." Jane got up, tucked a stray lock of dark-blonde hair back into her tattered braids, and went to him. "Calm down, Leo. Take a deep breath and tell me everything, right from when I saw you last."

	"Harp—" Makhno started, then choked again. He sat down on a box and rested his head on his knees for a long moment, caught in memories.

	Harp had been the leader of the independent faction of Docktown, willing to do business with the Harmonies or anyone. When he had arrived with the second Harmony transport, he had asked Castell himself if he could build a shelter and a bank was pointed out to him near the lake by a deacon of the church. Old Harp (had he ever been young?) had smiled, and had taken a shovel and started excavating into the hill.

	By the end of the next two shifts, he had a room beyond it and a pile of rocks and soil blocking the wind from the entrance. Within a cycle he had rented his shovel for the use of an axe and had felled a couple of trees that he split for rough boards. Within fourteen cycles more, he had added a brewing room and a bar and had a going business dealing in beer, food, and renting the main-room floor space for sleep during off-shift and full dark.

	Harp's business had grown in leaps and bounds. He had become master trader and unofficial arbiter of deals between the independent farmers, Docktown and the Harmonies, respected by all sides as an honest man.

	He had also been a voice of reason and strength against the growing gangs in Docktown. He had refused to pay protection to Jomo or any of the others.

	"They found his body washed up on the lake shore, just a couple shifts before I arrived. Jomo took over his place, changed the name to the Simba Bar, moved his bullyboys in." Makhno ran a lean hand through his wiry gray hair. "Word is, he's taking over Docktown. He brought in CoDo stunners from off-world, and he's throwing his weight around hard and fast."

	"Back up; you've just lost me." Jane sat down beside him and rested an arm across his shoulders. "Just who and what is Jomo?"

	Makhno turned to stare at her, then remembered that she'd spent less than a turn at the landing-site before getting her land-grant, collecting her settlers, and himself, and striking off into the wilderness. What she knew of Docktown, she'd learned mostly through Makhno—and he hadn't told her everything.

	"Okay, from the top." Makhno rubbed his eyes. "Remember the day you came in on the third ship, right after you got back from seeing Castell?"

	"Oh, yes." Jane chuckled.

	She remembered that well; as soon as she'd set foot on the lake shore, she'd gone after Charles Castell, finally caught up to him in a cow-barn, and asked him then and there for legal right to a full land-grant. Of course she could have just gone off and land-squatted, as so many did, but the fact that she bothered to ask the head of the Church of Harmony had impressed him. In return, he had bothered to ask her what manner of land she wanted and how she meant to work it.

	In the end they'd struck a mutually profitable deal; Jane got a river island in exchange for a tithe of her crops for the next five years. A secondary deal for breeding-stock of turkeys, pigs and two cows for another half-tithe. She'd headed back to the landing-site, looking for a boat and whistling "Solidarity Forever," feeling quite charitably disposed toward Castell and his crowd.

	"That's when I got hold of you and the Black Bitch, to take me down river." "Right, right." Makhno had a vivid memory of the first time he'd seen her, a big stocky blonde woman in denim bib overalls, wrapped bundle of tools on her shoulder, huge pack on her back, plodding up to his ship. "You remember, after you stowed your pack and went out to collect volunteers ."

	"You thought I was nuts." Jane grinned, remembering the skinny, grease-stained, hung-over riverboat captain who believed all the usual crap about transportees. "Especially when I asked only women."

	Makhno winced. Looking back now, it made sense; the women had no illusions about their situation, good reason to fear what the bigger and badder elements might try on them. Damn right, they'd taken Jane's offer to get out of town and set up on their own.

	"Well, that was part of the problem, you know," he reminded her. "There you were with a whole gang of women. A real prize for any pimp."

	"I don't recall that we had much trouble with that," Jane frowned. "Just that one fool who came up and tried to bully us  ... 

	"And you hit him on the head with the shovel," Makhno finished. "That was Jomo. He won't remember you kindly."

	That too was part of the problem. Jomo had always been a strong-arm man and a thug, but now he was a thug with weapons, and was moving to secure all Docktown.

	His first obstacle would be the other, smaller gangs. Jomo commanded about thirty men. DeCastro had about twenty, but until now they had been better armed: three shotguns, one old-but-serviceable rifle and nine pistols of various calibers. However, getting ammunition for them was a problem. The rest of DeCastro's men carried clubs and knives and had shown great willingness to use them. Jomo, with his new weapons, was a power to reckon with.

	"He must have made that arms deal way in advance," Makhno concluded. "When he knew the guns were coming, in, he took out Old Harp, grabbed Harp's place. It won't take him long to deal with DeCastro and the others, take over Docktown, maybe even Castell City  ...  Hell, I was the one who delivered those crates! 'Mining Equipment'—Goddamn, if only I'd known, I'd have pitched the things overboard!" Makhno pounded his fist on the stone floor.

	Jane caught his wrist. "There's no way you could have known."

	"I could have saved Docktown—"

	"But not Old Harp. You said he was killed before the ship landed."

	"Yeah." Makhno took a deep breath and straightened his back. "So how do we deal with this, Janey? What do we do when Jomo takes over Docktown, maybe all the settlements he can find? He'll try to make himself king of the whole valley before he's done. How do we survive?"

	"We organize, said Jane. "Up and down the river, among all our friends, we organize. Then, we strike."

	Jomo was talking with his accountant, and the news was not good.

	"For the last two turns the take is down, and instead of cash, barter is being offered. Most of those clients insist that Old Harp always took trade goods, so why don't we?" The accountant, a small skinny man of unguessable age and race, paused to tap his pen against his teeth.

	Jomo briefly rattled his fingers on the table before him. "Has any of the trade been in foodstuffs?"

	"No, and no beer either. It has mostly been in timber, some furs and in a few cases, fish from the lake. What beer we do get is made right here and is of very poor quality. It's hard to tell, if food is going to Castell City, for the Harmonies appear to be living on lake-fish and the ... paste from the synthetic food plant, like the rest of us."

	"So no real food is coming into Docktown?" Jomo frowned, remembering the taste of paste and baked lake-fish. "Not from inland or along the rivers?"

	"No boats from anywhere up or downriver have come here for three turns." The accountant sighed. "In short, nothing coming in from out of town. The entire trade has dried up. I have not seen anything like this since I got here, and that was on the second ship."

	"Then this is not the result of poor harvest." Jomo tapped his fingers on the table again. "I believe we are victims of a boycott."

	"That is my impression also, Master Jomo."

	"If the supplies do not come to us, then we must go to them." Jomo set both palms flat on the table. "Send me DeCastro on your way out."

	After the man left, Jomo glanced down at the desk where his second-best treasure lay: a recent satellite-map of the entire Shangri-La Valley. With it he could find any structure or farm in the valley, and then no one could hide from him. With the stunners and this map he would take all of Haven.

	Leo Makhno considered that of all the ways of wasting time on Haven, trying to make the Harmonies understand a problem was his least favorite. They simply didn't comprehend that some problems could not be sung away and that others must be dealt with immediately.

	He had been trying for the last two hours to convince Charles Castell that Jomo was a threat to the Harmonies and their way of life, and had gotten nowhere.

	"You are not in tune Captain Makhno. This Jomo person only affects Docktown, not us. We have complied with your request not to trade farm goods to Docktown because that is harmonious with our beliefs, but to use violence against him, or to even support violence is discordant with our way. "

	Makhno sighed. "Then you will not help us against him?"

	"Not if 'helping' includes violence. Captain, there is nothing we can do. Even if there was, we would not. Each must find their own way in the Grand Tapestry of the Universal Song."

	Leo could hear the capitals and knew that further talk was useless.

	"Good-bye then, Mr. Castell. I hope you survive what is coming."

	"We will, Captain. Go in peace."

	Leo figured it was time to see if he could find at least one of the military types he had seen earlier.

	If a deal to at least train the women at Janesfort could be struck, some progress would be made.

	Owen Van Damm was hunting. It was his profession to hunt on occasions, and he took pride in his ability at it. Right now he was approaching the "lair" when he saw his quarry leaving. He followed unobtrusively down the street.

	This quarry was difficult in that he didn't walk very fast, perhaps slowed by his lame leg, and was quite aware of his surroundings. Van Damm stayed about ten meters back and ambled slowly.

	The quarry turned a corner at one of the newer buildings in Castell City (it had an entire floor above ground and was made out of wood), and Van Damm followed. He made the turn—and stopped right there, nose to nose with his target standing and confronting him.

	"Are you following me?" came the question. The voice was polite but the body language said: I am armed and dangerous and you seem to be a threat.

	Van Damm sighed, and answered. "Yes, I am."

	"Why?" The man smiled, but his keen blue eyes never wavered.

	Well, in such situations, the best defense was the truth.

	"Someone has been asking questions about you and I, looking for us. I do not know who is asking, nor what connection he sees between us, and such puzzles are healthier if you solve them."

	"Agreed." The man relaxed slightly, and leaned on his cane. "What do you think we have in common?"

	"Your name is Nicholas Brodski. True?"

	"Yes." No surprise, nothing else given away.

	"You have the carriage of a military man, perhaps senior enlisted, likely of the Fleet Marines."

	"Right again, laughing boy."

	"I would also guess that you were retired for wounds?" Van Damm asked, looking at the "penalty weight" the man was carrying, his gray hair and the cane loosely ready at his side.

	"Right again. What's all this about? You ex-Fleet?" Brodski's blue eyes turned hard, " ... or still working;?"

	"I am ... retired from the Fleet, also. My name is Owen Van Damm." Truth enough.

	"Okay, Owen. Let's get off the street and discuss this in more civilized surroundings."

	"I agree." Van Damm allowed himself a quick smile. "If you know of some place where the food is not synthetic slop and the beer is better than the horse urine that seems to be all they serve now in Docktown, I'll buy the first round."

	"I've found a 'speak' that has some decent brew. Their sandwiches are pretty good too. Just let ol' Nick Brodski show you where."

	The speakeasy proved to be not far away, and connected by a backdoor to a recently used barn. Brodski knocked twice, waited, knocked twice more, waited, then knocked thrice. A voice came through the door: "Who's your friend, Ski?"

	"Another old Marine, Charlie. Let us in; he's got cash to spend."

	A Chinese man of indeterminate age opened the door and let them in. Van Damm wondered, as he scraped goat manure off his boot soles, where the observation port was. He hadn't spotted it from the outside.

	The room was lit by lamps that burned a sweet-smelling oil, one of the few places that still had lamp oil, and was warm, and—despite the crowding—quiet.

	After the beer (a pitcher containing a liter and a half, for two tenths of a CoDo trade credit) came the sandwiches: fresh meat and Earth condiments, all good.

	"So," said Brodski, around a mouthful of meat, "tell me more."

	Van Damm finished a swig of very good beer. "There is not much to tell. As far as I know, there is this man named Makhno, some sort of boat captain, who has been asking questions about us for at least the last six hours. I thought that I would look you up and we could compare notes, so, as to know more about what he wants."

	Brodski turned to look toward Charlie who beckoned from behind the bar. Brodski said, "Excuse me," and went over to him.

	Van Damm shrugged and went back to his sandwich and beer, which were better than in any other place Owen had tried in the last couple of turns.

	Brodski came back with a funny look on his face. "What you just told me was confirmed by Charlie over there. He says that Leo Makhno was looking for me earlier. He runs the zodiac that trades on the river."

	"A coincidence, that. I came ashore on the zodiac, and since I don't think that there would be two of them on this planet."

	"Right you are. So let's add things up. Point one: We are both ex-Fleet. Point two: We are newly arrived on Haven  ...  I got here on the ship before this one."

	"Point three," added Van Damm. "I understand that the flow of food and beer in Docktown has slowed to a trickle in the last few days. Who better than a cargo-boat captain to know why?"

	"Good point," said Brodski. "You're not as dumb as you look  ...  Which brings us to point four. This shortage started shortly after one Jomo came up with a bit of CoDo stun-rifles and began consolidating Docktown. Hmm, and have you noticed there's almost no off-world money around? Interesting."

	"That means somebody, possibly several somebodies, don't want to work for Mister Jomo, and they are not sending food into Docktown." Van Damm actually smiled as he let the idea expand.

	"A ... strike? Of the 'union' kind?"

	" ... And maybe the strikers would like some professional help in case of strikebreakers," finished Brodski. "And a local shipping captain just might recognize a couple of old pros when he sees them. It fits. How do you feel about becoming a merc, Owen?"

	"Not badly, after looking for work in this place for the past few shifts ... no, Turns?"

	"Turns is right, I've noticed the lack of honest work myself. I've been teaching Tai-Chi to some Deacons for room and board."

	"I had some idea of selling my, skills when I came here—but I soon found that it was work for a gang or not work. The Harmonies don't hire much, and no honest Docktowners could pay anything—thanks to the curious shortage of currency. Since the only gang leader left is Jomo, I couldn't work there. He 'dislikes' people that are not of mixed blood."

	"Un huh. So what do you say to finding this Makhno fellow and applying for the job?"

	Van Damm shrugged. "Since I have no job right now, and things are beginning to get rough here in Docktown, I think that I would perhaps like to see a bit more of the planet."

	"Yeah. And I thought I'd quit being an armed tourist when I quit the Corps  ...  Well, Semper Fi, buddy," said Brodski, refilling both glasses.

	"Til the Final Muster," toasted Van Damm. "Now, how shall we find our employer?"

	"I have a funny feeling that if we just wait right here long enough, he'll show up ... Or do you have to go home and pack?"

	"Ah, no." Van Damm pointed to his backpack. "I prefer to travel light—and ready."

	"Wait here. Brodski got up and went back to Charlie, wrote something on a note and handed him a 5-credit bill, then came back to the table. "Just arranging for my duffel," he explained. "We may as well get acquainted until our new boss shows up."

	They didn't have long to wait. Four leisurely beers, some gossip about mutual acquaintances in the Fleet, another sandwich and the arrival of Brodski's duffel bag later, the door opened (Van Damm still hadn't found where the peephole was) to admit Leo Makhno. He went to the bar, conversed briefly and quietly with Charlie—who pointed to Van Damm s and Brodski's table.

	"Look alive," muttered Brodski, finishing his beer. "Here comes the recruiter."

	The deal didn't take long to clinch, though the work was strange—training a small farmers' militia—and the pay was stranger.

	"A ... land-grant share?" Brodski repeated, swapping looks with Van Damm.

	"And the profits thereof," Makhno finished. "Money's tight, but the trade's good and will get better. You want the deal or not?"

	"Of course." Van Damm hurried to agree. "When do we start?"

	"Soon as you're ready to go."

	"Right now, then," said Brodski, pushing up from his seat.

	Just then Charlie gave a low whistle and motioned Makhno, who frowned and went back to the bar.

	"Our new boss doesn't seem to want to spend time in Docktown," Van Damm observed. "Nor do I blame him."

	Brodski didn't answer, watching Charlie lead the still frowning Makhno through a backdoor. A moment later the pair reemerged, leading two nervous-looking young girls, both in their teens, both almost painfully pretty.

	Makhno grimly marched back to the table. "Passengers," he explained. "Let's go."

	He led the way out, the girls huddled close behind him, Van Damm and Brodski bringing up the rear. At the barn's outer door he paused to look up and down the street. "Come on," he almost whispered. "Quickly!"

	The direction he took was not toward the northeast, up toward the river-mouth. He managed to look businesslike and nonchalant, but set a fast pace. The girls pulled scarves over their heads and did their best to look invisible in the dull light of Eyefall. Brodski and Van Damm automatically paced close behind, watching the shadows.

	They'd made less than fifty meters when two skulking silhouettes came scurrying toward them. The whole party tensed and crouched, reaching under folds of clothing but the two figures practically fell on their knees in front of Makhno and hailed him in quick whispers.

	"Please, please, Maitre—Capitan—Makhno." Their voices, both female, jumbled together. "Take us with you— We don't want to work for Jomo—please—we will pay—some money—whatever you want—please—we've heard how women are left alone there please—we can work—please  ... "

	Makhno looked around, swore, motioned the two women into line behind him. "All right, all right," he whispered. "But keep quiet and keep together. We've got to move fast."

	The women scurried to comply, and the party moved out again in the waning light of the planet above.

	Brodski was in "drag" position of the little column when he heard the sound of a stunner being fired. Both of the volunteer women crumpled and lay still. Makhno and the two girls dropped flat.

	Almost without thinking, Brodski drew his service automatic and nailed the origin of the sound with a 10mm slug, dropped his duffel bag, fell flat and rolled. He noted that his shot was rewarded by a ricochet sound and a yelp.

	"Damn-it, girl, get off my arm!" he heard Makhno snap.

	The ZAP and flash of a CoDo stunner raked at the source of the last comment.

	Brodski put two rounds at the spot the flash had come from, and rolled toward a low hummock in the dim light. This time a scream showed he'd made a clean hit.

	There came a duck's "quack" from his left. Van Damm, he thought. "Duck." Right. Well, it looks like I get a chance to see him in action. He noticed a shadow moving from about where the quack had come from, and smiled. I'll hold this flank and let him chase them out to me. I'm a potted palm in this one.

	There was movement almost dead ahead of him and slightly to the right. Their flank-man, possibly. If I wait, he might give me a better target.

	Further to the left was another movement, and the quick gleam of sudden steel, but no sound. The spot he had been watching suddenly reared up and became man-sized; Brodski shot it. Van Damm wouldn't silhouette himself like that. The shadow fell.

	At where he would have put the far end of the enemy position, something moved away low and fast. Brodski considered it, but didn't shoot. The light was too uncertain and the range a bit much for the expenditure of a round.

	For long seconds, nothing moved.

	"Brodski!" came Van Damm's voice out of the gloom. "I think I've got it cleared here."

	"Okay, Owen. Coming out."  ... But where the hell were Makhno and the women? "What have we got?"

	"It looks like there were four of them. Three dead. One got away," said Van Damm, frisking the body in front of him.

	Brodski produced a pocket light, looked down and saw a corpse, expertly killed with a knife. It took a good man to get that close in what had been turning into a fire-fight. His estimation of Van Damm went up.

	A powerful flashlight lit up the area, Makhno and the two girls just visible behind it.

	"Did you get them?" he panted.

	"Three out of four," came Van Damm's reply. "Not bad for this sort of thing."

	Makhno's light beam hovered over the bodies. "Hmm, they look like Jomo's boys ...  I'll wager they weren't trying to ambush us; more like, they were headed the same way we were—maybe chasing the women."

	Brodski put his pocket light away and reloaded his pistol.

	"Look what I've found!" chirped Van Damm. "A stun-rifle! I think you broke it though, Ski."

	"Take it along, Mister Van Damm," said Makhno, climbing to his feet. "We don't waste anything."

	"You take the woman on the right, Brodski sighed, thinking of the painful extra weight. "I'll take the other one."

	Makhno sent the older girl (Mary) to search the bodies, and the younger (Rose) to bring Brodski's bag, while he helped the men pick up the stunned women. The little procession struggled its way through the darkened streets of Castell City, past the last of the outbuildings, up to the bent shore where the northern river emptied into the lake. There Makhno hunted through the underbrush until he found the disguised Black Bitch.

	"So you hid her here and walked in," Brodski noted. "How come?"

	"Didn't want to be noticed by Jomo's men. There's reason to think they'd grab the Bitch if they could." Makhno pulled the concealing tarp off the zodiac and began testing her engines.

	"Not to mention what they'd make of these," said Brodski, holding out the sack Makhno had set down. "You must have half the portable CB radios on Haven in there."

	Makhno grabbed the sack and stuffed it aboard the Bitch. "Yeah. Better we should have 'em than Jomo."

	"Hmm, any idea why those bozos jumped us?" Brodski asked. "And were they really Jomo's boys, or possibly independents?"

	"Jomo's goons," snapped Makhno, not looking up. "Maybe after the Bitch, maybe wanting the women. Saw us, jumped at the chance and started shooting."

	"Why the women? Why your raft?" Van Datum pushed.

	"The Black Bitch is the fastest boat on the planet, and the women ... " Makhno paused. "Jomo's pulling all the whores in Docktown under his rule. These two used to be independents, who didn't like Jomo's working conditions. As for the girls—they're Old Harp's daughters. Do I need to tell you anything more?"

	"Er, no. Not a thing."

	The girls handed in three sheath-knives, a revolver and ammunition from the other man that Brodski had shot. "They didn't have any money on them, Captain Makhno, Mary duly reported. "Just these things."

	"That's all right, Mary. Now, everybody, get those women aboard and help push off."

	They slid into the river at dead slow, without the superchargers engaged. When they made the lake proper Makhno opened the throttles, pointed the nose of the Bitch south and relaxed to the rising whine of the superchargers. They'd reach Janesfort at just about Eyerise.

	Nobody followed them.

	"You are quite sure," Jomo asked coldly, "that the women are nowhere to be found in the city?"

	"I assure you, mi Commandante, my men searched the city most thoroughly." DeCastro started to reach for a cigar, then thought better of it. The supply was running low.

	"We even managed to search some of the buildings in Castell City proper, under pretext of looking for two women who were contagiously ill."

	Jomo raised one eyebrow slightly in appreciation of that trick. It was almost impossible to get any cooperation out of the Harmonies.

	"Therefore I must regretfully conclude, that the delectable Ahnli and Zilla have fled the city: DeCastro's regret was genuine, and not just for the loss of income. He had sampled Ahnli's charms last shift, and wanted more of her.

	"Then where could they have gone?" Jomo glowered. "There have been no boats in dock for the past three turns, no carts or wagons either. I do not see those two slits going far on foot."

	DeCastro shrugged elaborately. "They must have fled with the assistance of those admirers who proved so effective against our search party. The survivor of that encounter was not able to recognize the men in the poor light. They could have come from anywhere, in a concealed boat or wagon, and taken the women back with them: to an outlying farm, or to some collection of the miners and prospectors to the west, or—who knows?—to the legendary Island of Women. In any case, gone out of our reach."

	Jomo's frown deepened. "We must discourage further such defections, and it is time we extended our reach beyond Docktown. We must have land and river transport, DeCastro."

	"Of course." DeCastro interlaced his fingers in thought. "When The Last Resort returns with her latest catch, we can persuade the owners to put the ship at our disposal. As for wagons, I cannot predict when another will come rolling into our reach. We may have to march our troops into farming country to look for one."

	"Better to use the ship to take us to farms along the river," said Jomo. "Indeed, we will have to visit those farms eventually. Best to start planning now."

	"Si, mi Commandante? DeCastro sighed, wondering how to persuade Jomo not to send him out on any such expeditions. DeCastro hated the wilderness, had spent all his life in cities, wished to be nowhere on the planet but nice, comfortable Docktown, getting rich off the spacer trade.

	The trip upriver was long, wet, dark and cold. Makhno took the opportunity to explain some of the facts of life at Janesfort, but the reception was mixed.

	"Now we're into Central Forest proper. Behind the screen of woods, you'll find lots of farms—squatters, all of 'em, but what Castell doesn't know about doesn't hurt anybody else. The squatters along here are all friends of Jane's. They're willing to help, but the real fortress is at the island."

	The girls and women nodded acceptance, then huddled together in mute, miserable endurance.

	The two men weren't nearly as patient. Brodski settled into griping and swearing; Van Damm joined him and looked sour.

	That they'd be working for women, or that the trip was uncomfortable, was no damned excuse. Makhno grew steadily more irritated with both of them.

	When they reached the north cliff-face of Jane's Island, Makhno took his own sweet time pulling up to the anchorage spot under the ledge-hidden hoist. Sure enough, while Brodski reached, cursing, for the camouflaged bell-rope, Van Damm spotted the rising pipe to the water pump.

	"Weakness, that," he said, pointing. "Invaders could climb it."

	"Not likely," Makhno teased, hiding his grin. "Too wet, too dangerous."

	"Good troops could climb it," Van Damm insisted, taking the bait.

	"Hell, I'd like to see you try," Makhno nudged.

	"Fifty creds says I can."

	"You're on."

	Van Damm actually smiled, made a smooth leap out of the raft and caught the pipe. Makhno had to admit the guy was good, didn't even slip on the damp lower stretch of pipe, shinnied up fast and smoothly.

	"You just lost fifty creds fast," growled Brodski, jerking on the bell-rope.

	"Not yet I haven't," Makhno chuckled, his reply muffled by the bell. He watched as braid-wrapped heads peered down from the ledge, grinned as they turned to look at the stranger shinnying up the pipe.

	Van Damm was better than ten meters up when he came abruptly nose-to-nose with a shotgun in the hands of Tall Lou. He yelled like a banshee, sprang away from the pipe, and went straight back down into the water, narrowly missing the raft.

	Makhno managed not to laugh as he hauled the man back aboard, but he couldn't help grinning from ear to ear. Brodski, who'd been busy with the bell-rope and had missed the whole encounter, asked what the hell had happened.

	"A woman with a shotgun," came Van Damm's reply. "I couldn't even see her until she poked it up my nose  ...  She was hidden by an overhang and a berm, damn-it"

	"Yeah. They keep watch on all the approaches." Makhno snickered. "You should've gone up the hoist, like a proper guest."

	About then the sling-hoist came creaking down to the raft. Van Damm shamelessly grabbed at it first, ducked into it and signaled to be hauled up. The windlass obligingly lifted him away.

	"As I told you," said Makhno. "Jane's no fool."

	"I'm beginning to get that impression," said Brodski.

	The crew of The Last Resort never knew what hit them. One minute they were unloading a good catch of fish at Castell City dock, and then there came a crackling sound, and then they were waking up on the dock with ringing heads, bound hands, and a bunch of mean-looking Docktown goons grinning down at them.

	Joey Brown looked toward Captain Feinberg, and got a bleak look in return.

	He wondered what these goons wanted to rob them of; all they possessed at the moment were their clothes, dry suits, tools, and a load of fish.

	The crowd parted and another man marched through. He was chunky, swaggering, puffing a thick cigar. "DeCastro," Captain Feinberg muttered. "Damned if I'll visit his bar again."

	"Senores," DeCastro announced through a cloud of odorous smoke. "Pray forgive this unorthodox greeting, but we have serious business to discuss. We need to hire the use of your boat and your estimable selves."

	"What pay?" asked Feinberg, daring to stand up.

	"The usual shares," DeCastro puffed calmly. "You will find that Senor Jomo is most generous to those who serve him well."

	"Jomo's in charge of this?" Feinberg gaped.

	"Shit," said deckhand Brown—and lay back down on the dock.

	Makhno strolled down the line of exercising women assembled in the meadow below the fort, and considered once again that Jane had been very sharp in collecting her crew. After the initial gossiping and chattering, everybody agreed to work as a unit—and there was no dissension thereafter.

	For once, almost all of them were assembled in one place. Granny, Falstaff and Donato were off minding the little kids, the radio and the cook-pot, but everyone else was here: Tall Lou with her short gray hair tossing it with every stroke, big grumbling Latoya with her original fat, diminished enough to show the respectable muscles beneath her coffee-dark skin, skinny Ester and batty-eyed Nona bending and dipping with teenage enthusiasm, Muda methodical as ever, Harp's daughters enthusiastic, the ex-whores Ahnli and Zilla struggling to prove they were as good as anybody else, even Maria-Dolores working soulfully while keeping one eye on the baby sleeping at one corner of the meadow. And there was Jane herself, blonde, big-breasted and stocky, the perfect stereotype of a Chicago Polack, unselfconscious working harder than the rest of them, setting an example, all quiet competence.

	Deadly practical, all of them. All willing to farm and grow the hemp, all of them busy making a good living this past Earth-year, now all of them willing to fight for what they'd made for themselves.

	Willing to pay for a couple of good combat instructors, like these two.

	Makhno strolled quietly behind the two men, watching. He'd hired them and brought them here, and now they were busy at their job, and he knew better than to get in their way, but he could take mental notes to discuss with Jane later. He'd learned much, just watching them. Brodski might be gray-haired, fat and lame, but Makhno decided that he would never want to get in the way of that man's cane; it looked too ... useful. In demonstration of hand-to-hand fighting, he moved with a vicious economy that boded ill for any opponent.

	Van Damm was muscular, shaven-headed and blank-faced, could have been any age between eighteen and thirty, and spoke little. Makhno had seen him teaching the hand-to-hand and knife-fighting class, and had done some practice bouts with him along with the women; he had decided to stay well out of his reach.

	Jane had been right: wherever these two had picked up their experience, they were the best instructors to be had for the price, most likely the best on the planet.

	And "CD Marine" hung on them like halos. Exactly what were they doing on Haven?

	"Awright, enough!" bellowed Brodski, much to the assembled women's relief. "Take a break, get washed up for dinner, and then we'll talk about defense plans for the island. See you back here in an hour. Diss ... missed!"

	The women bowed as the two men had taught them, received a bow in return, gathered up their gear and trotted off toward the washhouse. Brodski ambled to the nearest woodpile, carefully sat down, rubbed his bad leg and took out a battered pipe and filled it with genuine Earth tobacco. Van Damm dropped to parade-rest and surveyed the scenery. Makhno sat down on the log and offered Brodski his lighter.

	"You two seem to be earning your pay," he began. "So tell me, how're these farmers coming along and how good are their chances?"

	Brodski puffed blue smoke. "Well, understand that we're not exactly starting with prime military beef, here. They're mostly middle-aged, undersized women, with kids in tow. Compared to the bulls in Jomo's employ, they're nothing for size, weight or strength. They've also grown up with a damned lot of conditioning that says: 'you're a natural victim and you can't fight.' It's hard to overcome years' worth of that crap."

	"That's the bad news. Is there any good news?"

	"Hell, yes." Brodski poked inside his pipe-bowl with a twig, "They're quick, tough, flexible, determined and willing to learn." Van Damm's found a style of hand-to-hand that they can use: get down low, come in fast, trip and toss—and the ladies are getting remarkably good at it. He's worked up a similar style with knives, and they're very good with that—good enough that his padding's taken a real beating, and we'll have to make him another set pretty soon. As for shooting, well, those shotguns are nice handiwork, what with the caseless ammo and piezo-crystal igniters in them: very good for the situation you've got. The ladies don't have any preconceived notions about how to use 'em, so they've learned quick."

	Makhno chuckled. "I didn't think some of those scrawny little things could even lift a 12-gauge, but they manage. Did you see Granny picking branches off trees at fifty meters?"

	"Yep. Damn good eyes on that little old woman." Brodski puffed thoughtfully. "Now mind you, I don't know what they'd do in real combat. They don't have the arrogance of Jomo's bullies, but then again, they'll be fightin' for their home and kids. Maybe they'll fold-up in shock after they've shot their first man, and maybe they'll be so damn fierce you won't be able to keep 'em from killing everyone they see. Hard to tell."

	"My money's on the women," Makhno decided. "They've been stomped on all their lives, and now they've got a chance to stomp back. I suspect there's a lot of revenge they want to get."

	"Could be." Brodski shrugged. "The ladies are good at hiding and sniping. I confess, I can't figure out their table of organization, though it seems to work for them."

	"What's to figure? Jane's top dog, little Ester and Nona are her aides, Latoya and Tall Lou are sergeants, Maria-Dolores runs radio, Granny takes care of supplies and the kids. The rest fall in wherever they're needed."

	"And you? Where do you come into this?"

	"Me?" Makhno glanced at him in surprise. "Hell, I'm just the captain Jane picked to bring her up here to her land in the first place. I kept on running up here because she paid me—first in timber, then in, uh, crops."

	"There's a little more to it than that, I think," Brodski grinned through a cloud of blue smoke.

	"All right! So I, uh, made a personal arrangement with Jane. So what?"

	"Only Jane?" Brodski laughed, blowing more smoke. "Twelve women around here, and, you the youngest and handsomest of the three men  ... "

	"Damn-it, you don't know what you're talking about!" Makhno almost yelled. "Did you ever try keeping up with more than one woman at once? No way am I getting it on with the rest. You're nuts!"

	Brodski laughed until he choked, subsided into cough and glared at his smoked-down pipe. "More to the point, what's your job when the Simbas invade? In fact, what makes you so sure Jomo's going to bother you at all?"

	Van Damm turned around and asked. "Why should he even know about Jane and her people? We're a good long way from Castell City, and I assume you have not precisely advertised our position."

	"Because of things I've heard in Docktown for years." Makhno chewed his lip momentarily. "This island's a natural fort, if you've noticed."

	"I'd noticed," purred Brodski.

	"And you've got some idea that the CoDominium has plans for Haven, don't your—"

	"Sure," Brodski said. "News about the shimmer stones' discovery had just reached Earth when I left. Wait 'til all the miners and grifters start spacing in; it'll be a regular 'gold rush'—but for stones instead of geld. Don't you think the CoDo will want a taste of that action? Let some Grand Senator's favored company get in on the ground floor and milk it to its shriveled little heart's content, then dump more BuReloc sweepings here for cheap labor."

	"More than that," Makhno said, with a pointed stare. "There's talk that CoDo's planning to space in its own viceroy or governor, complete with troops to back him up."

	"Uh, I've heard rumors to that effect," Brodski hedged. "Face it, the Harmonies aren't exactly popular with the government right now, and if they have a planet of their own it's more than they deserve. Or so I suspect thinks CoDo."

	Makhno gave him a cold smile. "Now, how do you think Jomo will react to that? By just giving up and meekly knuckling under?"

	Brodski pursed his lips, and shook his head. "No, he'll want a piece of every shimmer stone that leaves this planet."

	"Right. He'll plan some way to be profitable to the CoDo troops and governor. No way can he raise and train an army near town."

	Brodski sat up straight, staring hard at the cleared fields around him and the meandering stone fortress.

	Makhno caught the look, and gunned sourly. "That's right. They'd be happy to let somebody else do the clearing, planting and building for them—and then come in and take over."

	"Right," Brodski slowly agreed.

	"And the fact that Ahnli and Zilla knew about this place means that word has spread around Docktown. Don't ask me how; I was careful to be discreet."

	"Patient observers could add two and two," Van Damm considered. "You leave with several women, you come back with valuable crops."

	"That's why we hired you two," Makhno finished. "The Simbas'll come, sooner or later, and we have to be ready for 'em."

	"I see." Brodski rattled his fingers on the log for a moment. "How do you think they will come? I doubt they'll walk."

	"They'll probably use The Last Resort. According to Ahnli and Zilla, they were going to take her when she came in next, and we passed her on the way out."

	"We had better figure out some kind of nasty surprise for them," said Van Damm. "We must talk to your machinist and chemist."

	"All right, you can do that after dinner. But how do you fight a ship?" asked Makhno.

	"By using its capabilities against it," replied Brodski "More like preparing for the future. We put something together that will work under a lot of different circumstances and apply it when one of them turns up.

	"So as I was saying, what's your position when the invasion comes?"

	Makhno thought that over for a moment. "Well, hell, I've been a supply-runner and news source. If I'm here when it happens, I'll just go to Jane and ask her where she wants me."

	"Good enough for now. I think Van Damm and I should start applying for jobs as gunnery and demolition officers. You'll need somebody who's blooded and seasoned to help you fight. I think I'll stay on here."

	"Stay?" Makhno was jolted to realize that he didn't like the idea. The next instant he knew why, and kicked himself. Hadn't he been complaining about the pure hard work of being one of only three men among a dozen women? "Uh, we can't afford to pay you beyond what we agreed."

	"No problem, son," said Brodski, reloading his pipe. "We plan to do just what the ladies have done: Take our land-share. Just when do you expect Jomo to make his try?"

	"Well, the next ship is due in ten months. With news out on the stones, who knows how many'll come after that. He'll want to have control solid before then."

	"Mm hmm. We'd better join Jane's fief in a hurry."

	"Fief?" Makhno scratched his head. "More of a co-op, I think. Everybody's got their little patch, but we share the tools, knowledge, labor and resources."

	"Come on, boy. Jane's really in charge here. She was the one who smuggled in the pot seeds, wasn't she?—Oh, don't jump like that; I'm not about to run and tell Jomo on you. Hell, I think it's the best thing to hit Haven since the Survey Teams! But it's her seed, her land and her rule, isn't it? And she lends—or more exactly, rents out—her tools and knowledge and seed and the other resources in exchange for shares of the crops, right? And it's her castle that everybody's going to hole up in when the attack comes, right? So just what would you call an arrangement like that?"

	"That depends." Makhno grinned toothily. "The women may decide not to fight that way, you know. They may vote to spread out among the neighbors on the riverside, fight it out farm by farm, or go hide out til the Simbas leave, like they did when the miners were rafting down-river, or a dozen other things."

	"Good Lord!" Brodski bellowed. "Ya mean they gonna decide on defense by vote? Every last whore and welfare-witch ranking the same as Jane, or you?"

	"Why not?" Makhno's grin got wider. "You just said yourself that they made pretty good soldiers, so they're not that ignorant. They all wanted the land deal, so they're not that lazy. Besides, it's their land, their kids, and their asses on the line when the Simbas come—so who's got the right to dispose of all that for them?"

	Brodski subsided into swearing and muttering. He was still at it when the dinner-bell rang.

	Half the population of Docktown, and quite a few eyes from Castell City, watched Jomo's expedition The Last Resort, loaded with three-fourth's of Jomo's army—with food, supplies, and all of the CoDo stunners—chugged away from the dock and out into the lake. Some of the crowd actually cheered, and meant it.

	DeCastro stood on the dock, watching them go, his smile only half-forced. He calculated that Jomo's expedition would take at least three full cycles to sweep all three branches of the river, with brief returns to town in between to unload cargo.

	(That meant that one Tomas Messenger y DeCastro had roughly one cycle to assure the loyalty of the twenty Jomo had left him. Such assuring would necessarily include thinning out the unreliable. With less than twenty soldados, DeCastro could not possibly hold all of Docktown. Certain adjustments would have to be made, strength concentrated on the most important sites and the others patrolled often enough to keep them from becoming hotbeds of rebellion. Explanations could be made to Jomo at some well-chosen time.

	The five men sat plotting and scheming and arguing at the cleared dinner table, Jane looking on from the head of the table.

	"So what is it you want?" asked Falstaff. "Understand that we don't have a lot of resources."

	"I was thinking through dinner," replied Van Damm "What I think we need is a variable timed charge that you could attach to their boat.

	"You'll have to be careful of River-Jacks. They're nasty and hungry and they'll take care of any Simbas we miss, said Makhno.

	"How will we get through them?" asked Brodski.

	"Blue tree sap will do it. Just rub it on your body and it keeps them away."

	"Yah ... Painted blue like an ancient Briton," said Van Damm. "But what boat are, they likely to have, Captain Makhno?"

	"Since they couldn't grab the Bitch ... the next best ship is The Last Resort. She mostly fishes on Lake Castell; easy prey for Jomo, I'd guess. Hmm, but she's just a diesel-powered trawler with a wooden hull."

	"A wooden hull!" Brodski snorted. "How're you going to put a mine on something like that?"

	Falstaff giggled, his white teeth showing sharply against his black skin. "I have a solution. One of the kids pissed in a pot of Eggtree sap I had been working with, and I tried to wash it out."

	"So?" asked Van Damm.

	"The stuff stuck my hands to the pot and to the wooden spoon. I had to use alcohol to get loose. I figure it'll do as an underwater glue. Hell, I was stuck tight in less than ten seconds."

	"I ... see," purred Van Damm.

	"Sounds good to me," chortled Brodski. "A real—heh!—'solution' for a real problem."

	"Captain Makhno, do you know the interior of The Last Resort?." Van Damm plowed on. "Can you draw a plan showing where a small charge would fill the greatest open space, other than the engine room?"

	"Maybe, but why not the engine room?"

	"Because we might want to salvage her later."

	Donato chewed his mustache and, punched numbers into his rechargeable pocket computer. "I have some frying pans that are heavy cast iron; they'll probably do for the cases. Jeff, can you do something about the charge?"

	"Well, I can boost the shotgun propellant some, maybe get a medium explosive. What I see as a problem is the timer. Any ideas?"

	"There are a couple of clock chips in that stunner you brought back they'll do; but ... they'll have to be set before they go into the water."

	"Keep at it, gentlemen." Jane, grinned, getting up. "I trust your sense of ...  timing."

	She strolled off, leaving a table of assorted groans.

	The lands along the eastern branch of the great river were low, flat, rolling, and rich with tall grass and wandering herds of muskylope. Jomo and his troops only glowered at the passing scenery; it hadn't shown them lootable prey yet. There was great joy when they spotted a rising column of smoke from a chimney, and the smokestack that was its source. Below it sat a turf-roofed dugout farmhouse surrounded by paddocks, storage-shacks, livestock-barns and a good-sized kitchen-garden. Five men, four women and several children were busy working therein. When they spotted the oncoming The Last Resort, they stood up and waved.

	Jomo smiled from ear to ear. "Fresh meat, Simbas," he said.

	As the last dishes were cleared away, Brodski stood up and waved his cane for attention. "Awright ladies," he bellowed. "All those who ... voted," he managed to keep the sneer out of his voice, "to go to the neighbors' farms and snipe from the shore, take these radios and pass 'em around. Set up schedules so there's al-ways somebody on the radio reporting back to the island. That's vital, damn-it, so remember it! I just hope everybody'll be awake and on the air when Jomo's boys come.

	"Amen," said Jane.

	Van Damm shook his head and reached for his beer.

	Brodski sat down with a thump and reached for his mug, muttering under his breath about deciding strategy by town meeting.

	Jane, still standing, turned to face them. "Now, concerning your land-grant ... " she began.

	Brodski and Van Damm sat up straighter, grinning.

	"You'll have your share of the working land on the island. However, for tactical purposes, we'll need you two on an advance listening-post downriver."

	The two mercs looked at each other, shrugged, and muttered agreement.

	"The best post I've been able to find is just north of MacDonald's, right on the bend of the river. There's a dugout house and some furnishings, a storage-barn, two paddocks and a kitchen-garden gone to seed. We can give you hand-tools and seed. Sorry, but we don't have enough livestock yet to spot you more than a few turkeys; you'll have to hunt for most of your meat, but there's plenty of game. Now, how much seed do you want, and what sort of crops?"

	"Seed?" Van Damm gave her a blank look.

	"Crops?!" Brodski followed him. "You expect us, to be farming?!"

	"Of course." Jane frowned, puzzled. "You're going to have to pose as standard river farmers. That means working in the field. Now, which crops do you want?"

	Makhno couldn't help laughing as he saw the two mercs look at each other, saw the slowly growing realization on their faces, saw plainly what they'd expected out of life on Lady Jane's estate. They really had thought they'd always be fed, supplied, taken care of, paid—even after their contracted work was done—coddled and fussed over like roosters in a henhouse as two of the only five men among more than a dozen women.

	Falstaff caught it at the same time; he erupted into howling laughter. Donato only looked to heaven and waved both hands to some unnamed saint. Makhno laughed so hard he fell off his bench and rolled, whooping and yucking, on the stone-and-clay floor.

	"Welfare bums!" He tired to hiccup an explanation to the worried faces turned toward him. "Just sit on your fanny and whine! Hic! Oh, they've got a lot to learn about polygamy  ... "

	Nobody else seemed to understand what he meant, unless one counted the thoughtful look on Jane's face.

	The last of Jomo's men came aboard, dragging the last laden sack, and waved his stunner to signal "all clear" .

	Jomo turned toward the first man in line. "Is this all they had?" he asked, very coldly.

	"We searched thoroughly, Baas." The man automatically dropped into the Submissive Position of the Chacma Baboon.

	Jomo frowned and turned away. "Poor pickings," he growled. "Let us hope, that the next farm has more to offer. "Pilot, haul away."

	Former-captain Feinberg cast one glance back at the thick smoke-column rising over the remains of the once-successful lakeside farm, shivered, and turned back toward his engines. There was nothing he could do about this, no available escape short of getting his throat cut. He breathed a quick prayer to any gods who could hear him to give him an opportunity to run.

	The Last Resort died up her engine, and dutifully turned south.

	Brodski and Van Damm were sitting in the hammocks outside their cabin, arguing over whose turn it was to weed the goddamn vegetable garden.

	"I've done it the last three times," Van Damm complained, nursing carefully on his next-to-last bottle of river beer. "I have blisters from the verdammt weeds. It's high time you did it."

	"You should've worn gloves, like I told you," Brodski retorted, measuring out a half-bowlful of his dwindling tobacco. "Hell, you expect a lame man to go bendin' all over that garden? My back would lock before I finished one row. Besides, who's been doin' the cookin' and laundry around here?"

	"I washed the dishes, last time."

	"Yeah? And who scoured the pans?"

	"Scheiss! This is no proper work for a man!" Van Damm gulped the last of his stoneware-cup load, and glowered at the sky.

	Brodski laughed until he ran out of wind "Whoo! Hell! What'd you think, that all those women would come over here and do the housework for us, for nothin' but a sight of your pretty face? Get real, Vanny: we got exactly what we contracted for, and now we're stuck with it."

	"Shh!" Van Damm whispered, looking down river.

	"Shh, what?" said Brodski, warily setting down his pipe.

	"Boat." Van Damm jumped out of his hammock and sprinted for the cabin.

	It took Brodski longer to get up; he was just struggling clear of the hammock when Van Damm ran back out carrying a pair of binoculars and the portable radio. He threw the radio to Brodski and peered out at the river.

	"Which boat and which way?" Brodski asked, working the radio.

	" The Last Resort, right enough," muttered Van Damm, peering low toward the river. Heading upstream, and loaded with armed men. Makhno guessed right."

	"That tears it; the war's starting." Brodski thumbed down a switch and winced at the chatter coming through the earpiece. "Girls, clear the lines! We've gotta get word down to Janesfort. The Last Resort's heading there right now, with Jomo's boys on it. Spread the word, warn everybody, get everyone into the fort, and be sure to tell Jane first."

	There was an instant's pause for breath, then a wild jumble of chatter on the airwaves, most of it demands for more news. Brodski rolled his eyes heavenward, muttered something about civilians, then repeated his message slowly and carefully.

	This time, only one voice answered. "This is the fort. We received your message, Señor Brodski. Can you see Jomo's people yet?"

	"Not yet. Give us ten minutes to get down to the water and we'll call you back. Ski out." Brodski thumbed off the switch, picked up his cane, slung the binoculars around his neck and started back into the cabin. "You get to carry the spare rations and water."

	Jomo scanned the riverbank slipping slowly past and considered where suitable farms might be hiding. Sure some of the squatters must have hidden in these thick woods; the cover, and the possible game, were too good to go to waste. He didn't like this alien forest himself, but he could tell a good hideout when he saw one.

	Hey now, what was that? It looked like a thin streak of smoke against the sky, the marker of a farmhouse's chimney. How handy that everybody on this cold planet kept at least one heating-fire going all the time; it gave him a dead-sure way to find prey.

	Jomo snapped his fingers at the pilot, then pointed a languid hand toward the riverbank.

	Feinberg, having grown used to Jomo's little ways after all these turns, sighed wordlessly and turned toward shore.

	Van Damm poked his binoculars a little further through the screen of eggtree fronds, studying details of the Simbas' equipment. He smiled sourly at the bell-mouthed stunners. "Mark 1's ... lousy guns," he whispered. "No range, not designed for woods, good for nothing but hosing down the near scenery. Doesn't anyone use good weapons anymore?"

	"Yeah, Jane." Brodski tapped the shotgun and the silenced rifle on Van Damm's back. "Now let's fade back and keep watching."

	They slipped back quietly through the woodlot. Where the wood gave way to the narrow plot of cleared land, they hurried around the lone field, back into the woods again on the field's far side, and flattened behind an ancient half-rotted log. "Hey Vannie, you ever work for Intelligence?"

	Van Damm froze for an instant, then rolled slowly to face Brodski. "What makes you ask that?"

	"I did some troop training at Camp Pendleton about six years ago," said Brodski, casually pointing his rifle in Van Damm s direction. "And we had a couple of spooks come through. I didn't have anything to do with them, but I remember one in particular. He was an Afrikaner, and had a scar on his thumb—just like yours. I remember it because I watched his hands when he arm-wrestled with Bill Mason for the beers at the E.M. Club one night. He moved like you. That's a real hard thing to change, you know?"

	"Yeah, I forgot." Van Damm smiled thinly. "You know, that's how covers get blown."

	"You working for the CoDo?" Brodski wasn't smiling.

	"Yes, Fleet Intelligence." Again, Van Damm considered, the truth was the best defense. "But I'm thinking of settling down here. I'm getting to like the place. It grows on one."

	"Van, I got on that ship one jump ahead of the cops and arranged my retirement on board. I'll only get twenty-five years instead of thirty, but what the hell, this place is a lot looser than Earth." His gun-muzzle lowered a little.

	"I'll tell you one thing, Ski; I am not doing anything against Jane. In fact, I was sent here to do what I could to start trouble, give the CoDo its excuse  ...  Nobody knew about Jane back on Earth, but she has done a very good job on her own."

	"How do y'mean? She hasn't hurt Castell or his claim."

	"You don't understand." Van Damm shook his head in frustration. "CoDo wants Haven for—for, damn-it, Kennicott Metals. They have found a rich strike of hafnium here, and BuReloc's dumping miners from Earth  ...  Does that suggest anything to you?"

	"Where does Janey come in?"

	"Farming!" Van Damm almost wrung his hands. "Aside from the Harmonies, who farms? Squatters, trying to live off the land, barely surviving—how could they feed the numbers BuReloc wants to dump here, even with synthetic food factories? People would starve. BuReloc or the CoDo wouldn't care—Scheiss!'

	"Why, Vanny, can a spook actually have a conscience?"

	"Their training did not take that from me." Van Damm looked away, automatically checking the empty field. "Jane ... she makes farming successful, even for squatters. Surplus of food, not to mention the cloth, oil, paper. She can make poor squatters rich, Brodski."

	"More precisely, she's creating an independent middle class."

	"If she succeeds ... then many people will not starve, will even do well, who would starve otherwise. I have seen a famine, Brodski. I ... do not wish to see it again."

	"Okay, Van, that's good enough for me." Brodski took position and shifted his gun muzzle toward the field. "Let's get ready; here they come."

	"Warn the others," said Van Damm, all business again.

	"They're coming," Brodski whispered into the radio, seeing the first of the Simbas emerge, branch-slapped and dusty, from the trees near the river. "Any last-minute changes?"

	"No," Jane's voice whispered back. "Lie low or thin them out. Up to you."

	"Right. At our own discretion." Brodski switched the radio off and watched, feeling Van Damm shift restlessly beside him, while the Simbas leveled their stunners and ran, howling like banshees, toward the empty cabin. "How goddamn brave of them," he muttered. Van, you sure you got everything out?"

	"Everything but the furniture." Van Damm squirmed as the Simbas kicked open the cabin door. "Idiots! We left it unlocked. They'll break the hinges  ... "

	They waited, watched, listened as Jomo's men piled into the cabin, leaving only two men outside. Van Damm winced at the sound of shelves and benches being slammed around.

	"I count a dozen," Brodski whispered. "They must've left the rest to guard the boat. How many do you figure we can pick off?"

	"These two now, the others later." Van Damm shrugged. "If we wait 'til they come out, we can get their head honcho."

	"Then how many, total?"

	"Given what we've seen of their training ... " Van Damm scratched his chin. "Three, maybe four. Then they'll wait awhile, come out in a big rush and shoot up the trees wherever they think we are."

	Brodski ginned, calculating. "Give 'em a little longer to find nothing, then lets drop them when they come out."

	"Deal," said Van Damm, casually drawing a bead on one of the outside men.

	They waited until the cries and curses changed to the sound of furniture being smashed. Then the door opened again and the Simbas began filing out of the cabin. One of them snapped at the two outside men, pointed back toward the river and bellowed orders at the rest.

	Bingo! thought Brodski. He shifted his rifle's aim, pulled the trigger, and dropped the boss Simba.

	For an age-long second, the others stood in a rough circle and stared, drop-jawed, while their squad-leader jerked, folded and fell.

	Then Van Damm took out two men together, one behind the other, with a single throat-shot.

	"Not bad," Brodski whispered, aiming again.

	At that point, the Simbas had the sense to either run back into the cabin or drop and pull up their stunners. Van Damm and Brodski got two more in the yard, though they couldn't be sure if the shots were clean kills, while the Simbas looked wildly around them for the source of the gunfire.

	The survivors in the yard started crawling toward the cabin door, firing in all directions without concern for ammo expenditure. A few shots hit close to Brodski's and Van Damm's hidey-hole, and they ducked. The last survivor in the yard scrambled into the cabin, and the door slammed shut.

	"Think they spotted us yet?"

	"Maybe," Van Damm shrugged. "We got four kills, maybe three wounded."

	"Good," said Brodski, slinging up his rifle. "Let's fade." They backed a little deeper into the wood, then slipped lateral down the length of the cleared field, almost to its end, and took positions behind thick standing trees.

	"More distance here," Van Datum grumbled. "Less visibility."

	"Harder for them to pick us out, too." Brodski opened his pack and hauled out some homemade jerky. "We may as well relax until they get up their nerve."

	"Or they radio for help and the reinforcements come," Van Damm grumbled, accepting one of the meat-strips.

	"I somehow, doubt they'll send the whole reserve," Brodski considered, munching. "Gotta have enough left at the boat to make sure it doesn't go anywhere."

	"We should wait, then." Van Damm gnawed thoughtfully. "Let them come out, shoot at trees, get no response, mill around for awhile, then start breaking up into smaller packs."

	"Then we harass them." Brodski rolled onto his back and pulled his hat down over his eyes. "Wake me when they come out," he said, and promptly went to sleep.

	" ... but they hadn't gone," Under-chief Pucey panted on with his report. "Shot at us when we moved into the field. Same thing again: disappeared when we returned fire, waited 'til we started to move, then shot us up again—always from a different quarter. We pulled back to the river, and they waylaid us in the woods. If you hadn't sent that second squad out—"

	"Of course," said Jomo. "I heard the racket on the radio."

	"Good thing, Baas; we could've been pinned down there for God knows how long. Must've been a dozen of 'em. They'd got ahead of us, somehow, in the woods  ... " No point mentioning that he and Osgood had argued over whether to keep on toward the river in the face of that relentless sniping, or fall back to the farmhouse and wait for reinforcements. The sound and sight of approaching Simbas had settled the question.

	"We lost seven men, and there's ten wounded."

	"We must take precautions. They will not catch us napping again."

	Pucey threw a glance of silent appeal to Osgood, who cleared his throat and stepped forward. "Uh, Jomo, since we don't know how many settlers are involved, shouldn't we, uh, get reinforcements before proceeding?"

	"Reinforcements?" Jomo's glower made the man take a step back. "Against how many dirt-farmers?" He picked up the marked satellite-map and shoved it under Osgood's nose. "Look! How much cleared land does that show? Scarcely enough for a dozen farms, if they support no more than four adults on any of them. Squatters, with nothing but whatever weapons they could sneak aboard the ships. Now just how much resistance do you think they're likely to put up?"

	"Sir, they got seven of us." Osgood couldn't help sounding desperate.

	"They caught you flat-footed because you weren't prepared. You will be from now on." Jomo sneered as he rolled up the map.

	Osgood and Pucey traded bleak looks.

	"No, we are not going to go back to Docktown, aborting this mission, just because a dozen farmers shot at you with a few leftover weapons. Now, I don't suppose you managed to collect much in the way of goods?

	Pucey shrugged, and solemnly held out one knapsack full of ripe cabbage tops. "That's all we got before they started shooting," he said.

	"Janesfort, Janesfort," Brodski whispered into his radio. "They're coming on up the river, still keeping close to the west bank. Looks like they'll hit the next farm in another hour, maybe hour and a half."

	"That's ours!" wailed a male voice, somewhere in the net.

	"Everybody who can, take positions at Sam MacDonald's farm," said Jane, calm as ever through the static. "Thin the bastards some more. But be careful, they'll be wide-eyed and paranoid this time."

	"Going now, Brodski out." He leaned around a tree to tap Van Damm's shoulder. "Time to hike again, down to Sam's for the next round."

	" ... Simba bastards," Van Damm muttered, slinging up his rifle. "We could have eaten those cabbages in another week. After all the time I spent weeding them"

	"Uh huh. They could've torched our cabin, too," Brodski considered." Y'know, Vanny, I'm beginning to appreciate Jane's point of view about citizen-soldiers."

	"One does tend to appreciate land one has worked on."

	"Right. You go stiffen the resistance, Van, while I look up the captain. "

	Osgood had the dubious honor of leading the three-squad assault on the second farm, and he was determined not to make any incautious mistakes this time. He kept his radio on simultaneous transmit-and-send mode, never mind how that drained the batteries, and his stunner ready. His orders were simple: advance and spread out in a line, nobody more than three meters or less than two, keep your eyes open and shoot anything that moves.

	Consequently, ten minutes after entering the deep, dark wood, his troops had shot two tree-hoppers and a red mole, and all hope of surprise was good and gone. Osgood, having nobody else to blame for this state of affairs, sighed and ordered the troops to pick up speed.

	Van Damm had laid another neat surprise at the farm; once again the Simbas found nothing, no crops, livestock or people, but when they began their return they were ambushed. In the thick woods, the Simbas could find no targets. They hurried back to the boat, leaving four dead, carrying six wounded.

	Jomo considered that, and ordered the expedition to proceed to the island. Foraging in the unlimited forest was just too dangerous. On the limited land of that river-island ahead, the pickings should be much safer.

	At The Last Resort's best speed, he could be there in another turn at most.

	Jane, Makhno, Van Damm and Brodski were discussing strategy after supper and before turning in for the shift.

	"We better make some contingency plans in case we win," said Makhno.

	"Make that when we win, Leo," said Jane gently. "Okay, when we win. What are we going to do then? Docktown will still be in, uh, enemy hands."

	"Continue the boycott." Jane shrugged. "We can set up our own trade-spots along the river, tell our friends  ... 

	"That'll be rough on the people in Docktown."

	"Rougher on the gangsters."

	"We must kill them all, you know," Van Damm stated.

	Makhno turned to give him a long look. "I'd be interested in hearing your reasons, Owen."

	"This planet has no prison," Van Damm explained carefully. "No police, not even any courts. That is why you have this problem in the first place. You have no protection from thugs and crooks, and that is why you must kill them."

	"How does that follow?" Jane asked, studying him.

	"It follows that you cannot punish the thugs with prison, nor force them to pay just compensation, nor even exile them," Van Damm went on. "If you drive them out into the wilds, they will band together and raid farms for subsistence. If you leave them alive in town, they will try to invade again, sooner or later. You have to kill them, the ones that take part in the raid, who know the way here and see what valuables you have."

	"We know we can't let them get away to tell that the 'land of women' really exists," Jane said levelly. "That will just make us targets again. But why should we go after the thugs left in Docktown?"

	"Likewise, to keep them from trying for you again. Also, you cannot boycott Docktown forever. Sooner or later you will need the off-world goods available only there. You cannot leave Docktown in the hands of the enemy."

	"True," Brodski noted. "But remember, there just aren't that many Bad Guys. The whole population of Docktown isn't more than a thousand. There's only a limited amount of the 'crook' mentality to recruit there and Jomo brought a big chunk of them on this trip. I say we should send some kind of message to, whoever Jomo left behind, see if we can't scare them into behaving themselves."

	"Are you sure that he left anyone behind?" asked Jane. "Wouldn't he bring his whole force to attack us here?"

	"Jomo's greedy, not stupid. He must have left some sort of garrison to hold what gains he made. I read him for wanting the whole planet. Since he can't take the Harmonies yet with the kind of strength he has, he's turned to finding a fort to build up his forces—or, thanks to your boycott, to hunt for food. He plans to come out and take on Castell eventually, but he needs a base first."

	"We know that, too. So how do we keep the garrison troops from coming after us again?"

	"We send whoever the second-in-command is a message he can't ignore." Brodski grinned. "At the same time we arm the Docktowners with all the weapons we capture. I've noticed that, aside from the stunners, the firearms they have are mostly pistols of different calibers, probably stuff they brought with them. Ammo for them will be something of a problem, but in the hands of the Docktowners they can let folks defend themselves and deal with the baddies themselves."

	"We could even sell ammo ... " Jane considered.

	"And if the CoDo comes in, cleaning up Docktown will give their security force something to do," added Van Damm.

	"So we're obliged to carry the war to Docktown," said Makhno. "Ah, what the hell, you've got my vote." He turned his attention to the tan light showing through the window. "Right now it's technical midnight," he murmured, "Cat's Eye's waxing and setting. That means  ... " He doodled briefly in the margin of the map on the table before him. "they've got to get here within twenty hours, start the assault soon after, win within forty, forty-three hours after that. So, we've got maybe sixty hours to settle this war, Jane."

	"Why the time limit?" she asked, wiping a spot of grease off her chin.

	"Because after that we'll be into second orbit, sunset, and turned away from Cat's Eye. Eyefall—full night for forty-plus hours, remember? No light but the moons. Even Jomo has better sense than to attack unknown territory, in the dark."

	Jane nodded slowly. "Right. So, sixty hours against ... what, forty men? That means we have to kill roughly one every hour and a half."

	"Uh, right," said Makhno. Van Damm and Brodski traded startled looks.

	"Well, if we're agreed in this, I'm for bed," said Jane. "Coming, Leo?"

	Makhno laughed, and shoved his chair back. Brodski and Van Damm looked at each other.

	"Y'know, Van," Brodski considered "we're gonna have to start seriously courting some of the ladies around here."

	"I think," said Van Damm, shoving his plate aside, "that as soon as Captain Makhno is out of bed, we should have him take us back to our posts on the shore."

	Jomo glowered at the passing island shore, scarcely noticing the grumblings of the troops on the deck behind him. Greenthorn hedges everywhere he looked: from the waterline on up for five meters at least, nothing but greenthorns. How had the pesky settler ever gotten through them?

	Well, with luck maybe the settler was long gone and they could take the island cheaply. If greenthorns were the only problem, he wouldn't complain. There were no signs of human habitation so far.

	Whoa, there was something: just as they came around the southern tip of the island, where a natural jetty of rock jabbed out into the river, dividing the stream. There was a piece of pontoon-dock pulled up on shore, almost hidden under the hedge of greenthorns.

	Strange. Why had the settlers done that? Expecting company, maybe?

	Jomo shrugged and gave up on the minor mystery. They were coming around to the shadowy western shore of the island now, and he'd have to keep his eyes peeled if he wanted to spot anything in all these shadows.

	The western shore of the island was likewise edged with greenthorns from the waterline to about five meters.

	"Where can we anchor?" Jomo grumbled to the pilot. "Can't see a motherless thing in this light"

	"Best pull into the lee of the north shore," the pilot noted. "Looks pretty steep; probably nothing'll attack in the dark. We can wait there 'til sunrise. "

	"Fine. Do it." Jomo walked back to his personal cabin to get some sleep. He'd look at the map after a good rest.

	"I don't believe it," Makhno whispered, peering down from the ledge. "The fool's just sitting there, waiting for light. I swear, those sentries never look up. We could lob one of the mines down on the boat from here, blow it to kingdom come  ... "

	"We might not get them all. Then all they'd have to do is reach Docktown, come back in greater numbers."

	"Okay, okay, so we wait. Damn." Makhno eased back on the ledge until his spine touched the rock wall of the stone-fortress. "I just, don't like the idea of letting 'em walk in here tomorrow."

	"Just remember," said Jane, stroking his arm, "the important thing is that they never walk out again. "

	"Is everybody in place?"

	Brodski glanced meaningfully at his radio. "That's what they said. So now we wait." He stretched out behind the log and pulled his hat down over his eyes.

	In the dim light of the moons, Captain Feinberg crept softly across the deck of The Last Resort. It was dark, it was late, the sentries were nodding off at their stations, and he'd never have a better chance to escape than this. Just a few more steps to the gunwales, then over the side, then—

	Then the zap of a stunner ripped out of the silence. Feinberg jumped, jerked, and flopped to the deck. Jomo, smothering a yawn, strolled out of the shadows. The sentries straightened up and did their best to look as if they'd been giving Feinberg only enough lead to condemn himself. Jomo favored them with barely a sneer. He snapped his fingers and pointed at Feinberg's body.

	"Pick up that garbage, he said. "And throw it over the side."

	The sentries paused for only a moment, then hastened to comply.

	Feinberg's body hit the water with a loud splash, floated a moment, then turned over and sank. A brief flurry of bubbles marked his fall.

	Jomo slung the stunner back on his shoulder and strolled back to his air-mattress on the ship's stern, never once looking back. The sentries watched him go, none of them daring to mention that they'd just lost the boat's single experienced pilot.

	"Goddamn-it, gimme a hand here" Brodski panted, limping behind the others. "Got a damn bad leg."

	"Can't wait for you," Van Damm retorted from somewhere up ahead among the trees.

	"We'll be there when they come," agreed Muda, pattering along after Van Damm quick and sure as a goat among the thick foliage, for all that she was bent nearly double under the weight of her own gun and ammo and the swimming gear too.

	"Here, lemme help." Joan MacDonald shifted the ballast-weights on her back, took Brodski by one arm across her shoulders, and half-carried him through the screen of trees.

	Brodski bit his lip, used his cane as much as he could, and didn't complain.

	Benny Donato worked his wrench under a blanket-shrouded light, tightening the seal-bolt to the last turn. "It's ready," he puffed. "That makes two of them. I have them set for fifteen minutes before dawn." He turned off the flashlight and crawled out from under the blanket, grumbling about the dangers and inconveniences of bomb-making, and why this couldn't have been finished in his nice comfortable shop in the fort.

	"You get the packing tight enough, Benny?" Falstaff cut in on him. "I'd hate to have them leak.'

	"Any tighter and I'd break the case."

	"Then let's get them down to the customers."

	"Easy for you to say. These damned things are heavy." Falstaff wasn't the quietest person moving in the dark, and Donato was little better, but they didn't have to travel far. Mary Harp met them with a soft whistle, and guided them to where the rope stretched down to the river. They bent and unloaded their packages and tied them onto the rope. Another whistle toward the water, and the men turned to hurry back through the trees, their mission accomplished.

	"Let us know if you don't get the mines to them in an hour," Donato tossed to Mary, looking at his watch. "I hope I don't have to take those fool things apart again. That'd be a real bitch."

	"Don't worry so much," Falstaff panted, tugging at his arm. "We have other work to do. I've got confidence in those two and the women with them.

	"Well, maybe ... " Donato grumped. "But cross your fingers about those mines."

	From under the greenthoms on the east bank of the river, Brodski and Van Damm peered out with their optics, studying the sleeping ship. "Hmm, looks all right, Ski. Your plan better work." "It will. Besides, what else do you have to do on a cold morning like this?" Brodski said, rubbing Blue Tree sap on his exposed body.

	"Look up an Island woman and promise to protect her for the rest of her life."

	"I never believed you were that much of a politician. You ready to swim?"

	"Ja." Van Damm glanced at the dark water, and shivered. "It ain't gonna get no warmer. Let's go."

	Brodski gave two tugs on the line, and both men walked gingerly into the water. The bags of rocks that hung from their belts held their feet on the bottom, and the river's current was negligible at this point. As the water crept over their heads, they held up the plastic tubes that would allow them to breathe. Aside from the cold, the work was easy so far.

	Following the shore line until they felt the distance knots in the rope, they pulled their heads clear of the water and looked downstream. Against the dark bulk of The Last Resort, they could see the binnacle-light in the chart-house. Nobody was moving on deck.

	Brodski patted his way along the rope toward his pre-assigned position. "Hell of a mess," he muttered. "Me, a mud Marine, playing frogman!"

	"Ribbit, ribbit," Van Damm grumbled back. "I like this no better than you. Cold water, no proper gear and painted blue to boot"

	"Let's get on with it," Brodski whispered through his chattering teeth.

	They waded silently downstream until the bow of The Last Resort loomed above them. They patted over the rough wood surface, hunting for the proper spot.

	Brodski moved down the hull until he felt the warm water of the engine's cooling exhaust. Now, just five arm-lengths more, he considered. He could be a little long in his measurement, but too short would be disastrous. He gave the hull an extra forearm-length for luck and pressed the flat of the mine against the side of the fishing boat. He counted to ten, waiting for the glue to set, and again added a little more for luck.

	Done. Brodski walked slowly toward the stem, waited for a forty-second eternity until a touch on his right arm—and another on his right bun—announced that Van Damm had reached him. With another signal-tap, they half-swam/half-walked toward the agreed-upon point around the downstream hook of the island. The deepening mud told them when they'd reached it, whereupon they headed towards shore. Neither of them spoke another word until they were up against the greenthorn hedge on Jane's Island.

	"Did yours stick?" Van Damm asked, scraping water off his skin.

	"On time, and like advertised. How about yours?"

	"I thought I was going to have to piss on it to make it work!" Van Damm snapped with almost enough emphasis to make it noticeable five meters away.

	"Well, just so long as it stuck. Let's move."

	Unmindful of the scratches, they lifted the mass of the natural barbed wire and crawled under it.

	"The towels should be on our right."

	"Ribbet!" challenged a voice ahead of them. "How high's the water?"

	'Knee deep!" replied Brodski, in his best frog voice.

	"Knee deep," Van Damm echoed, right behind him.

	"How do you manage to keep that Afrikaner accent on a frog croak?" Brodski asked.

	"N-natural talent," Van Damm replied through clacking teeth.

	A feminine giggle answered them. Soft footsteps pattered down to the hedge.

	Van Damm and Brodski traded invisible grins in the dark.

	They were greeted with warm towels—and warm female arms, and a kiss each (who can prove anything the dark?), and were led uphill.

	"Heroes' welcome," Van Damm muttered.

	"Patience, Van. It gets better"

	When they reached what seemed to rival the inside of a cow for darkness, Jane's voice asked, "Did you do it?"

	"If we didn't, it's the devil to pay with the cook out to lunch!" Brodski replied. "One thing's, going for us though; if one mine falls off, it's liable to do more damage than one on the hull. They're in damned shallow water."

	"Good. I mentioned the tradition of the divers' return, didn't I?"

	"Right here," came Makhno's voice, followed by the sound of liquid pouring into cups. "Divers' return, or death to us all," he said, lifting his glass.

	As whiskey, it was piss-poor; as simple blood-warmer, it was right on target. Brodski and Van Damm gulped it gratefully.

	After dressing, they shook hands. "I'll see you when it's over, Van, " said Brodski.

	"Ja, you'll owe me drinks if this doesn't work."

	"And I'll pay up, if either of us is still alive."

	They parted company in the dark, and went their separate ways.

	It was just before sunrise when the charges went off.

	They blew a large hole in the forward hold of The Last Resort, and one in the aft net stowage. With one hole to port and one to starboard, she sank quickly and on an even keel—leaving only the wheel-house above water.

	Of the troops aboard, half a dozen were knocked into the water by the initial blast. The rest, including the two deckhands, stayed long enough to realize that The Last Resort was sinking fast—then grabbed gear they could reach, and slid off into the chilly water.

	Jomo, after a final furious look at the sinking boat, was last to leave. He found the water shallow enough that he could wade, holding his stunner over his head. He shouted at the others to do likewise, keep those precious enforcers dry, but wasn't sure they heard.

	The water ended at a bare rock cliff-face, too steep to climb, especially in the dark.

	There was no help for it; the survivors had to wade along the cliff until they came to easier land. Jomo bellowed and chivied them to the left, recalling that the land had sloped sooner toward the east side of the island.

	The Simbas groggily complied, wading through the cold, swift-running water. One of The Last Resort's deck-hands tried to sneak off to the right, and Jomo shot him. The rest of the survivors picked up their pace, trying to see rather than feel their way along the steep shore in the dim light. At length the water grew shallower, and the outline of vegetation smeared above the greenthorn.

	The survivors clambered up the narrow beach of stones and started pushing into the greenthorn hedge just as Byers' Star peeped over the horizon, silhouetting them against the background of the gleaming river.

	Directly ahead of them, half a dozen women stood up behind the greenthorn hedge and fired at them, from less than five meters away, with shotguns.

	At least six of the Simbas went down in the first volley, and the second came an instant later. The survivors turned and ran, a few back out into the water, the rest to the left along the narrow pebble-beach. Gunfire followed them.

	The Simbas, some of them bleeding profusely, ran into the river and started screaming. The River Jacks had found them ... there was a flurry in the water where the "fish" fed. The worrying of the bodies pulled them into deeper water.

	Two men raised empty arms and shouted promises to surrender. Jomo, cursing, shot both of them. A shotgun blast tore the ground beside him, narrowly missing his foot. He dropped and rolled under the nearest cover—which was the greenthorn hedge. From where he lay among the thorns, he couldn't see if anyone else followed his example.

	On the other side of the hedge he heard a woman's voice snap: "They're running down the east bank! Come on over and help us pick 'em off!" Another female voice replied, distant and staticky from a radio: "Soon as we can, Lou. Keep after 'em 'til then."

	Two ideas occurred to Jomo just then: that this island just might be the rumored Land of Women, and that he'd best keep quiet until those shotgun-toting slits ran past him on the other side of the hedge. He muffled his breathing and lay very still.

	Jomo, hearing the battle run past him, peered under the hedge. He couldn't see anyone through the thick and thorny foliage, but he did note that the hedge was mostly horizontal branches.

	He poked experimentally with his stunner barrel, and saw that the branches lifted easily. Damn, this was his way out! He lifted the branch, crawled under it, and came out on the other side of the hedge. Beside the hedge lay a path.

	Jomo followed it, going uphill, away from the armed women and the running battle, keeping low. As he ran, he could hear the sounds of his Simbas being slaughtered. Never mind them; all he could think about was finding cover, some safe place to rest. He was cold, wet, and more frightened than he'd been in years. If this was the legendary Land of Women, he no longer wanted any part of it. Damn-it, they didn't fight fair!

	The last of the Simbas were quickly picked off by the mercs or the women with them. One or two tried the river but the "Jacks" made a quick and messy finish to them.

	Jomo studied the greenthorn hedge crossing his path—and the path leading right into it. He poked at the hedge with his boot and a whole section of it lifted. He smiled bitterly, and crawled under the hedge.

	A quick look showed the path went further uphill. He chose to follow it, move further away from the shore and all those hunting bitches. There was better cover in this forest, anyway.

	The path let him out in a planted field whose crops grew taller than his head. It promised good cover; he started to sneak through it.

	He was less than five yards into the field when he noticed the odor and shape of the leaves. He stopped, stared, then burst out laughing.

	"It's Ganja! Growing here on Haven ... "

	Then he realized that euph-leaf wasn't a local herb at all. It was nothing but good old marijuana, grass, hemp—growing right here on an island full of women, and from what the sat-map had showed him, there were plenty of cultivated fields around here, maybe most of them growing hemp. What a prize!

	If he could only get back to Docktown with the news, he knew he could raise a large enough army to come back and take the island.

	Brodski and Van Damm met near the path in the converging hedges above the water.

	They'd been giving "last mercy" to the wounded gangsters on the field. They started up, looking at each other—then recognized the lack of expression on each other's faces. Both shared distaste for the business.

	"Have you seen Jomo?" Brodski snapped, sounding angry.

	"No," Van Damn answered. "How about you?"

	"No luck. Let's check the boat; he might still be in the wheelhouse."

	"Good idea. Big Lou will take care of the rest here."

	"Alert her that there might be stragglers from the beach," Van Damm warned.

	"Amen." Brodski shivered and turned away. "Their land, their fertilizer  ...  Shit."

	As the two mercs plodded to the side of the river, their radios crackled to life.

	"Where are you, Señor Owen?" came the question. "Are you and Señor Brodski all right?"

	"All's secure here, Granny. Tell Jane we're going to check the boat for signs of Jomo. We haven't found him yet. Could you send the Bitch to take us to the wreck?"

	"I'll relay Captain Makhno to you. We shall keep watch for Jomo from up here. Señora Jane says, do not be too late for breakfast. Granny, out."

	"Just like a woman." Van Damm laughed. "The world can be falling apart around them, but their major concern is that you get to the table on time."

	"So what's more important than survival? And what's more valuable to survival than food? Let's get a move on, Van."

	Crouching and creeping along the path beside the second ring hedge, Jomo worked his way northward. If he could get safe far from the battle, he could maybe swim the river, the far bank, hike his way back to Docktown. One of those squatters along the river had to have a rowboat, or raft, or some damn thing that would float—not to mention supplies for the journey. Or maybe, if there was time, he could chop enough wood from the wreck of The Last Resort to make a raft, find enough food to hold him while the raft floated across river.

	In any case, the hunters were least likely to be back at the point.

	Little Ester had insisted on following the two mercs, and Makhno had no complaint. The Black Bitch, engines roaring wide open, hauled them up to the point in a few minutes' time. Makhno circled the tiny harbor. Nothing was moving.

	"Well, that leaves ship and shore," said Brodski, centering his optic on the smoking hulk. "The only man in the wheelhouse is the corpse of the pilot. There's no sign of life aboard."

	"Then we should go back to the landing," Van Damm insisted. "We may still have some unfinished business."

	"I'll pull in at the east corner," said Makhno, heading the Bitch around, "right where the hedge starts. They couldn't have gotten ashore any sooner than that."

	They grounded just under the start of the hedge, got out, hiked the branches aside and began searching uphill.

	Little Ester was following Van Damm, carrying her shotgun at high port, when she saw a leg move under the orange-berry bush.

	The roar of her shotgun brought the men around with weapons pointed.

	"It's okay," Ester chirped, smiling. "I got 'im in the head."

	Van Damm checked the body and pulled it out to the open. "We owe you one, little sister," he said. "Hmm, if this one got through the hedge, we can assume others did, too."

	Ester took a look at the man she had killed, bit her lip, then hurried into the bush. The sounds of her stomach emptying came back to them.

	Brodski resolutely turned away. "How many do you think could have made it through?" he asked.

	"We have to assume that Jomo did, since we have not found his body." "That's what I like about you, Van; you're such an optimist."

	Jomo had stopped for a moment as nature called him, when he heard the shotgun blast below. He dived for cover beneath the hedge, not waiting to zip his pants, and peered back toward the shore.

	Below him he saw a hunting-party searching the forest-belt, beating their way slowly southward. Below them, beyond the hedge, the zodiac was nosed into shore.

	Jomo smiled hugely. The answer to all his troubles gleamed black on the beach: the famous Black Bitch! It couldn't be difficult to run, and it was the fastest boat on Haven. He checked his .44 pistol and started back down the slope.

	Brodski and Van Damm had spread out keeping Ester in the line between them, and were working their way through the forest, each hoping to catch Jomo alone. They had plans for him.

	Makhno, seeing them go, decided to leave the search in their hands and head uphill. It was time to check in with Jane and get the latest report.

	"We didn't get off free," Jane grimly informed him.

	"They shot back, not just with the stunners. Muda's dead, and who's going to tell her son? Minh got a little too enthusiastic, showed herself, and caught a bad one high in the chest. She probably won't make it. Tall Lou got clipped in the leg; she says it isn't bad, but knowing her, it'll probably leave her lame."

	Makhno ground his teeth; he'd liked Muda. "Hell, we didn't expect to win scot-free. Cheap at the price, I guess ... if that's all there's going to be ..."

	"What do you mean, "if?"

	"We still haven't found Jomo. If he gets, back to Docktown he'll raise another army, and he won't make the same mistakes. I don't know if we could stop him a second time."

	"Don't worry, Leo. Even if the worst happens he'll need a boat to get home. We could still hunt him down with the Bitch."

	"The Bitch—" Makhno jerked upright in sudden alarm. "Nobody's guarding her! I left her on the beach—" With that, he turned and ran back downhill.

	"I'm coming, Leo! Jane shouted after him through the radio. "Just let me tell the others first." She picked up her shotgun..

	Makhno didn't hear; he was too busy racing for the anchorage.

	When Van Damm heard the call he had been working his way along the hedge, looking for tracks. He hadn't found any, but he'd had hopes.

	Brodski had made good progress upstream, and was looking over toward the stretch of beach when he got the call.

	"Time to go back, girl, for all of us." Brodski stopped a moment and considered. "Let's get under the hedge and down the beach."

	"Why, Mister Brodski?"

	"I'll have a clear shot at him when he comes down to the landing-point. I might put a hole in the Bitch but we'll stop Jomo."

	Makhno dived under the lower thorn-hedge and came rolling out on the narrow beach. He got up and ran northward along the shore, heading for the Bitch.

	"Goddamn-it, Makhno," Brodski s voice crackled from the radio. "Get out of my line-of-sight!"

	Having no idea where Brodski was, Makhno ran on. There was nobody near the Black Bitch when he came pounding up to it. Panting with relief, he started to shove off. The best way to keep the Bitch out of any surviving Simba's hands was to take her out into deep water and keep her moving.

	Then the zap of a stunner crackled out of the forest. Makhno fell sprawling in the bottom of the raft.

	Jomo grinned down at the raft on the beach, regretting that the stunner wouldn't kill, that he wasn't accurate at that range with the .44, and that interfering fool hadn't fallen into the water to be eaten. Well, he'd correct that. Meanwhile, best wait and see if anybody came. He could afford to wait, for a prize like this.

	He pinned again, pulled a handful of crumpled leaves out of his pocket. With these for proof, he could recruit an army a half thousand strong out of Docktown.

	Van Damm heard the zap ahead and below him, and dropped to a crouch. He waited a moment, then slipped forward, quiet in the thick forest, not nearly fast enough to suit him. So there was a Simba left in the wood-belt, maybe Jomo. Now was he moving or holed up somewhere? There was no further sound  ... 

	Damn, but this was going to take time.

	Brodski crouched behind a boulder on the beach, held his aim on the top of the Black Bitch. Where the hell was that damned Simba? When would he break cover?

	Mary Harp squatted beside him, trying to match her shotguns aim to his rifle, making no sound. Good girl, that. "Don't fire unless I miss," he whispered. Mary nodded, waiting.

	So much for her, and Makhno—and Van Damm was somewhere uphill, coming down through the woods. Damn-it, where was Ester?

	He heard the sound of light but clumsy footsteps sneaking away through the woods beyond the hedge, heading toward the point.

	Brodski swore under his breath. The girl's tactical sense was good, but she was making too damned much noise! Whoever it was had to hear her coming, and what then?

	Jomo heard the approaching footsteps below, and smiled. So, Makhno did have a backup, one of the women, no doubt. This part would be enjoyable.

	He waited until he could hear the steps directly downhill from him, then fired. A thump and a sound of crackling brush answered him. Got her.

	Jomo slipped out of hiding and made his way downhill. A few moments searching found the girl sprawled in a tangle of eggtree fronds.

	Why, surprise: she was white, a blonde in fact, quite young and good-looking. She'd make an excellent incentive for recruiting fresh troops, worth dragging along on the trip downriver. Jomo scooped up the limp body, settled the girl on his shoulder and continued on down the slope.

	Van Damm heard the footsteps in the forest below him, and crept forward with care. There: the target came into sight ahead. It looked like Jomo, all right— and, damn-it, he was carrying one of the girls on his shoulder. No clear shot, not at this range, not that he could guarantee to take Jomo without hitting the girl; nothing to do but follow, Jomo to get closer.

	And who was that now, flitting down the slope behind him? Whoever it was knew how to move both fast and quietly in this forest  ... 

	Flaming hells, it was Jane!

	Jomo reached the riverside green thorn hedge and paused a moment to wonder how he was going to do this. The hedge was thick, and he'd have to lift the branches. Best to put the girl down and drag her through behind him. He dumped her on the ground and bent over to shove his stunner under the hedge.

	Then he heard running footsteps behind him. Before he could yank his stunner out of the hedge and whip it around, a booted foot caught him square in the rump and kicked him head-first into the greenthorn hedge.

	Jomo flailed wildly in the thorns, trying to ignore the deep scratches. The stunner was wedged in the branches below; he abandoned it to scrabble for his pistol.

	"Jane, get out of the line-of-fire yelled a voice from upslope."

	Jane? Jomo wondered, then thought to roll over.

	For an instant he saw the big, stocky, blond-braided woman standing over him. In an instant's flash of memory, Jomo recognized her.

	—A year ago, Docktown, just off the ship, walking away with all those slits in tow. The one who—

	And then her shotgun blast stopped his mind forever.

	DeCastro was sitting in the front room of the Simba, considering fate. His plan of consolidation had worked as well as anything else had on this planet, but now he was down to all of fourteen men, which was not enough to hold Docktown thoroughly in control. He was entrenched at his Golden Parrot Cantina and here at the ill-named Simba, but neither establishment had enough supplies to entertain customers. Business was not merely poor; it was dead. Jomo would not be pleased when he returned, and the object of his wrath was most likely to be one Tomas DeCastro. At least the elimination of the Reynold's agent was a plus.

	Try as he might, he could see no way out of this. There was nowhere he could hide in Docktown. The next ship wasn't due in for seven or eight T-months. There was always the run to the wilderness, but survival required serious supplies, and there were no supplies to be had.

	DeCastro remembered the good days in his then-profitable little cantina, and hoped Jomo might be eaten by a Tamerlane, a jackal-sized lizard known for its ferocious temper and appetite.

	There was a distant but growing sound of boat-engines out on the lake. The engines grew louder.

	In fact, much too high pitched for The Last Resort. DeCastro held, his breath. The engines cut to silence.

	There came a shout from the dockside, then nothing. The three Simbas in the bar looked at each other, nervously fingering their rifles, but DeCastro kept perfectly still. He would wait patiently: it would not serve to appear excited.

	He didn't have long to wait. The front door flew back on its hinges, and the man who'd been watching the dock came flying through it, on his back. He hit the floor, skidded, bounced and lay still.

	DeCastro and the three guards stared at the sight for a few seconds, but when they looked back toward the door it was too late; five unexpected guests had already entered. They were carrying shotguns, all of which were aimed at each of the guards, two at DeCastro.

	DeCastro had better sense than to move, save to raise an eyebrow. He recognized the man in the lead with the sack on his shoulder—Makhno, owner of the Black Bitch—and the CoDo "Specialist" Van Damm, but who was the gray-haired one with the cane? And who were those arrayed beside them, the black woman and the stocky blonde? He might have seen those men in Docktown, but never those women.

	"Captain Makhno," DeCastro ventured, "to what do I owe the honor of this visit?"

	Makhno grinned. "To an encounter with Jomo," he said. "I have a message from him: move out of this place, right now."

	DeCastro set his empty hands on the table. He asked, "And how shall I know, señors, that this message is from my employer?"

	"He can tell you himself," said Makhno, stepping forward. He put the sack down on the table, then stepped back.

	Suppressing a mad hope, DeCastro opened the sack. Jomo's head grinned up at him from its depths. It took effort for DeCastro not to grin back.

	"A wise guest knows when it is best to depart," he said, smiling. "I shall retire to my beloved cantina and former status."

	He got up from the table, not too quickly, and started toward the door. An impulse of generosity seized him. He turned to the nearest Simba and offered: "Señores, if you are seeking employment ...  ?"

	The Simbas made haste to follow him, the latter two remembering to pick up their fellow from the floor and carry him with them.

	"That," said Jane, "was almost too easy. Let's bring the girls in."

	But the girls needed no summoning; they came shotguns ready, eyes wide with hope. "Did it work?" they yelped. "Are we safe now?"

	"Safe, and in full ownership of Harp's Place again, Jane smiled. "You'd better repaint the sign soon ... and perhaps you'd best put that on a stake outside the door, at least for a few shifts." She pointed toward the sack on the table. "It'll be good news."

	The office of Harp's Place wasn't in bad state; DeCastro had left a sizable amount of cash behind, and had not messed the files. The stock was down to nearly zero, of course, but Makhno's announcement of the end of the boycott and Brodski's trade share would solve that problem.

	"The girls own the place, fair and square. You run it with them, and protect them, and in return you and Van Damm share half the profits."

	"No complaints, Jane," Brodski smiled. "A nice little retirement business for me and Van."

	"I can imagine," said Jane, through pursed lips.

	"Uhmm, you know, sooner or later CoDo will come ..."

	"I know. With any luck, they won't bother me and mine."

	"True, but remember, with CoDominium comes the Fleet, and they'll favor old Sarge Brodski with their business. 'Trust in the thirst of the Fleet, and you'll die rich,' as the old saying goes."

	"Perhaps they'll like to sample the local euph-leaf, too." Jane smiled, getting up. "Take care of yourself Mister Brodski."

	"No fear of that," Brodski replied, watching her go. Yes, he could predict a profitable future for Jane and Docktown—and himself.

	One way or another the Fleet took care of its own.

 

LAST CHANCE
Steven Shervais

2063 a. D., Haven

	Thanks, mister, I was gettin' kinda dry.

	As I was sayin', I never really did like Jonnie Johnson, even before he got to be one of the richest men on the southern slope. It wasn't the money. Hell, I coulda been as rich as him, but I spent it all on booze an' women. It was his attitude. He was always too sure of himself, too ready to go off and do things his own way, even if the rest of us would'a bitched if we knew what he was up to. The thing that made it so bad was, that red-headed runt was almost always right.

	That was part of the reason a lot of the men had a hard time trustin' him. You gotta remember, we was all criminals, transportees from Earth.

	Jonnie and me and the boys was in the Great Lakes Iron Revolt back in '45. In it or standin' by when the National Guard pulled that final sweep durin' the cease-fire negotiations. We weren't no political revolutionaries. Hell, all we wanted was a safe job and pay you could feed your family on. An' if the company cops hadn't fired on the picket lines, the strike would never have turned into a revolt.

	Anyways, Jonnie was always in good with the guards an' the Company men. He never kissed ass 'er nothing', but if one of the guys got in trouble, he would always be able to smooth it out, diplomatic like. The guards liked to beat up on us for no reason at all ... that's how I lost this eye. But Jonnie could usually keep all but the worst of them off of us. He was so good, some of us thought he was a Company spy-But he sure pulled a lot of us through that first year on the transport out, and later, when we was workin' off our two year hard labor indentures to Kennicott Mining. Then by damn if he didn't go set up his own company, bring us in as partners, then talk Kennicott into hiring us as subcontractors. Hell's-A-Comin' was full of guys tryin' that back in '48, but he was one of a handful that pulled it off.

	An' of course, there was some of the guys didn't trust how he had sweet-talked the Company out of that contract and wouldn't of worked for him if there'd been any other company but Kennicott hirin'. Probably the guys who trusted him the least was Sam Nordon and Jim Ditter. They headed up a bunch of hard rock guys out of the Sudbury field with granite chips on their shoulders and a grudge against the world. I think the only reason Jonnie brought them in was 'cause of their hard rock background an' the fact that Sam's bunch doubled the size of the company.

	Never heard of Sam Nordon and Jim Ditter? Sam was the leader of what you might call the conservative bunch in the new company, Haven MineSearch Limited. He never trusted nobody, never wanted to do anythin' new, an' was ready to break your head to make sure you agreed. Big Jim Ditter was his right-hand man, an' provided most of the muscle. Not that Sam was small. Between them they could take on any five other miners—or any six guards. 'Course, there was usually more than six guards around, an' it took Sam a little while to figure that out. Sam was always gettin' into trouble on the transports out, an' gettin' beat up for it by the guards. A couple of times Johnson stepped in an' bailed him out. That made Nordon dislike him even more.

	So we spent the next five years workin' for Kennicott, doing field survey work. Checkin' formation for ores, layin' out new mine sites, that sort of stuff. It was hard work, up along the edges of the North Range a thousand miles from nowhere, but we was good and the jobs kept comin'. We built up to twenty guys, seven crawlers, and an office in Hellza.

	Then came the Shimmer Stone Rush. Thousands of newcomers, time-expired transportees and indenture-jumpers swarmed into the hills, lookin' for petrified drillbit teeth. Shiploads of them came, an' they died like flies, killed in fights in Hellza, starved on the trek north to the mountains or froze or 'sphyxiated tryin' to beat the altiplano. They blew Hell's-A-Comin' wide open. Now it's all paved streets and high efficiency buildings full of lawyers an' financiers.

	Then it was the start of a ten-year building spree with the buildings thrown up any old way. Most of the places was cut an' cover sod blocks with one or one-and-a-half stories underground and half-a-story on top. An' the people wasn't the four-piece suit, pocket comp carryin' types you see now. The place was a boom town and everybody was livin' like there was no tomorrow.

	By late '53 Kennicott lost so many workers it had to shut down some of its diggin's. They had too many mines an' not enough miners, an' they didn't need to look for no place new to dig, so all the survey contracts got canceled, just like that. That's when Johnson got the idea of startin' our own shimmer stone search, an' that's when the company came the closest to breakin' up.

	It was that damn cocksure attitude of Johnson's that started it. He got the word of the contract cancellation while most of the boys was still out in the field. So he went right ahead an' swapped two perfectly good crawlers for a beat-up old rock grinder an' had a shimmer stone expedition halfway outfitted before most of us was back in the barn.

	That started the biggest hooraw you ever saw. Johnson was our chief of operations, an' so he had a right to swap equipment as he saw fit, but he shoulda' asked us first. Some of the boys thought it was a great idea, an' some thought it was the dumbest thing they ever heard of. Halfway through the meetin', Jim Ditter grabbed Johnson by the rackin' hook an' was gettin set to beat the tamercrap out of him, but some of the boys pulled them apart.

	We argued about that for hours. Nordon's bunch wanted to stay with what we knew, an' try to get some government survey work or sign on with one of the bigger independents. Johnson kept sayin' that the other outfits were in the same fix as Kennicott, an' that nobody was goin' to do any survey work until the Shimmer Stone Rush died down. Johnson won the final vote, but the only way he did was to give up chief of operations and let us split the job three ways. He stayed on as chief of survey and Sam Nordon was chief of mining ops. So we all packed up an' headed south, an' the rest, like they say, is history.

	'Course for us, it wasn't history then, it was just startin'. We was in hock up to our canteens, Nordon and Johnson were fightin' at the drop of a hat, an' some of the boys still didn't think Johnson had their best interests at heart. That damn cocksure, charge ahead attitude of his kept gettin' in the way an' almost got him killed any number of times.

	The stories I could tell about our first year down there would make your hair curl, but I'm a mite talked out 'cause this is real dry work  ... 

	Why thanks old buddy. Don't mind if I do.

	As I was sayin', that first year down there damn near killed us a dozen times over. Take our first digs: we lost two crawlers an' three men just tryin' to get across the Alf River. An then when we got there ... 

2056A.D., Haven

1. (65:15, Workday-3) Last Chance Valley, South End.

	The crawler moved slowly across the valley floor, bumping and jolting over rocks, roots, and drillbit burrows. In its wake a thin, dry wisp of dust drew a straight yellow line, pulled by the thin, dry, eternal wind. Two more plumes rose behind it, each moving as slowly as the first, each marking the passage of one third of the remnants of Haven MineSearch Incorporated, SA.

	Jonnie Johnson clung to the top of the crawler and his walkaround bottle, cursing as a brief earthquake caused the overloaded suspension system to bottom out. He and the other survivors from the two abandoned crawlers took turns clinging to the roof rack and breathing from the bottle when the thin air started to make them sick. A steep-sided valley stretched flat in front of them, the floor covered with the scrub plants that passed for tropical savannah here on Haven. Anywhere else it would be called boreal forest. Anywhere but on this damned misbegotten frozen-ass moon of a gas giant that hadn't quite made it as a brown dwarf.

	Ahead was their goal, just visible now they had turned the final corner at the south end of the valley. It was a lava field fronting on a dormant volcano. The big cone was just visible, brooding in the red light from Cat's Eye, a cloud drifting off the top. If their luck held ...  if their luck changed to something worth talking about, the lava flows would yield enough shimmer stones to make them all rich. If not, then Haven MineSearch would be as broke as the two crawlers they left behind at the valley entrance.

	Johnson looked around. This was the clearest patch of ground they had crossed in hours. Probably their last chance for a secure camping spot this workday. He banged on the roof of the cab, and hung over the edge. After just enough delay to be irritating, Jim Ditter retracted the window.

	"Don't tell me you think it's time to rotate outsiders already, Johnson. You must be getting soft if the cold is getting to you this quick."

	"No, Jim, but I think this clear area will be our best spot for a sleep stop."

	"Yeah? Well that ain't your call. I'll have to check with Damson." He pulled his massive shoulders back inside and ran the window closed, as if afraid the heat would get out and help warm his top deck passenger. Johnson shrugged and rolled back on top. Ditter would probably check with Sam Nordon too, just to make sure his real boss stayed in the loop. You would think that five years of shared hardships would do away with petty bickering and politics. Oh, well.

2. (84:00, Workday-4) Last Chance Valley, South End.

	Johnson, Frank Damson, and Sam Nordon sat crowded together in the cramped "office space" of Crawler One. On the narrow desk in front of them floated the highest quality survey images the government was willing to sell them. Each man was seeking something different in the multicolor, multispectral, multidimensional glow. Johnson was mentally tracing out the search patterns necessary to find the dikes and intrusions where shimmer stones were likely to be. Nordon was looking for places they could run their grinder, if they ever got it out of the river and could start mining operations. And grizzled old Frank Damson, expedition leader because neither of the other two could corner the votes, squinted his one good eye and wondered where to put the latrines.

	The imagery showed the old lava flow which filled the south end of the valley. One lone cinder cone crouched darkly at the edge of the flow, hunched into the corner between the wall of lava and the riftwall. The cinder cone held a clear blue lake. The lava, with any luck, held drillbit teeth, buried when the animals were overtaken by an earlier eruption tens of millions of years ago, heated, compressed, metamorphosed into shimmer stones, and now brought back to the surface by the more recent event. One tooth could renew their grubstake, two would pay off their debts, and three could make them well-to-do. If they found any. Of course, imagery does not show everything. Not even multicolor, multispectral, multidimensional imagery. But how were they to know?

	Johnson pointed at the display. "I have an idea, Sam. See where the lava has overtopped that last cinder cone? That might be an easy way to the top of the flow. Up the crater wall and around the rim to the edge of the lava. If the water stays clear through the winter, it may be warm enough to wash in, or use to heat the camp. Too bad the sides are so steep. It might be nice to camp next to the lake itself."

	"Yeah, but I'll bet you a credit to a tenth you can't make that water drinkable. It's got some sort of dissolved gas that tastes terrible." Nordon did not like Johnson. Everyone else was from the mining sites owned by Great Lakes Iron and Steel, every working mine between Mesabi and Sudbury. All of them had been picked up during the strike and revolt of'45. Johnson had been in the technical management section of Great Lakes, not a real miner at all. Nordon thought the CoDo Marines had probably scooped him up by mistake, or maybe he was a Company spy.

	Nordon was like that. He had been a shift foreman back at Sudbury, ten strikes, one revolt, and a thousand years ago. Now, he was like the rest of them. A perpetual exile. Homeless, no family, only stubborn anger keeping him alive for the last ten years. "We are not going to be here that long anyway, Johnson. Not without the grinder."

	"You're probably right, Nord," Johnson said. "All sorts of dissolved minerals, too. Still, I'll run some tests on it when I test the lava. But speaking of the grinder, I think I know how to do without it for a while. Look, there's two ways to find shimmer stones. You can walk the edges of the exposure, looking for places where the frost has cracked the basalt. That's what the singletons, the old sourdoughs do.

	Or you can strip-mine the flow, grind it into powder, and sieve the powder for shimmer stones."

	"Yeah Johnson, everybody knows that. That's what we wanted to do, until you let Snuffy run the grinder into the river. Bastard. I hope it took him a long time to drown. You know what our chances are of findin' a shimmer stone by walking that lava wall?"

	Johnson grimaced, ignoring the jab. He had been riding in the cab with Snuffy when Snuf had tried to run a gravel bar like a dirt road. He had nearly drowned, himself, when the bar ended in deep water and the crawler and grinder had plunged to the bottom of the river. Nordon still held a grudge against anyone who was on that crawler that day.

	"I know how low they are, Nord. The point is, what everybody knows is not everything. There is another way to do it." Now he had their attention.

	"How is that, Jon?" This from Damson.

	"Placer mining of the downslope talus."

	Nordon swore, spat on the heater bar, and poured another cup of synthetic coffee.

	"Another wild-assed Johnson idea! You think people haven't thought of that? Mick Meagher's crew went bust try'n over north of Trinity last summer. Those lava fields are as dry as a bone, and to do placer mining you need a good source of water ... "

	He paused, " ... lots of it ...  " His voice trailed off, then came back, softly. "Son of a bitch!" His fist hit the table. "Of course, the lake!" Then he paused again, grudgingly. "Yeah, but where do we get the pipe and the high pressure pumps and hoses? What do we build the sluice chutes from? You thought of any of that?"

	"Sure, Nord," Johnson said. "You know we don't have to have a big rig. This is untouched earthen, and we are not going to be washing away hardpack, at least not yet."

	He turned to Damson. "All we need is enough to float the dirt away so we can screen the rest." Frank nodded.

	"Well, then," Johnsons continued. "We just use some of the spare cargo canisters and make a puddle tub. It's like a giant version of the pan the old miners used to go after gold with. We can set it up easy, and it won't need much water. The Australians used puddlers back in the 1800's, before they piped water to the gold fields. Then we can cannibalize some of the other systems and use the stainless steel piping and low pressure pumps from the abandoned crawlers."

	That set off another argument. Could they risk tearing up one of their remaining crawlers or sending one back alone? Was there enough piping to get water over the lip of the crater? How much pressure did they need to move fine basalt talus?

	What size riffles did they need on the sluice chutes? By the time Byers' Star dragged itself over the edge of the world they had a plan, and a chance.

3. (116:27, Workday-5): Last Chance Camp.

	Once again Johnson found himself jammed into the office space of a crawler. This time it was Crawler 2, and the space had been converted into a combined medical/geological/electronics maintenance lab. Lightly built as he was, Johnson still had to sit turned sideways, his back to the Medical cabinet, his elbow resting on the Electronics workbench, and his attention devoted to the spectrometer in geology.

	Johnson swore and unzipped his second shirt. The crawler was hot and stank of burned magma. And the numbers looked all wrong. Maybe the laser was out of alignment. Well, even if the numbers were bad, perhaps the ratios were still good. Even if the zero point drifted, the shapes of the lines should still be the same. He pulled the data chip from the spec and stuck it in the desk.

	The desk clucked and twittered to let him know it was working, then beeped and lit the display. He looked at it with puzzlement and dawning apprehension. No basalt. Low silicates. And what the hell was carbonatite? He had never heard of it. Neither had the desk.

	Johnson sighed and stepped out into the mid-afternoon warmth. The sky was clear and the now-smokeless volcano was etched a sharp grey against the pale blue.

	Frank was not going to like this at all.

	Damson was in the break tent when Johnson came in. Most of the men were there, taking a long break before preparations for truenight. Johnson handed him the printout.

	"Here are the results of my tests, Frank. That stuff we've been working on isn't basalt at all. I'm not sure it will have any shimmer stones in it."

	The room got very quiet. No shimmer stones meant ruin, meant loss of life savings, meant default on loans. That meant death here on unforgiving Haven.

	"What is this carbonatite stuff, anyway?"

	"I'm not sure, Frank. Our library does not have much on it. It is a carbonate rock. Not much silica. Melts at a much lower temperature than basalt. I think that with Haven's small, cool core and limited radioactives this stuff ought to be more common on Haven than on Earth. But I never heard of it before. And what I don't know is what effect carbonatite chemistry has on shimmer stones."

	"What's the problem Frank?" That was Parker, loud across the now silent room.

	Damson turned to face the faces. "We're not sure, Fred. Johnson's tests show this lava field isn't basalt after all."

	There was a surge of conversation. Damson held up his hand.

	"Right now we don't know what that means as far as shimmer stones go. The big thing is, we don't know if this carbonatite stuff is hot enough or has the right chemical composition to turn drillbit teeth into shimmer stones. Until we find out, we continue as if nothing happened. Maybe we will find evidence one way or the other. Maybe we'll find some basalt lava. When Johnson or I find out anything more, we'll let you know. Any questions?"

	Ditter was on his feet at once. "Johnson, you're the guy that suggested we come down south here. Why the hell didn't you find this out in Hellza?"

	"Yeah, and what happens if this stuff don't have no shimmer stones in it? I sunk everything I had in this company. What'll I tell the sharks back at Hellza, that the rocks wasn't hot enough? You know what our chances are of gettin' away with that?" Rasmussen was one of the few men with a family on Haven, and was deeper in debt than most.

	Damson ignored Ditter. "I don't know George, but we'll think of something. Maybe move around to the next valley and try there. Don't let's borrow trouble before we have to. I know we're all stretched thin on this thing. We just have to take it one day at a time."

	That discouraged the men even more than the initial announcement. Or perhaps the initial announcement was just sinking in. Hands clutched at cups stiffly, knuckles white. Over in one corner, Jim Ditter and his friends conferred sourly. Nordon would hear of this within minutes. Elsewhere in the room, conversation rumbled quietly.

	It was the first time since they had all been loaded onto the CoDominium transports that Johnson had seen the men despair. Even at the end of the Great Lakes Iron Revolt, when the CoDo Marines were breaking into the barricaded works, the men had an air of "you can beat me but you can't defeat me." That was gone, and despair took its place.

	The door opened and Arne Elstrom limped in. Big Arne, too tall and too loud at the best of times, stood canted onto his good leg with one hand in the pocket of his half-open parka, looking at the other occupants of the tent.

	"Well, I thought I would find you all sitting around, drinking synthetics and trying to decide whether to pick your nose or pick your ass! This your idea of fun? Sit on your backsides and have a bitch contest?"

	Damson told him the news. Elstrom tugged at his bushy blond beard with his free hand and looked at Johnson. "Is that right Jonnie?"

	Johnson nodded.

	"I found out this afternoon and came right over to tell everybody. You and Pete and Grit were up at the lake."

	Elstrom looked solemn. "I'm glad you told everybody here, Jonnie. Too bad you didn't get a chance to stop by and tell the drillbits that."

	Johnson was confused. "What?"

	Elstrom was grinning now. "The giant drillbits, Jonnie. Nobody ever told them not to cook their teeth in this stuff."

	He pulled his hand from his pocket and tossed a small, glowing nugget across the room. It went through Johnson's slow reacting hands and he slapped them both to his chest to hold it there.

	He pulled his hands down and looked at the object. It was small, conical, and multicolored. A shimmer stone. Not a big one, but big enough, with a coloring subtly different from previous stones he had seen.

	"That there's a 5 carat shimmer stone. One more like that and this company starts operating in the black. I washed it out of the talus at the foot of the lava flow up by the lake. Pete and Grit are still up there, packing up for truenight, but they thought you might want to get the news early. I'm glad I got here before you guys made any silly decisions."

	The room grew silent. After so many turns of fortune, no one knew how to react. It was as if each was waiting for his neighbor to take the lead. Damson looked at Arne, turned, and walked over to the drunk tank, opened it and pulled out a bottle.

	"I'll drink to that!"

	That's when the cheering started.

4. (128:00, Workday-6): Crater Lake.

	The Haven day-night cycle was now completely out of step with the Earth work-rest cycle. After a long party and a short night the camp forced itself awake for four hours of frenzied activity before Byers' Star sank too low behind the western hills. This was the onset of truenight, the only time it became truly dark, and truly cold. Byers' was setting and Cat's Eye was on the other side of the planet. Beyer's long, slow drift down the sky left everything sunk in long-shadowed gloom.

	The early crews were still out, working as pairs and singletons, most on the cliff face. The camp crews rose later and spent their time preparing for the oncoming night, their jobs and their hangovers complicated by another of Haven's brief earthquakes.

	Already the sky overhead was deep purple and the wind cold. The cinder cone sat black against the sky, smoking quietly.

	Damson and Nordon were in the office tent, trying to hammer out a rotation schedule when Barry Iverson stuck his shaggy head in through the coldlock. "You better get up to the lake real quick Frank! Jim Ditter's been killed."

	Two minutes later they had unhooked Crawler 1 from the camp power grid and were on their way into the gathering gloom, leaving the cook wondering how he was going to get enough electricity to the stove to finish cooking the post-sunset midday meal.

	Ditter lay on his back at the edge of the greenery, two meters above the lake. Hentges and Rasmussen were kneeling beside him with an oxy rig from one of the trikes on the ground between them. Damson and Nordon climbed down from the crawler cab. It was dark enough in the crater that they stopped and picked up a pair of work-lights. The rest of the men from camp filed out of the back, coughing at the stink of the lake. Hentges looked up as they arrived.

	"We found him in the lake when we came up on the trikes, Frank. Floating face down. No telling how long he was there. Long enough to get cold anyways. Nothin' I could do for him."

	"What the hell was he doing in the lake with his clothes on? Could he swim?"

	Rasmussen laughed. He and Ditter shared a cubical in the sleep tent. "Hell, Frank, he was the only guy I know who actually enjoyed swimming in the ice water they got here on Haven. Not with his clothes on though. This had to be some kind of accident."

	Nordon looked up from where he was kneeling on the other side of the body. "I don't think it was an accident, Frank."

	He tilted the light. "Look at his face."

	They looked. A half-dozen nicks and scratches marked the right side. There was a cut on Ditter's lip, and another on his right forehead. The water had washed away any blood, and the marks were not immediately obvious.

	"I think he got in a fight with somebody, an they shut him down an' threw him in the lake to make it look like it was an accident."

	Hentges looked startled, then thoughtful. "Maybe that's why I couldn't get much water out of him. He was half dead when he went in."

	Nordon looked thoughtful. "Then maybe somebody killed him."

	Wavinak was incredulous. "Killed? Who would have done that? We've all been together since Great Lakes Iron. Nobody would do that, Nord, not even for a shimmer stone."

	"Well then you tell me how Ditter got in that lake with all his clothes on an' his face all beat up an' him half dead into the bargain."

	The argument raged while they brought Ditter back and laid him gently on an empty pallet in the cold room of the supply tent. When the sun came up again they would bury him near the riftwall. Nordon suggested the site, out of the way of both camp and any future mining activity on the lava cliffs, with enough fallen rock from the riftwall to cover the grave and keep off the Tamerlanes. That probably meant the drillbits would eat him. Most miners felt it only right that the drillbits had their turn. After all, it was their teeth that were paying for all this—and paybacks are hell.

	They got down to the real arguments as the night got darker and colder and the wind from the surrounding mountains screamed down the valley, headed for the lowlands. Who would or would not do what for a million credits? Who had the opportunity? Who had the motive?

	Sommers pointed out that Rasmussen had always been fighting with his cube-mate and was deeply in debt.

	Rasmussen offered to hold Sommers' head under water. Parker pointed out that Sommers was always talking of finding a shimmer stone and bribing his way back to Earth. Sommers got huffy and argumentative. Sam Nordon wondered why Johnson just happened to be off alone with a trike on a sample-collecting run, no witnesses. Johnson said if he could run a trike from the riftwall to the crater and back in less than an hour he would be a dirt-trike champion back in Hellza, with lots of money, women and booze, not freezing his ass off with twenty guys. Besides, Nordon was full of tamercrap. It went downhill from there, and the night was two days long.

5. (194:45, Workday-9): Last Chance Valley.

	Johnson finished loading the last energy pack on the survey trike, pulled the flaps down over the load, and smoothed the seals closed. Footsteps in the gravel behind made him pause as he stepped on the mounting spar.

	It was Nordon. "Pretty big load for just a survey run along the lava face, Johnson. You got a week's worth of rations alone."

	"Yeah, Sam, I thought I would run up to the north end of the valley and get a link to the reference library in Castell. Maybe I can find out some more about this carbonatite stuff."

	Nordon's head came up and his right shoulder rocked back, the way it always did when he disagreed with you. "Are you out of your pushin' mind? First time you hook-up with the library they'll trace your coordinates and anybody with ten credits in their pocket can find out where our mine is! We'll have claim jumpers all over us inside of a week!"

	"Oh hell, Sam, there's no way they can find us that way and you know it. For one thing, they'll have to trace it through two relay points. For another, we are going to have to file a claim pretty soon anyway, just to make sure none of the big companies include our digs in a broad area license. Besides, it's 1200 klicks from Castell City, and twice that from Hellza. Anybody who traveled light enough to get here in a month of cross country driving couldn't bring much gear or supplies with them. Or are you worried about some singleton living off of tamerburgers and figs?"

	"I still think it's an idiot move, an' it's too important for your say alone. I am calling an executive meeting, and as soon as I get hold of Damson, you'll be outvoted."

	Johnson pulled his jacket tight and stepped up onto the trike saddle; "Sorry, Sam, but I am right and you are wrong, and by the time you get to Damson I'll be halfway to the lava face."

	Nordon's scowl became even deeper. He grabbed the windscreen and stepped in front of the left wheel.

	"You do that, Johnson, and you'll be out of this company on your ass, and I don't care if you did start it."

	"Sam, if you think you have the backing to win a straight-up and down vote like that, you try it ... and let me know how it comes out. Meanwhile, I've got a job to do, and I'm going to do it my way. Watch your fingers."

	Johnson reversed the trike, jerking the windscreen out of Nordon's hand, wheeled around him, and headed for the lava face. "If you want to get Damson, he's up at the crater works. Since this is the only trike available, I guess you will have to walk. Have fun. And let me know how the vote comes out."

	He popped the drive and rolled away, grinning. Sam Nordon stared at his back for a moment, then turned and started walking furiously back toward the crater.

	An hour later Johnson eased the trike to a halt, leaned back against the saddle, and looked around. He had ridden hard the whole time and was now a third of the way down the lava field, headed for the eastern riftwall. Behind him the cinder cone of Crater Lake was a pale triangle against the dark cliffs.

	He grinned again. Right about now, Nordon was probably having a musky calf when he found out that Damson was not at the crater. Probably no one was, since this was a maintenance day. If Nordon stayed mad enough he would not remember that till he got to the crater digs. One hour to walk there, then another hour to camp. Not a happy miner.

	Johnson stepped off the trike and started walking around, stretching tired muscles. Ten hours work and one on the trike left him stiff and sore. It was Byers' noon, and Cat's Eye was just rising, blocked out by the mountains behind him. The earth shuddered gently, starting small rivulets of dust and pebbles off the riftwall. He smiled. Right on schedule. Funny how the quakes coincided with Eyerise or Eyenoon or the other times of alignment between Byers' and Cat's Eye. Probably the tides.

	Across the valley, a cloud of white mist blew off the cinder cone. Idly, he wondered what the crater looked like when it did that. No one had ever been on the crater during a quake, and that was when the smoke came out. Have to make a point of being on the rim during the next Eyerise, or ask Nordon. Meanwhile, it was not yet time to rest, tired or no. A day and a half to the relay point and the same time back. There would be hell to pay when he got back to camp, but damn-it, he was right!

	They had to have more information, and those direct-action, live-for-the-moment miners could not see it. That was the problem with knowing more than other people: it made you responsible for them.

	A day and a half after leaving camp, Johnson sat shivering on a rocky outcrop next to the commpack, reading the summary screens in the dull red light of an early dimday. It had taken him two hours to align the unit on the comm station at Redemption and set up a relay from there to Tampa and Castell City. Now it was all automatic, and all he had to do was relax and read while the light beam filled the chips with data. Carbonatite made for interesting reading. Calcite, dolomite, kimberlite (diamonds?), soda-rich nepheline syenite, whatever that was, soda-water lakes. Hmm. Cameroon rift volcanoes. Lake Nios.

	He stared at the screen unseeing as the implications of the information sank in. They could all have been killed that first day ...  They could all be dead now!

	He jumped up and the viewscreen dropped onto the rocks. Swearing, he picked it up and the commpack, throwing them in the pannier. Half the transmission was lost, but that was unimportant; he had to get back to camp before Eyenoon!

6. (259:46, Workday-12): Crater Lake.

	It's amazing what you can force your body to do when lives are at stake. Particularly the lives of friends. That thought trickled slowly through Johnson's head twenty-six hours later, after a wild, reckless, battering ride through the dark-lit Haven countryside. Friends.

	All these years he had felt responsible but left out, like an unpopular but dutiful stepfather. Now he discovered that he really did consider the whole cross-grained, crabby, unwashed crew to be his friends. And in support of men he had not even known that he thought of as his friends, he had driven at breakneck speed across terrain he would have thought twice about walking over. He had totally disregarded eight years of outback experience and paid no attention at all to the threats of Haven's wildlife.

	Twice, crossing streams, he had scattered gangs of tamerlanes at their prey, and once he had driven right over a drillbit and left it snapping at it's broken tail. It was all very marvelous, and if only he could keep his eyes open it would all work out fine—maybe he could be a dirt-trike champion in Hellza.

	Weary, worried, and saddle sore, with a bone-deep tiredness his third set of stimpills could only partially shake, Johnson rolled into Last Chance Camp.

	It was empty except for Barry Iverson, pulling cook detail. He looked at Johnson with an odd mixture of surprise, confusion, and apprehension. Johnson was too tired to worry about Iverson's problems.

	"Where is Damson, Barry?"

	"Up at the lake, checking the puddling gear. They're having some problems with leakage." Iverson clutched his cleaver as if he expected a gang of tamerlanes to break into the cook tent.

	"Shit. I have to get them out of there." Johnson turned and sprinted clumsily toward the trike. "Don't let anybody else go up there!"

	As he angled the trike up the outer wall of the crater, Johnson checked his watch. Almost Eyenoon. Almost time for another quake. If he worked fast he still might have time to clear folks from the lakeside, but he would be cutting it very close. He tried opening the power feed wider, but found it was already pushed beyond the emergency stops and the overload lights were beginning to flicker from yellow into the red.

	Cresting the rim, he could see that Crawler 2 had been moved in beside the puddling tank, probably as a pumper. It looked like half the men in camp were working in the crater. They watched him slide the trike down the inner wall, then stood up and walked over as he shut down the motor and set the brake.

	Relief at arriving in time took the edge off his high, and almost put him to sleep in the saddle. He jerked upright; now was no time to relax.

	"Anybody here seen Frank or Nord? We got problems."

	Arne Elstrom stood there, his face in an unaccustomed frown. "Frank is over at the crawler, Johnson. And as for Nord, where do you think he is? We buried him next to Ditter, the other guy you killed. You're the one with the problems."

	That sounded stupid, or maybe he was. "What? Nordon's dead? When? And what do you mean I killed him Arne?"

	"You killed him and left him in the lake last Eyerise, just like you did Ditter. You got away with it last time 'cause half the people were out on singletons. This time the only people out of camp were you and Nordon."

	A crowd had gathered while Elstrom was talking. Johnson was surrounded by bulky forms and unfriendly faces. He groaned inside. I don't need this. Not now.

	"Arne, I didn't kill either one of them. It was the lake that did it. I just spent the last three days finding out how."

	The rest of the crew found their voices. Loud and angry. Faces would have been red, except they were already red-from the glow of Cat's Eye, almost full and almost directly overhead.

	"Don't give me that shit, Johnson." This was Pete Linton. "You were riding lookout on the grinder when Snuffy and his crew got shut down. You killed Ditter when he found a shimmer stone, and you killed Nord when he figured out what you did. You're trying to kill us all off so you can hog the strike! We oughta gut-shoot you and leave you for the tamerlanes."

	Johnson was desperate. This was not going as planned. The volcano was about to kill them all and here they were yammering about him killing somebody.

	"You know that's not true, Pete. Snuf tried to run that gravel bar like it was a speedway. And I'm telling you the lake killed Nord and Ditter."

	Angry miner voices shouted him down. Angry miner hands grabbed his arms.

	"Wait a minute guys, let's hear what he has to say." Damson was finally exerting some leadership, now that they were almost ready for a lynching.

	Johnson shrugged himself free. He was starting to get angry. "Look, I did not run away. I didn't even know Nord was dead. I spent the last three days getting far enough north and high enough up to get a line of sight to Redemption."

	"And what's so important you had to steal a trike and sneak off for two days?"

	"I didn't steal it, Pete, I had as much right to it as you. More right, in fact 'cause it's a survey trike. And I didn't sneak, either. Nordon knew I was going."

	"Easy to say, now he's dead."

	"Get on with it!" Damson again.

	"I had to talk to the main library at Castell, and the only way was by a link through Redemption. I wanted to check on carbonatite and on this volcano and see if we could find a better way to mine it."

	They were quieter now. Listening.

	"What I found was, some volcanoes put out lots of CO2 and carbon monoxide gas. And that gas gets trapped at the bottoms of crater lakes like this one. And sometimes, when you get a quake, some of that gas bubbles out."

	He looked around. ""The same thing happens in the rift valleys in Africa, back on Earth. In a crater like this, the gas could stay thick enough, even with the wind, to kill anyone who stayed down here after the lake turned over. That must be what happened to Nord."

	He looked around earnestly at the faces in the bright red glow. "And we don't have time to sit around here and talk about it. We could even be in danger now. It's almost Eyenoon and we're due for another quake. Remember Ditter was killed during the quake just when Cat's Eye would have been at midnight, and you said Nordon was killed at Eyerise."

	Now the rest of them looked around, eyes rolling red in bearded red faces. There was an apprehensive pause. Miners knew about trapped gasses. They were waiting. Waiting. Waiting for the quake. Nothing happened.

	The spell broke.

	"That's a load of tamercrap and you know it, Johnson! You're just trying to spook us so we let you go."

	Once again the hands grabbed him. They dragged him away from the trike, toward the workings at the edge of the lake. The ground shuddered gently, briefly. Another attempt by the straining crust to relieve the enormous tidal pressures.

	"Wait a minute! Did you feel that?" he shouted. They slowed again.

	"I didn't feel nothin'."

	"There! Look at the lake!" Look at it!"

	This time they stopped. The milky surface of the lake was starting to curdle as small bubbles and streaks of brown appeared.

	Frantically he pulled loose from the hands holding his arms. He had to make them understand. High ground was their only hope.

	"Run for it! Run for the rim! It's gonna blow!"

	He turned and ran upslope amid shouts and confusion.

	"Johnson's running!"

	"After him!"

	"Give me a line-of-fire!"

	Johnson was halfway up the slope, and the first gunburst had gone crackling into the underbrush beside him, when the lake erupted. There was a soft, foamy roar, like all the surf in the world breaking on the shores of the Southern Sea. He stopped and turned.

	The lake bubbled and foamed. The foam became a crown, became a wall of brownish white, became an expanding mound, filling the volcanic crater like the head on an enormous pitcher of beer. The wall grew until it halfway filled the crater, reaching almost to his astonished feet. The displaced air howled past his ears, flapping the unhooked sides of his jacket. A fine mist blew from the top of the foam and lifted over the crater edge.

	It looked like wisps of steam.

	Two heads appeared, gasping and choking above the foam. The two men underneath them staggered out of the foam upslope toward Johnson, heads and faces bleeding from blind falls in the blinding foam. They staggered and fell in the first empty spot. It was Damson and Linton, the two men nearest to Johnson when he started running, but now both were interested only in staying alive.

	Almost as quickly as it had formed, the foam disappeared. One moment the crater was awash with whitish brown foam, the next it was as they had always seen it. Except five men were lying on the shore of the lake, gasping in the deadly fumes of the now-invisible gas. One other was half in the lake, head under water.

	Haven's eternal wind was rapidly swirling new air into the crater, but there was no telling how long before the bottom layer became breathable.

	Johnson's lungs were still straining from the climb. Even this high on the crater wall there was enough CO2 to hinder breathing. The two men at his feet would probably be all right. The others still needed help, might survive if he could find some way to get them air.

	He looked around, beating his muddled brain to find an idea. The crawler was sitting next to the puddler, three or four meters above the level of the lake. If he could get to it, he could use the medicinal oxygen. There was no time to waste, but he was still having too much trouble breathing to move very fast. The men on the crater floor could not live much longer.

	He turned and started along the crater wall. You couldn't call it running. It was more of a rapid stumbling, hampered by the slope and three days of saddle sores. Johnson moved around the crater wall until he was just above the crawler.

	Four deep, deep breaths and he plunged downslope towards it. Two meters down, breathing strong, coughing at the stink. Six meters. Eight meters, and his eyes started to smart and the air he sucked in no longer satisfied his needs. Now the real race began. He held his breath and kept going, bounding and sliding his reduced weight sideways down the slope in the low gravity. Ten meters, and he was at the crawler, his knees crackling and buckling as they tried to stop his forward motion; weight may change, but mass is forever.

	He slammed into the side of the cab, cracking his ribs on the grab-bars, scrambled aboard, fumbling the door closed with unresponsive hands and rapidly narrowing vision. Oxygen first. He pulled the walkaround bottle out from under the driver's seat, pulled the mask over his head, and started gasping. Now to move the crawler. The starter clicked, the motor whined up to speed, then lugged heavily as it tried to drive the crawler straight up the slope with the brake still set.

	He swore, turned the wheel, popped the brake, and almost fell out the unlatched door as the big machine roared and spun around on the steep slope.

	Moments later the crawler was next to the fallen bodies. Johnson braked and dashed back to Medical. No time for finesse. He cracked the valve on the largest oxygen tank and let it start filling the compartment. Then he grabbed more walkaround bottles, jumped out the driver's side, and started pulling people in through the door.

	Ten minutes later he roared the crawler over the outer edge of the crater and onto the trail for camp. Damson and Linton were in back, weakly pressing on chests to try to restore breathing. Coughing and gasping filled the cabin behind him, horrible but reassuring.

	At least some would survive. Now that they knew how treacherous the volcano could be, countermeasures would be easy. Perhaps they could work in breathing gear. That might even be comfortable, given Haven's thin atmosphere. Maybe there was another, better, solution. He smiled into his mask and squinted into the slowly glowing dawn. The hard part was understanding the problem. What followed was merely engineering.

	What followed was two hours of touch and go field medicine by Johnson and any of the surviving miners with any medical training at all. Fred Parker was dead, he had not survived his fall into the lake. George Rasmussen would forever be a little slow in comprehending even short sentences with short words. His family would need looking after.

	The others survived with no immediately apparent after-effects, except for acute embarrassment whenever they looked at Johnson.

	Frank Damson summed it up at the meeting next day. "We all thought you was just a loner, Jonnie. An' we figured you was out to do all this for yourself as a way to get back to Earth. After you disappeared an' Dit was found dead, we figured you had decided to grab off a shimmer stone an' bribe your way back."

	He looked around at the nodding heads. "What I'm tryin' to say is, we was wrong, an' that came close to bustin' up the company. Now we know better, an' we think you oughta' go back to running the whole show. Will you do it?"

	Johnson stood up, stiff, still tired, and, for the first time in over a decade, happy.

	"Well ...  friends ...  we might go bust. We might never find another shimmer stone. Or that volcano over there might wake up some night and decide to kill us all." He smiled. "I think I'll take that chance."

 

STEPPE STONE
William F. Wu

2055 AD. Earth

	A huge green tent had been set up on a mountain slope in Dongbei, the region that had once been called Manchuria and long before that had been part of the Mongol Empire. The tent stood high on a level ridge that overlooked the Northeast China Plain, where a mix of tilled farms and open grazing land lay calm in the distance. On a cold, clear morning, lines of miners and their families shuffled slowly into the tent.

	Cholony Chuluun, whose name meant Chuluun, son of Cholon, drew his betrothed, Tuya, with him in a long line of fellow miners. They were ethnic Mongols whose ancestors had once lived and ruled here. Now, along with Manchu, Korean, and Hui peoples, they were a shrinking minority after the generations-long migration of Han Chinese from the south. Today, the huge Anaconda Mining corporation had declared a day off from working the mines, but required the miners and their loved ones to come into the tent to hear a company representative speak.

	Now comprising three provinces of China, Dongbei had an extreme climate. In the short summer, the blazing heat and stifling humidity were almost tropical, while the long winter brought Arctic cold and relentless dry winds over the mountains from the north and northwest. With a terrain of fertile plains, rugged mountains and forests, Dongbei offered tremendous natural resources to be plundered. While the rich came to enjoy ski resorts and river cruises, the descendants of ancient nomadic tribes toiled in the factories and, especially, down in the mines to draw out rich mineral ore.

	During the long, slow progression into the big tent, Chuluun kept looking out at the farms and grazing land in the distance. He breathed in the cold, thin air of the mountains and looked up at the blue sky above him. As always, he wished he could spend every day in the open air.

	Inside the green canvas tent, Chuluun and Tuya sat along the left side, about halfway back from the dais. He had known for most of his young life that he had little future in the mines. Everyone who worked the mines knew what this presentation was about, though Chuluun had never heard the pitch before. Somewhere off-world, Anaconda had mines that needed working. Every so often, they made a pitch at different Anaconda locations around Earth.

	Tuya, whose name meant "light," as in a ray of light, shifted in her seat and smiled up at him. "At least it's a day off work," she said.

	"Yes, it's good."

	Truly, he thought, she was the only ray of light in his dreary life. Petite and pretty, she was also a tough-minded, hard-working miner herself. Like Chuluun, she was the offspring of miners who had died early from the heavy labor deep underground. Also like Chuluun, she understood that as Mongols, they belonged to a shrinking ethnic group historically feared and despised by both the Chinese and Russians, both of whom were now in the ascendant. She wore her long, black hair in two looped braids, which gave her an innocent, old-style appearance that belied her cynical awareness of their bleak future in the mines of Dongbei.

	Chuluun barely listened to the beginning of the lecture. He did not care about the introductions of company representatives, or the way they complimented each other. If anything, he was glad to have a day when he could simply sit and rest, instead of work. As one speaker after another stepped up to the podium and droned on, his mind drifted to the re-enactments he enjoyed on the rare days of celebration.

	Even in these hardscrabble mining towns, the glory days of the Mongolian people were remembered. They no longer lived a nomadic life, but some were still farmers and herders, down on the steppes. During holiday celebrations, young and old journeyed down to the grasslands of traditional Mongolia to dress in the clothes of the time of Genghis Khan. Freed from the darkness of the mines, they raced their horses and shot arrows from the saddle. They practiced swordplay, wrestled, and drank.

	Chuluun, with a muscular, broad-shouldered frame and a true zest for his moments on horseback, had won many of the competitions. Tuya, too, was an excellent rider. Like the women of old, she had shot arrows from horseback, wrestled, and drank in the women's competitions. In the contemporary competitions, she had shown her skill with a rifle from the saddle.

	"We need people like you on the planet Haven," said the speaker at the podium. "For a new life and a new chance!" The Anaconda representative was a forty-something man in a black suit. He was speaking in Mandarin Chinese, which everyone in Dongbei learned in school as the official language of China.

	At the words "new life," Chuluun glanced up for the first time. At home, he and Tuya and their friends all spoke Mongol. He had learned in his young life that Anaconda speakers, always talking in Mandarin, rarely offered anything to the ethnic minorities in Dongbei.

	"I want you to understand why I'm here," said the speaker. "Let me be blunt. Anaconda must have good, strong, healthy people to work in our mines. The Bureau of Relocation can always find ordinary people for ordinary work. But the planet Haven has rich mines in a climate similar to this one." He paused for effect, looking out over the crowd. "You have already proven yourselves. You work in the high altitude in long, cold winters. You can do this work."

	Chuluun wondered about this place called Haven. He had heard about it, but he had never met anyone who had returned from Haven to Earth. While he knew better than to trust an Anaconda speaker, he saw little future in the life he had—and little future to offer Tuya.

	"After this meeting ends, we will have individual recruiters ready to meet with you and answer questions. But this is the heart of the matter: Your transportation will be covered in advance. Your room and board will be supplied in barracks until you have the money to make your own arrangements in one of the towns near the mine to which you are assigned. In return, you will work off your debt in only two years of work in the mines." The speaker paused and lowered his voice. "Many of you know that Haven is also the only source of shimmer stones. After you work off your debt, you will be free to prospect on your own, as many people do already."

	A low murmur ran through the crowd.

	Chuluun's heart pounded. Shimmer stones, harder than diamonds, were the rarest gems anywhere. Even a small one would give him the chance to take Tuya out of the mines and live free in the open air. Two years to pay off his indenture, and hers, would be nothing compared to a lifetime in the Dongbei mines with no future. Then he could prospect on his own. No matter how many years it took, if he could find a good-sized shimmer stone, or just a few little ones, he could pay their way back to Earth and have a good life here—not as a miner, but perhaps as one of the idle rich, who cruised the rivers of Dongbei in summer and skied down the slopes in winter.

	"Chuluun?" Tuya whispered.

	He felt her clutch his upper arm. When he turned, he found her looking up at him, her eyes wide with hope.

2056AD. Haven

	Cholony Chuluun saw the old man eyeing him almost from the moment the new transportees were herded into the Anaconda men's barracks for new miners on Haven, near the town of Last Chance. The new bunch, all ethnic Mongols, Manchu, Korean, and Hui peoples, had indentured themselves for the journey from Earth and now lived in a camp named Redemption #4.

	The other man had come on a much earlier ship and was very much an old-timer who lived in Redemption Town. Introducing himself as Timury Bataar, meaning Bataar, son of Timur, the old man had a short, stocky build and long white hair that matched a long, trailing white mustache and beard. He spoke to many other newcomers, but he gave most of his time to Chuluun, son of Cholon.

	Each night, after the new workers dragged back from the mines, Bataar offered Chuluun, whose name meant "stone," small bits of advice on life in his new home. Chuluun accepted the advice, found it useful, and thanked him politely, wondering what he wanted in return.

	He got his answer one night in the mess hall over bowls of some gruel based on grains he could not identify, with fatty chunks of tough meat that no amount of stewing had softened.

	Speaking Mongolian, Bataar sat on a low stool looking up at Chuluun. "I have been asking about you. You are a man of certain skills and the right look. Perhaps you are as strong and steady as your appearance suggests."

	Chuluun said nothing. He studied Bataar, whose name meant "hero."

	Around them, the other transportee newcomers ate, shouted, and jostled one another. In the tired yet boisterous crowd, no one cared about Chuluun and Bataar.

	Chuluun had a favor to ask, but he had been waiting for the right moment. He watched the grizzled man and waited.

	"So you are a horseman. A true Mongol." Bataar grinned, his compliment apparently genuine. Despite his age, he had full, strong teeth, slightly crooked. He was stocky and broad-shouldered, and his movements showed he was still healthy and strong.

	"I worked in the mines of Dongbei," Chuluun said cautiously. "Most of us on the transport worked together. We knew we could mine here. In Dongbei, we worked in a cold climate in thin air."

	"Ah, but you rode in the celebrations. In the re-enactments."

	Chuluun fought down a smile, not wanting to admit this truth yet. He had not told Bataar about Tuya, his ray of light, either. They had been separated because they were not yet married. She was in the Anaconda barracks reserved for women.

	They did not yet have the money for their own place in Redemption, which was crowded with prospectors, merchants, con artists, and ruffians.

	"Do you know how many people find a shimmer stone?" Bataar leaned forward on the stool, looking into his eyes.

	"Of course they're very rare. But if you move enough of the right ore, your chances grow. I'm willing to move that ore."

	"You think well, my young friend. You can see a problem and a solution. But anything you find will belong to Anaconda."

	Chuluun said nothing. Every miner, and every straw boss and manager, knew stones could be hidden, smuggled, or stashed in some way. So each miner finished his shift with a personal search. Yet stones still slipped into the black market.

	"I have a two-year contract with Anaconda," Chuluun said finally. "Then I can prospect on my own."

	"Yes, yes." Bataar nodded, as though he had heard it all before. He looked into Chuluun's eyes. "You have been here a short time. Have you asked how many of these men have survived two full years in the mines? Or how many had to extend their contract to three years or five?"

	"Extend their contracts? Why?"

	"You were told about the company store."

	"Yes, for more food, or a small heater ... clothes. We can buy little things. Why?"

	"You want more than a blanket and this lousy food, then you will spend money faster than you earn it. And for those who die in the mines, Anaconda just replaces them. The company doesn't have to pay them off. They just bring in more transportees.

	Chuluun studied the old man. Everything he had just been told fit all the travails of life Chuluun had ever known. Yet he was still glad to be here. He could live without even simple luxuries. Still young and healthy, he believed he could handle the heavy labor. In Dongbei, he and his ray of light had no chance of a new life. He still believed, on this strange, cold planet, that he could find a shimmer stone.

	"What if you didn't have to wait for your freedom?"

	Chuluun wondered if Bataar was a company spy. Their job was to find and report troublemakers. Then again, Chuluun's ignorance cut both ways. If he could reduce that two-year wait, he would. Any exit from the mines would be welcome, and freeing Tuya from the mines would be a special gift to her.

	"Was your father a miner in Dongbei?" Bataar asked.

	"Yes, he was."

	"And he died in the mines?"

	Chuluun looked away. "Lung disease."

	"You have seen what the mines can do. Many die in the mines and leave nothing for their loved ones. On Earth, Anaconda sells hope to the hopeless to bring in recruits. But Haven's mines are worse than any you have ever seen."

	Chuluun had observed that already. Back home, he had seen men and women worn down by the mines. The more time he had spent in the rough, narrow tunnels, the more he had loved the freedom of riding a strong horse along the grasslands under an open sky. "People work the mines to survive."

	"Plainly spoken. Because I have talked with many people, I know you are no company spy. And because I know women who have spoken to Tuya." He waited, knowing the shock effect this would have.

	Chuluun straightened, his pulse pounding. "Is she all right?"

	"My friends protect her. She misses you. I learned about you two by talking to others. You are both liked and respected."

	The favor Chuluun had intended to ask was for Bataar to learn something about Tuya. With their long daily hours, he had not been able to see her before lockdown in the flimsy wooden barracks each night. Bataar, in his way, had already given him this favor.

	"You have been very kind," Chuluun said respectfully. "I would like to know why."

	"If you had asked me this too soon, I would have talked in circles. But now I'm ready. So answer my question."

	Chuluun understood. He had not answered Bataar's question about early freedom. "If I could leave Anaconda early, I could prospect on my own right away."

	"What if you lived by the old ways of our people?"

	"Old ways?"

	"Even before your ship left Earth, I heard it was coming. I've been making plans and deals ever since. And I've been looking for a leader. You are young and energetic. You have the skills. Now you must lead us to freedom."

	"Lead?" Chuluun demanded. "I just got here. Are you insane?"

	"Insane? Yes, maybe. Or just old." Bataar hunched forward. He pulled a steel box from his shirt, hanging on a heavy chain around his neck. It was big for something hanging around his neck; it more than filled his fist. He waved Chuluun even closer.

	Chuluun bent down. When Bataar opened the steel box a tiny crack, he revealed a shimmer stone larger than a hen's egg. Chuluun drew in a breath of amazement.

	"Don't ask," Bataar whispered. "I have been here a long time. I know many people and I know how to barter favors. I first came to Haven as a CoDominium officer. That's all you need to know."

	For Bataar to show the shimmer stone to Chuluun was an act of trust beyond comprehension. It made Bataar wealthy beyond belief, yet he just carried it around his neck. Chuluun knew many of the men here would kill them both right now for the stone. He himself was not such a man, and maybe Bataar had judged that for himself.

	The stone seemed to pulse in its own rhythm, picking up hints of color and light. Only a real shimmer stone could pulse.

	"Everything is ready," Bataar whispered in his ear. "I've been looking only for the right person to lead. A few other Mongols have come here from time to time. Some work in town, not the mines. I have sought out all of them. I have spread the word among the new arrivals and many will go. But this is a rabble. We have different ethnicities here. In the mines, no one cares. On the steppes to the north, they will become one tribe, a new tribe, that will exist only on Haven."

	"A breakout?" Chuluun could barely speak. "Anaconda's men will track us down. How could we escape? Where would we go?"

	The stone seemed to swell and recede as it pulsed. For him, its hypnotic effect stopped time. He simply stared.

	"I love our people," whispered Bataar. "Yet how many of them labor all their lives for nothing? Life deserves the freedom of the steppe. Is this stone your dream? Many dream of it. Most will die without coming close. But you will lead our people to the steppes to the north, where each day they live in the open air will be a gem. Then this stone will be yours."

	Lead them, Chuluun thought, and the stone will be his.

	"This rabble must rally around a man who cannot be a company spy. A man they already know. A young man who knows the old ways will lead. You will lead."

	For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

	"I will lead," said Chuluun, lost in the tiny pulses of light.

	During the next few days and nights, word spread. Chuluun realized his new role in the quick nods and grave eye contact from others as they labored in the day and as they ate in the mess hall. No one spoke of it, but many of the men gave him a tight smile as they passed, or even a handshake without a word spoken.

	Bataar had, by fiat, given him a title: Chuluun Khan. The title khan had variously meant tribal chiefs, governors, even rulers. The miners were descended from different ethnic groups, but all of them desired a leader. For their own reasons, they chose to acknowledge the title with hope and rebellion in their hearts. The name was whispered, sometimes, especially at night: Chuluun Khan.

	At the same time, wily old Bataar had not told him the route from this region to the steppes. He had kept that knowledge a secret. Chuluun understood: Bataar had made himself as indispensable to the breakout as Chuluun. With a stony respect, Chuluun accepted this. He liked the fact that Bataar had not trusted him fully. This made Chuluun trust Bataar more.

	Each time he slept, Chuluun dreamed of the shimmer stone. The memory of the pulsing light lit up his days in the mine. For one egg-sized, life-changing stone, he would play the role Bataar wanted. He would have his freedom and he would have a shimmer stone for his own—and to share untold wealth with Tuya for their new life together.

	Chuluun's role, he found, was much like taking part in the re-enactment celebrations. Bataar had set up the rebellion among his Mongol friends in Redemption and wanted to use the sheer numbers of the recent transportees to make it work. His tireless personal effort had brought the plan to the brink. Now he was spreading the word that Chuluun was the leader—the Khan—for whom they had all been waiting, as though Bataar had known about him all along.

	As he labored in the mines, Chuluun focused his thoughts on how to play the role. Knowing he was truly no leader dogged his thoughts. He was just a miner. When guilt nagged at him for faking this part, he reminded himself that once his people were free, no one would care that Bataar was the true rebel and that Chuluun was just playing a role. So he returned the nods and wordless eye contact, and accepted the handshakes as though he expected them.

	Hour by hour, he stood up taller and grew more into the role of khan. During his hike out to the mine to start each shift, and during the weary trudge back, he looked at the mining camp and the surrounding terrain, where the forest grew thicker leading toward rugged hills in the north. Somewhere out there, his future waited.

	The mining camp was about one square kilometer in area, though the shape was irregular. A fence of crisscrossed barbed wire six meters high stood at the perimeter, held by steel poles sunk deep into the ground. The guard towers, however, stood in a rough circle near the center of the camp, over the barracks, stables, mess hall, store, and warehouses. The buildings were constructed of wood, like the guard towers. The facilities had not been expanded, even though a thousand miners now crammed the camp built for half that number.

	Bataar had explained to him that Anaconda had a number of camps in this area of similar size. They were spread out in part because the mines had been dug to follow the best ore, but also because smaller numbers of miners were easier to control. The armed guards at Redemption 4 numbered several hundred, with a third of them on duty during each of three eight-hour shifts. They wore plain, dark blue uniforms that separated them at a glance from the miners.

	While four guards watched from each tower, the others rode patrol on horses and muskylopes. Some watched the perimeter, while others were assigned to the area around the buildings and still more to accompany the miners from the main gate to the mine and back. Other patrols escorted the wagons going into Redemption for supplies.

	During the day, the barracks were open for people to come and go in their sparse free time. However, lockdown came two hours after dinner in the mess hall. At that time, the barracks became a prison. The guard towers lit the entire area with spotlights during the long Haven nights and armed guards looked down for any movement that would break their crushing boredom.

	When the appointed night arrived, Chuluun rested in his bunk but lay alert with nervous tension. Four hours after lights out, when the miners were usually in a deep sleep and the guards at their least attentive, a thunderous explosion from somewhere outside the barracks signaled the moment. That was Bataar's diversion.

	Chuluun leaped from his bunk, landing on the wooden floor with a loud thud.

	"Now!" Chuluun shouted. "To freedom!"

	Trusting that the Anaconda guards outside would turn their attention to the explosion, Chuluun drew a cavalry saber from under his thin mattress. Bataar had brought it to him wrapped in an old blanket. Other men pried up floorboards that had already been loosened, drawing out old pistols, rifles, sonic weapons, and even old hand tools such as pry bars, hoes, and shovels.

	"Chuluun Khan! Chuluun Khan!" The men took up the chant.

	Chuluun strode forward in near darkness, as though acting out a script Bataar had given him. "Battering ram! Battering ram squad, forward!"

	As arranged, a crowd of men were lifting a makeshift battering ram from under the floorboards. It had been made by hammering scrap wood together around rough bags of dirt and rock. No one had weighed the contraption, but it took six strong, young men to lift it.

	"Back away from the door!" Chuluun commanded. "Make way!"

	Another explosion rocked the outside, this one from another direction. Shouts from the camp guards followed, with the sounds of hoofbeats. More of them were going out to patrol the perimeter of the mine.

	"Ready, go!" Chuluun shouted.

	The men with the battering ram smashed it against the wooden door where it was held on the other side by an immense sliding steel bar. The door did not give.

	"Again!" Chuluun yelled.

	The battering ram crashed into the door again, but nothing happened.

	"Forget the door!" Chuluun waved his free arm to move back the crowd. If they could pry up the floorboards, the walls were likely little better. "Here! Hit the wall!"

	The men charged the battering ram forward again. This time it punched through the flimsy wooden slats of the interior wall. When they pulled out the battering ram, chunks of wood pulled out with it.

	"One more time!" Chuluun could see that the only insulation was air; now the outer wooden wall was visible.

	With the next crash, the makeshift battering ram punched outside into the cold night air. One of the men in the front dropped the ram and began ripping out the weak slats until he could force his way through a small hole. More men followed him through.

	Moments later, Chuluun heard the long steel bar sliding away. The men outside drew open the door, letting in light from the towering spotlights that shone down over the mining camp.

	Chuluun stepped up into the doorway with the saber held high, knowing the men still inside would see his silhouette. "Forward!"

	"Chuluun Khan! Chuluun Khan!" The chant grew into a roar.

	Rifle shots cracked from the towers. Bullets whizzed overhead.

	At a run, he led the men toward his right. Bataar had told him what to look for: The stables.

	The women's barracks stood beyond the stables. With the sword held high, Chuluun took off at a dead run, with the shouting rabble of men behind him.

	Bataar's explosions, set off by his friends living in Redemption, had drawn away most of the Anaconda guards to protect the perimeter. Now alarms sounded from the guard towers. The tower guards did not bother with verbal warnings. They simply opened fire on the crowd with their rifles.

	Behind Chuluun, rifles and handguns gave covering fire.

	Chuluun saw the stables ahead. Hostlers had already turned out of their beds to help the mounted patrols in response to the explosions. Now Chuluun saw them looking at him and the mob behind him in shock. They turned and ran.

	Many of the horses and muskylopes had been taken out on patrol, but at least a third remained, many of them routinely used for drawing wagons instead of riding. Chuluun saw a saddle nearby but did not dare take the time for it. Instead, he just slipped a bridle on the first horse he reached, a roan mare, and drew her from the box stall. Then he jumped on her bareback.

	"Forward! Go!" Chuluun shouted, clutching the reins with one hand and pointing the saber toward the women's barracks.

	With the gunfire continuing around him, Chuluun bent low and steered the mare through the crowd. Many of the men were going for the remaining horses. Some of them, shot by the guards, fell with a cry or stumbled forward, wounded but still on their feet.

	The thunder of many horses came from the direction of the front gate. Though still distant, they were coming this way. At least some of the mounted patrols were returning in response to the sounds of the breakout.

	At the women's barracks, Chuluun leaped to the ground and began to slide the steel bar holding the door shut. Alone, he was forcing it slowly, but in moments other men hurried to his side and helped him run back the bar. The door was pushed outward from the women inside, awakened by the explosions, gunfire, and shouting.

	"Tuya! Tuya, where are you?" Shouting hoarsely, Chuluun found himself swarmed by the women running out of the barracks and the men rushing up behind him.

	A squad of blue-uniformed guards on foot came running around the corner, firing rifles point-blank into the crowd.

	Chuluun slashed his saber down on one man's arm, severing his wrist. As the guard screamed, and blood spurted from his stump, Chuluun grabbed the man's rifle with his free hand. The guard fell to his knees, with only moments to live.

	Miners swarmed the other guards, driving them to the ground, and began beating them. They were shot and killed at close range, then their rifles and side arms were ripped away.

	"Chuluun!" Bataar, on foot, shoved his way up close. "More patrols are returning! We have to leave!"

	"Tuya!"

	"Chuluun?" Tuya's voice came to him in the din, high-pitched and plaintive.

	"Where are you? Tuya?"

	Bataar grabbed his arm and pulled him back. "Listen! One of my explosions tore away the fencing at the rear of the compound. You must lead the way!"

	Chuluun tried to pull away, still seeking Tuya in the crowd and through the shadows thrown by the tower's spotlights.

	The door to the women's barracks were slammed shut again with a bang. Many of the men were already drawing the women away to escape.

	The reins to the mare were shoved into his hands. "Now!" Bataar yelled. "I will ride with you!"

	Chuluun still could not see Tuya. He shouted for her again and again, but he could not hear her voice. Getting himself shot or taken prisoner would not help him find her. Reluctantly, he pushed the rifle he had taken into Bataars hands. Then he leaped on the mare's back again. Clutching tight with his thighs, he shifted the reins to the hand that also held the saber, and reached down for Bataar.

	When Bataar had swung up behind him, Chuluun held the saber aloft as he kicked the mare into a trot.

	"Go! Go!" Chuluun shouted as he gave one more look at the crowd for Tuya. Then he was riding away, with gunshots firing and men and women, both mounted and on foot, right behind him.

	"Chuluun Khan! Chuluun Khan!" The chant roared up around him.

	Chuluun, following Bataar's directions, finally drew up at the edge of a dense forest north of the mining camp. They jumped to the ground and drew together the closest of the excited, breathless miners. Many had been killed in the fighting, and still more had been wounded, but all the men here showed grim satisfaction and sometimes even smiles as they found each other.

	Bataar took a shovel from someone and started digging a deep pit for a fire. Soon others joined in, while still more called out to their comrades to find stragglers and bring everyone to this place.

	Once Bataar had the fire going, it was deep enough to hide most of the light from anyone at a distance, but it provided both warmth and a rallying point for the miners who had lost their way in the breakout.

	Chuluun shouted for Tuya, and asked everyone among them to call her name and bring her to him if she could be found.

	The crowd around them grew, their spirits high. They tended to the wounded and searched for friends and comrades. Far behind them, the mounted patrols secured the mining camp but did not pursue them. They would wait for daylight, Bataar advised Chuluun.

	Worried about Tuya, Chuluun forced himself to accept the cheers and greetings from others, all of them calling out to him as Chuluun Khan. He paced near the fire anxiously, knowing that if Tuya had escaped, she would find him most easily right here.

	He motioned for Bataar, and took a few steps away from the crowd at the fire.

	Before Chuluun could speak, Bataar grinned up at him. "With my plans and your leadership, we are out. Our people will be free on the steppes once again."

	"And now what, you crazy old man? Where are these steppes? What do we do next?" Chuluun demanded.

	"We must have supplies. More horses, wagons with food, tents."

	"I have led our people out of the camp. But you can lead them to the steppes yourself. I must find Tuya."

	"Our work is not finished. We must raid the mining camp now, before the patrols gather reinforcements from Redemption and other Anaconda mining camps. They expect us to flee. Now is the time to attack and take what we need."

	"You can lead them." Chuluun lowered his voice. "I want the stone now. When I find Tuya, we will go to Redemption before sunrise. With the stone as collateral, we will return to Earth on the next ore transport. Old man, this life on the Haven steppes is your dream, not mine. You should lead our people to the steppes, not me.

	"Ah, yes, you want the stone. Of course you do. Don't we all?" Bataar gave him a hard look, but he slipped the loop of chain over his head and drew the steel box from his shirt. He opened it to show its contents.

	Chuluun leaned down close. Again, the shimmer stone seemed to pulse in his vision, as it picked up the tiniest hints of reflected light from the fire behind Bataar. Chuluun took the steel box and closed it, then slipped the chain around his own neck. "So you will lead our people on this raid. And I will find Tuya."

	"I can tell you where to find her," said Bataar. "During the confusion outside the women's barracks, just before I mounted up, I saw her shoved back inside. The door was slammed shut again. Then we had to ride."

	"What?" Enraged, Chuluun grabbed Bataar's broad shoulders. "Why didn't you tell me?"

	Bataar shoved his hands away. "We must raid the camp now. Think of those patrols that returned and chased us away! Most of them will rest for the night, and their mounts will be waiting for us to take. You will lead us and you will free Tuya."

	"Old man, you should have told me!" Chuluun glared at his white-haired, white-bearded mentor. "All right, then, we must find as many men as we can put on horseback or muskylope. Other men will ride double so they can drive the wagons and ride the other horses we will take from the camp. We will ride fast, so any men left on foot must wait here. The wounded must wait here or they will slow us down."

	"Ah! So you will lead us on this raid? Right now?"

	"Of course, you crazy old man! I will go to free Tuya."

	"Good!" Bataar gave him a grim smile. "In that case, I will tell you: I'm the one who shoved her back inside the barracks."

	"What?" Furious, Chuluun swung his fist into Bataar's jaw, driving the old man to the ground.

	Other men pushed between them. Two men lifted Bataar to his feet.

	Bataar just looked into Chuluun's eyes. "Let's ride!"

	Boiling with anger, Chuluun rode at the head of his mounted men at a walk, to keep the hoofbeats quiet. He would take out his rage on the guards, not the wily old man who had set this breakout in motion. Bataar, on another horse, stayed at his right, back just a few steps.

	Deep into the long Haven night, Chuluun drew up when he could see the place where one of Bataar's explosions had breeched the perimeter. Set high in the fence, the explosive had torn away the barbed wire but left the ground nearly untouched, so horses and wagons could move through the open space. It was roughly wide enough for six horses across.

	The miners had shot out some of the lights in their escape, but many remained. In the faintest edges of the light, Chuluun saw a small mounted patrol of sentries, numbering only about ten men, on their horses and muskylopes near the breech. They looked listless and bored, certainly assigned to this duty only until a work crew could fix the fence. None of them seemed alert or worried that the fleeing miners might now be angry raiders ready to return so soon.

	This time Chuluun did not want to shout and alert the small patrol. He simply held his saber aloft for a long moment, the signal for the men behind him to be ready. Then he kicked his mount and held the saber forward, charging without a word.

	As his mount thundered toward the breech, he felt again the great excitement of riding across the steppes at home in Dongbei, in the re-enactments—but this time, the attack was teal, and Tuya remained a prisoner.

	Behind him, shouts and rifle cracks sounded from the men. As he rode at a gallop, he saw the startled sentries whirl toward the sound. With a few scattered rifle shots in return, they wheeled their mounts and fled.

	Chuluun led the way through the opening in the fence, aware of bullets whizzing past him from the guard towers. He rode for the women's barracks. Most of the men would spread out for the stables and supply warehouse. Some would load and hitch wagons, while others defended them.

	Resistance was surprisingly light.

	"Where is everyone?" Chuluun shouted, as he reined in.

	"We caught them all off guard," Bataar called back, laughing. "Many are dead. Maybe the others ran away to Redemption."

	Chuluun jumped to the ground as Bataar drew up behind him. While Chuluun struggled to slide open the bar once again, Bataar turned his mount and sent covering fire at the guard towers. Other men joined Chuluun and they opened the barracks door.

	This time the women who had not escaped before did not come running out. When Chuluun stepped inside, he found them huddled at their bunks, waiting to see who was entering.

	"Chuluun!" Tuya cried out. She ran to him, already wearing her thick coat, with her small booted feet thumping on the plank floor and two long braids of black hair dancing behind her.

	The other women hurried forward, too, rushing past them to the outside.

	Chuluun embraced Tuya, lifting her off the ground for just a moment. "We must hurry. Come on!" With one arm around her, he jogged out of the barracks.

	Near the door, Bataar was still turning on his mount and shooting his rifle at the towers.

	Chuluun lifted Tuya onto his mount and then jumped up behind her. Other men had followed him, and they drew the women away with them. At a trot, he rode for the warehouse. They met no resistance on the way.

	Even the towers, with spotlights still shining down, had gone quiet. The guards who been shooting from them were either dead or long gone.

	Six wagons had been hitched. Some men threw supplies into the back as others stood guard. Men who had ridden double had found more horses and muskylopes in the stables. The raiding party gathered, preparing to leave.

	"The guards abandoned the camp," Chuluun said to Bataar. Still on the roan mare, he held his arms around Tuya, clutching the reins and his saber, while she held the rifle. "But I expected to find more horses and muskylopes. I'm worried about a trap. Where are they?"

	"They must have gone for reinforcements and ammunition in Redemption," said Bataar. "More patrols will come from nearby camps to help out. At first light, they will start their pursuit, but some of them may be watching the road into town. So we must avoid the main gate."

	"We'll send scouts," said Chuluun. "They can find the safest route away from here."

	"Don't waste time. The wagons will slow us down as it is."

	Chuluun nodded, seeing the old man's wisdom. "We'll go out the way we came in. The wagons can go overland through the break in the fence. But what about the journey to the steppes? Only you know the way. Can the wagons travel where we have to go?"

	"The way is marked," said Bataar. "The time has come to tell you. From the place where I dug the fire pit, I have marked blazes on the trees. I spent more than a year marking the way. We will rest near the fire and go at first light. The wagons must go slowly in some places, but they will go."

	And you will lead, Chuluun thought to himself. Once the raiding party was out of the breech in the fence, he would slip away in the darkness with Tuya and ride for Redemption. He would travel overland to avoid any guards and slip into the spaceport to dicker for a ride back to Earth for both of them. Somehow, somewhere, among the con artists, thieves, and company rats in the town, he would find someone who would make the deal he wanted. For a moment, he touched the steel box through his shirt.

	Chuluun called for the men to hurry, but he knew he had to be the last to leave. As each wagon was loaded, men and women who knew how to drive a team started out the way. Some riders trotted along each wagon as an escort. Chuluun ordered most of the raiding party to wait. They would act as a rear guard.

	At last, when the final wagon began to roll, Chuluun waved his saber, sending the rear guard into motion after them. Chuluun and Tuya, with Bataar riding alongside, took up the end of the column.

	While many riders turned on their mounts to watch the camp behind them with wary eyes, they followed the last wagon through the opening in the fence. Chuluun looked into the darkness, wondering where he might slip away from the other riders. First he planned simply to trot forward alongside them, leaving Bataar behind in the crowd. At some point, then, he would drift off to one side with the darkness as cover. Before anyone knew he was gone, he would be riding with Tuya for Redemption and a new life.

	The loud crackling of gunfire rose up on his left. Small lights, seeming to float in the air, appeared on both sides. Many hoofbeats, now faint, grew louder.

	"Torches," said Bataar. "They're coming!"

	"Wagons forward!" Chuluun shouted. He wished he could rise up in stirrups, but of course he was still riding bareback. "Wagons, go! Escort riders, go!"

	Bataar shouted the orders again and again, always in Chuluun's name. Farther ahead, other men called out, sending the orders up the line.

	Chuluun realized the guards were closing a trap after all. The guards had not pulled back to Redemption. After the fugitive miners had returned on their raid, the guards had been withdrawn out the front gate to circle back and ambush their quarry. The wagons, supplies, and mounts had been left in the camp as bait.

	The Anaconda commander was not a fool; he had allowed the wagons and escorts to pass, knowing they could be caught later. Instead, the guards, at nearly full strength, had waited for the rear guard, made up of the bulk of fighting men who posed the only true danger.

	"Riders, follow me!" Aware that he was still visible where the distant light from the towers faded into the night, Chuluun swung his saber high. "To the left!"

	Chuluun charged forward, his arms still around Tuya. The tough young daughter of Dongbei leaned to the right and shouldered the rifle. She began firing.

	The torches, nearly upon them, gave them excellent targets.

	Just behind them, Bataar whooped and fired his rifle as he rode.

	In moments they had closed with the guards, who were shooting both rifles and side arms. Some held torches aloft in one hand with the reins, and guns or swords in the other. As the horses whinnied in the torchlight and dancing shadows,Chuluun swung his saber and felt it connect with a man who screamed. Riders behind him, some using hoes and shovels as hand weapons, shouted and clashed with the guards.

	As Chuluun fought to control his mount, Tuya fired blindly, point-blank into the shadows before them. Chuluun slashed with his saber, sometimes striking an enemy and often missing in the stumbling and shifting of the horses. Near him, Bataar fired with his rifle again and again.

	Chuluun could feel, rather than see, that he and his riders were slowly being forced back by sheer numbers. They were falling back into the light, back through the opening in the fence. Tuya stopped to reload and Chuluun used his saber to knock aside the barrel of a guards rifle pointed just a few feet from her. Then he ran through the guard who had dared to try shooting her.

	As Chuluun, Bataar, and their men were pushed into the faint light, they became specific targets instead of vague shadows. The bullets whizzed closer, and increased in number. Around him, more of the miners fell to bullets.

	"Yaah!" Bataar yelled, swinging a sword he had acquired during the fight. With a deft backhand stroke, he slashed the throat of a guard, then reached out and yanked him from the saddle to let him fall to the ground. "Chuluun! Here!"

	Chuluun grabbed the bridle of the free mount and took the rifle from Tuya. He held his horse steady as Tuya leaned toward the other horse and then flung herself into a kind of crouch onto its back. She gathered the reins and settled into the saddle, too short to reach the stirrups with her feet. Then she drew up to Chuluun, her eyes glittering in the light as he handed her the rifle.

	However, the miners had been forced back again, with even more of their own falling to rifle shots or sabers. Now most of them were in the light, back onto the compound grounds. They made easier targets than ever.

	Suddenly a newly arrived patrol of mounted guards poured through the fence breech on Chuluun's left. They now outnumbered the remaining miners and came on fast. Chuluun's rear guard was blocked from escape through the fence breech. Flight back through the camp and out the front gate might work for some, but many would be shot down from behind.

	Tuya drew up next to Chuluun. "I would rather die out here than go back," she called to him. "What shall we do?"

	Chuluun was no leader. He was not a khan. Truly, he had no idea what to do.

	As the guards formed up ahead of them, preparing to charge, Chuluun pulled the steel box out of his shirt and opened it all the way. The shimmer stone pulsed in the faint light as they both stared at it.

	"A shimmer stone," Tuya said breathily. She leaned forward, gazing at it.

	"It will buy us luxury for the rest of our lives," said Chuluun. "We must take it to Redemption and make the jump back to Earth. We must flee."

	"What luxury?" Tuya asked innocently, looking up from the stone into his eyes. "Freedom back on the steppes of Dongbei?"

	Startled, he gazed back at her. He remembered the wild, wonderful freedom of riding across the steppes beneath the open sky. When he was toiling deep in the mines, he had often dreamed of taking two strong mounts out on the steppes with Tuya, for the sheer joy of riding together at a full gallop. That was the luxury he sought deep in his soul.

	Suddenly a mounted guard rode at them at a canter, and aimed his rifle at Tuya.

	Before Chuluun or Tuya could react, the short, blocky form of Bataar drove his mount forward. The rifle cracked, but Bataar's sword slashed across the guard's chest, and the guard fell from his muskylope. Bataar hit the ground and rolled.

	Chuluun rode up to protect his fallen mentor. Without thought, without doubt, he held up the steel box in both hands, high over head. "See it! See it!" He moved it so the light from the distant towers caught it.

	The men in the first ranks of the guards stopped and stared first. Then even the men in the rear lines looked up. One by one, the fighting men drew apart to stare at the pulsing light in the steel box over Chuluun's head. In a few moments, no one was moving.

	Tuya slipped from her horse and tried to lift Bataar. Another man jumped to her aid, and they lifted him face-down across the withers of her mount. She swung back up into the saddle.

	"You want it?" Chuluun shouted. "You want it? You know you want it!" He took the shimmer stone in one hand. Then he reared back and threw it as high and far as he could above the open space dividing the two sides, toward the guards. The shimmer stone glittered through the light from the towers.

	The shiny, pulsing stone seemed to fly slowly through the thin air, arcing and glistening in the faint light. Then, in the far end of its arc, it began to descend.

	With screams and shouts, the mass of guards rode after it.

	Chuluun kicked his mount. "To the steppes!" Chuluun shouted. "Chuluun Khan commands you—to the steppes!"

	"Chuluun Khan! Chuluun Khan!" The men took up the chant once again.

	With Tuya bringing Bataar, they cantered through the fence breech one more time. Some of the miners undoubtedly chased the shimmer stone also, he supposed, but he heard the hoofbeats of many others following him.

	Soon they entered the safety of darkness and rode on, with no one in pursuit.

	By the time dawn began to glow in the sky, Chuluun, Tuya, and the remainder of their rear guard finally had caught up with the last wagon in the column. The wagons had slowed, as Bataar had predicted, and the final wagon had been forced to stop and wait for those ahead.

	Chuluun slipped from his mount and stepped up to Bataar, as he lay across Tuya's horse. "Is he alive?"

	"He is still breathing," said Tuya. "He does not have long to live. Chuluun, he took the rifle bullet for me."

	"Yes." Chuluun drew the stocky old man down into arms and carried him to the back of the last wagon. Two men unhooked the back wall of the wagon and took out bags of grain to make room. Tuya dismounted and joined them. Chuluun laid the old man down at the back of the wagon.

	The white-haired, white-bearded man opened his eyes and spoke in a dry rasp. "I saw it, Chuluun Khan. I saw the stone fly through the air."

	Chuluun nodded. "Crazy old man," he said quietly.

	"You are truly Chuluun Khan, a leader of men. You will lead our people to the steppes by the trail I blazed?"

	"Someday the story will be told by our grandchildren's grandchildren," said Bataar. "The story of a new tribe of free hunters and herders—yes, and farmers, too. The story of Chuluun, first khan of the steppes."

	"No," Chuluun said gently. "They will tell the story of Bataar, son of Timur, the first khan of the steppes. I will see to it." He drew himself up, not for himself but for Bataar. "I—Chuluun Khan, second khan of the steppes—I will see to it."

	Tuya clutched Chuluun's arm, not fully understanding, but understanding enough.

	Bataar looked at him for a long moment. "What is a joke for a cat will be death for a mouse," he said, quoting an old Mongol proverb. He closed his eyes. His breaths grew faint and finally stopped.

	"Take him in this wagon," said Chuluun. "We will bury him in the steppes he wished to call home."

	The men at the wagon nodded.

	Chuluun mounted his horse again. When Tuya was in the saddle, he drew close to her.

	"When we have a son, I should like to name him Bataar," said Chuluun. "Bataar, meaning hero. He will never labor in the mines. He will never know a shimmer stone, and he will never care."

	"We will have a son named Bataar," said Tuya. "We will have other sons and daughters, too, in our new life."

	Chuluun, second khan of the steppes, simply nodded. He rode forward along the line of wagons, with Tuya behind him, to lead his new tribe to a land beneath open sky.

 

DOWN THE RABID HOLE
The Report on Lost Colony 4a
Charles E. Gannon

2057 AD. Earth

	Hagman grazed his fingertip across the secure activation switch: the recorders status panel illuminated. "Ready," he said.

	Funakoshi, the paralegal assigned by the out-system Extraterritorial Arbitration Court, cleared his throat. "This convenes the in absentia deposition of all representatives and employees of the Kennicott Metals Corporation, LLC, in regard to the events surrounding the establishment, and subsequent loss, of the limited-shareholder prospecting post officially designated as 'Colony 4 a' by the CoDominium Colonial Registry office, and situated on the so-called Eastern Continent of 'Haven,' the fourth moon of the gas giant Byers II, colloquially known as 'Cat's Eye,' in the Byers System."

	Hagman wondered how Funakoshi could say all that in one breath. "Let's get started," he grunted, hitching his round belly closer to the table.

	The words were no sooner out of Hagman's mouth than a spare, almost gaunt woman with high cheekbones and sunken eyes jumped upright. "I protest the legitimacy of these evidentiary proceedings. My clients have the explicit right to—"

	"Ms. Dumaskaya, this is not a court of law; this is a class-action arbitration. And in this circumstance, there is nothing irregular about not having relevant witnesses available for examination."

	"There is 'nothing irregular' about this hearing only because most clients inexplicably tolerate this flagrant violation of their rights. However, as the legal representative of the settlers of Colony 4a, and through them, their heirs and assigns, I insist upon exercising my right to make my own inquiries of the parties who served on board the CDSS Stellar Bourse during the incident."

	"We can't accommodate your request for access to the Stellar Bourse, Ms. Dumaskaya, but you're welcome to head through about a dozen Alderson Point Jumps to find her 'last' known location." That 'location'—as all three people in the room already knew—was probably half-a-year out of date, itself.

	"It is not our concern that summoning the relevant parties for a live deposition would be an expensive and lengthy proposition. It is our right to demand access to them."

	"Actually, Ms. Dumaskaya, you are dead wrong about that. Under the terms of the Compensatory Labor Contracts signed by all the parties from which the plaintiffs in your case derive their ostensible claim, evidentiary depositions taken in absentia are admissible in the proceedings and are accorded full legal and official status if the deposition was taken under the direct auspices of—and I quote—'a duly recognized court officer of any CoDominium court or a commander (or above) in any CoDominium naval service.'" Hagman flopped a contractual binder the thickness of the Domesday Book on the table. "Have a look for yourself, if you don't believe me. Otherwise, please sit down. Now."

	Ekaterina Dumaskaya snapped her eyes off Hagman, fixed them on a less noisome blank spot on the far wall; she sat down with an indignant huffing noise.

	Hagman sighed. There was no way this could be over soon enough. He cleared his throat and read: "For entry into the record—"

	Deposition of Captain Delmore Seurault, Master and Owner of the CDSS Stellar Bourse. Taken by Ensign J. T. Muhlenberger, Acting Yeoman of the CDSN Fort De Soto, DDE, under the supervision of Lt. Commander Beryl Tedesco, commanding. Recorded September 19, 2056 AD (sidereal). Relevant excerpts included for entry into the record; transcript of full deposition available in archives.

	DS: So we got to Byers [System] about half a month later than we had contracted. No fault of ours, though: like I said, you Navy boys commandeered us to move those nukes from—

	JM: Yes, fine: please, stay on the topic of the events at Byers II d.

	DS: Byers II d ... ? Oh, right. Haven. So, during our trip out there, it turned out Kennicott had underestimated the comestibles requirement for its workers. The more sparse the rations in steerage became, the hotter the tempers. With each other, with my crew, with the universe in general. In all fairness, they were the strangest group of labor-slaves I ever saw—white collar Norwegians, Uzbeki gastarbeiters, oilfield workers from Siberia, miners from South Africa. They had one thing in common: debt. Some had probably been living beyond their means—so they deserved being there. The rest—damn, they just got caught up in the market failures when the commodities values on gold and platinum went through the basement during the Asteroid Extraction Deregulation Interval. I felt real sorry for 'em: they were just folks who'd lost everything and took a chance on the stars instead of staying at home and starving, waiting for handouts that were never going to come. Hardly fair if you ask me.

	But anyway, we had trouble brewing below decks, and some of the bottom-feeders in my crew weren't above a little black-market food peddling out of the galley. That made things a lot worse—particularly when my bilge-lovers started seeking sex as their preferred method of payment. Starving kids, desperate moms, pissed husbands: it was an ugly scene. In the two days before we made orbit at Haven, I had to issue weapons from the ship's locker to break up three fights. I had two crewmen in sickbay for a week, and four of the contract workers never made it to their new promised land. Of course, in the end, that was probably lucky for them.

	So bottom line: I was in a rush to get the contract workers off my ship. And the corporate management team from Kennicott was urging me to waste no time, since we were already two weeks behind schedule. So they were only too happy to accept full responsibility for accelerated deployment.

	JM: Excuse me; 'accelerated deployment?' Could you define that term?

	DS: Sure: 'accelerated deployment' meant that we were going to drop them into a pre-prospected shimmer-stone lode without a comprehensive advance survey by the corporate team. Site survey and worker settlement were to take place concurrently.

	JM: And what was the problem with that?

	DS: What wasn't? The advance prospecting data was restricted to confirming the presence of shimmer stones—and even that data was pretty thin. We had absolutely no info on the air pressure at the site, or on access to water sources, or anything else that might be handy for a self-sustaining labor colony. One of Kennicott's managers commented that his only concern was to 'first get 'em dropped, and then get 'em digging.' That was pretty much the corporate motto, I think. And given the unrest down in my lower decks, I wasn't in the mood to argue.

	JM: And when you landed, what did you find?

	DS: Mind you, I only went down once—on the third trip, just to get a break from the ship. Same old bulkheads get dull after a while, y'know? Any change of scenery is a relief. Or so I always thought.

	Well, let me tell you, I couldn't get back upstairs to Stellar Bourse fast enough. These poor saps had been plopped down in the middle of an old volcanic plain. Nothing but rock as far as you could see. And their mine was also their home: a big sinkhole. You know what I'm talking about: there's a special name for the geological feature, for those big shafts where the lava comes up—

	JM: (term) It's a special kind of vertical volcanic tube, often confused with what's called a 'skylight.' Yes, I'm familiar with them. Go on.

	DS: Yeah, it was one of those. Only it was big. I mean really big. Almost 90 meters across. The walls were almost a perfect ninety degree vertical, down to 3 kilometers. Then they started tapering inward down to a depth of five kilometers. Beyond that, it seemed to branch off into side chambers and galleries and crevices: a spelunker's paradise from the sound of it. But a hell of a place to live: light coming down from way up high, all the ground water dripping down, and when it rained— Christ. The opening to the tube sat down at the base of a shallow depression in the surrounding plain. Probably that basin was the result of water erosion, from eons of everything running down that big 90 meter-wide drain in the middle of a black expanse of igneous rock. So when it rained, it all drained down there—and suddenly, living on the galleries that spiraled down along the inner side of that thing was like living at arm's length from the Victoria Falls.

	Actually, that feature—the wide ledges—were the one thing that was helpful for the settlers. See, the walls of the tube were terraced, sort of like a corkscrew in reverse: there was a shelf that came out from the wall, went all the way down to the bottom. It was anywhere between 4 to 10 meters wide, and looked like a road spiraling down, down, down into all that blackness. At the time, the company guys from Kennicott were all patting themselves on the back, saying what a lucky find that was, and what a freak geological formation. There was nothing in any planetary record which could account for that, they said—yet there it was, like a godsend to them, made to order for multi-level extraction. No need for elevators, no need for scaffolding: just follow the ledge round and round, down to the depth you want and then dig straight back into the wall. That ease of access saved them at least three months of start-up work, which made the suits simply ecstatic. I remember because they were boozing it up one day back on board the Bourse, and the Assistant Project Manager, Alvaro Gartian, drank himself silly while chanting the mantra, 'Too good to be true, too good to be true.'

	We didn't know—couldn't even guess—how right he was.

	Hagman felt Dumaskaya's green, ice-chip eyes attempting to impale his own. "And no one in your company thought to investigate these uncommon rock formations before sending the colonists down?"

	"Actually, Ms. Dumaskaya, they were investigated. They were carefully assessed for erosion, their long-term suitability for sustained load-bearing, possible drainage modification, and a slew of other relevant engineering and architectural and mining considerations." Hagman thumped down another binder half as wide as the first. "That's what we were supposed to do. That's all we knew to do. There was absolutely no reason to conduct any other investigations. In fact, if we weren't the beneficiaries of hindsight, I wonder if we'd be any more likely than they were to realize what kind of tests they actually did need to run."

	"Easy to say, now."

	"Ma'am, all I'm saying is that it was a mining project, so we sent miners. They conducted all the tests you are supposed to conduct to make sure that you're going to be operating a safe—and yes, profitable—mine."

	"Which did the colonists absolutely no good."

	Hagman nodded. "I can't argue with that; it did them not one whit of good." He sighed. "Let's move on." He reactivated the playback unit.

	Deposition of Alvaro Gartian, formerly Assistant Project Manager of Compensatory Labor Colony Number 4a (chartered under the Colonial Development Act by Kennicott Metals Corporation, LLC). Taken by Chanille Jones, Court Clerk, Mugwumps World, Zeta Doradus system. Recorded January 19-21, 2057AD (sidereal), at the Brakeshoe Chemical and Toxin Rehabilitation Clinic. Relevant excerpts included for entry into the record; transcript of full deposition available in archives. (Some sections are unclear due to subject's slurring and unclear enunciation.)

	AG: Is this thing running? Listen, before we start—if you can't sneak me some more of that—Oh, this is part of the record? Okay, yeah; okay.

	So it was my job to conduct the logistical part of the site survey. You know, best place for the ships to land, best places to process the raw stones, best sites to store the transshipment containers. And all the less charming stuff, like: as we expand, where do we get water; where do we dump wastes; how do we reduce our costs by getting self-sufficiency in energy; how do use local biota to supplement off-world rations; you name it. Not a sexy job, but hey: it pays. Well, it paid.

	Anyhow, I took a look at the lay of the land and found out that the surrounding basalt barrens were not as barren as they looked from the air. There was a micro-ecology that was pretty sparse, but it was there. Small critters—like furry tree-frogs with big suckers on their feet—seemed to live off lichens and grasses that grew in some niches. They were the base of the food chain. Certainly there wasn't the diversity of wildlife that they discovered over on the West Continent, in what came to be called the Shangri-La Valley. Out on the Eastern Continent, it was a pretty simple food chain—and stobors were at the top of it. Aggressive hunters but otherwise, pretty reclusive. But as I mentioned yesterday, there were a lot of deep, narrow ravines and crevasses in the basalt that you only noticed when you got up-close. It was like a sort of open-top rat warren, with pathways cutting this way and that. Whatever was going on in those cracks and crevices—including the life-habits of stobors—we didn't need, and didn't want, to know about. Quite frankly we were blind to it: we were all blind to everything except the shimmer stones. Even the most worn-out colonists started coming alive when they saw that treasure-trove. It was like a shining promise sparkling at us out of all that dark. It meant that the company was going to get rich, and that we were going to get bonuses, and that the workers were going to earn back their freedom and a fair living.

	The only real oddity we detected was in some of the side vents down beneath the 2 kilometer mark. These were different, like they were lined with, or maybe cut from, some kind of soft stone that seemed more like tarry charcoal. Our mineralogists hadn't seen it before, and would have sent it upstairs to the ship's little lab, but Bourse had gone on to her next destination. So we had to ping a request off of the satellite, for which we had only a 28 minute window twice a day.

	As I understood the process at the time, that request for a sample analysis would ultimately be forwarded to the really big facility in the system at that time— the fuel and refit base on the moon Ayesha. They'd eventually make sure that one of the bi-weekly landers going down to Shangri-La would make a quick ballistic hop over to us and pick up our sample before boosting back out. Then the half-staffed, overworked, and underpaid contract labs on Ayesha would take a look at the sample—when they got around to it. But quite frankly, that sample and those weird, half-sealed offside vents just weren't on our priority list.

	We were finding shimmer stones like shells at the seashore. It was incredible; it was a dream come true. There was even talk about sending out some smaller parties to some of the other vertical vents we'd seen in the surrounding four hundred click radius.

	And then I got food poisoning: some spoiled company chow. Leave it to me to draw the bad MRE. So there I was, puking up everything I'd eaten for the past twenty years, and they divert a lander that was outbound from Shangri-La. I'm on a stretcher, waiting for them to load me on, three shades of green but really sick with the fear that I was going to get shipped out and lose my share, when I heard the first report come in.

	Yeah, I was there: I heard it. A team of advance prospectors had gone down deep into the Rabbit-Hole—'cause that's what we called it, like in that fairy tale with the Queen and those mushrooms—and two of them had found one of these side vents that had even more of that tarry stuff than the ones back up higher where we were. The vent was almost choked closed with it, they said. So the site manager says, "go in and see what you can see." So in they went, to see what they could see.

	I heard the screams over the radio. First they sounded distant; must have been coming from the guys that went into the vent itself, I guess. Then the third guy, the one with the transmitter, started getting jittery and teeth-chattery. Didn't help that everyone in range of the radio on my end started telling him what to do—half of them saying he should get the hell out of there, the other half telling him he had to go back in after his buddies. I think he bugged out: I heard feet running. Then he started screaming—couldn't make out what he said—and the radio died.

	I didn't hear anything else. Didn't really want to, either. They were drawing straws for the rescue party when they loaded me into the lander and we dusted off.

	That was the last I saw of Haven. Or anyone in the colony.

	"So then what of the actions of the Stellar Bourse, leaving orbit at such a time is not malfeasance?" Dumaskaya's face was white with rage.

	"No, Ms. Dumaskaya, it is not. If every freighter or transport delayed leaving orbit every time any of its former passengers encountered difficulties, I seriously doubt we'd have any interstellar trade at all."

	"So the death of three men—this is but a trifle, a 'difficulty'? A minor mishap to be ignored?"

	"No, but it is the kind of problem that people on the ground can handle."

	"Ah, yes—you mean the way the settlers of Colony 4a were so ready to 'handle' their crisis? Borgia moie, how can you say such things and not perish from the shame of it?"

	Hagman felt tired, tried not to feel bored as well. "Ms. Dumaskaya, that viewpoint is only tenable if you selectively decide to ignore the fact that it is also the product of hindsight's 20/20 vision. When Capt. Seurault took the Bourse out of orbit to assume its overdue place in the re-fueling rota at Ayesha, only three men had been lost in the colony. I ask you to bear in mind that these casualties occurred in an unexplored mine. At an unsurveyed site. On a new and unfamiliar planet. Meanwhile, the rest of the colonists were in safe, fairly comfortable billets, had plenty of supplies, were relatively well-armed, and were confidently taking matters into their own hands. As they should have." He spoke over Dumaskaya's attempted outburst. "There were almost two thousand colonists, ma'am. And they did not ask for help."

	"They did later on."

	"Yes, when no one was there to hear them. When it finally became obvious that the situation was far more severe than anyone—including themselves—had guessed."

	Hagman nodded to Funakoshi, who picked up several of the light sheets of paper—'flimsies'—which were the inevitable output of commo shacks, and began to read aloud ... 

	From radio traffic intercepts archive, Byers/Cat's Eye archive. Haven incidental transmissions, September 16-17, 2054.

09/16/2054 Z 1324 GMT (sidereal)

	"Hello, hello? Bourse! Bourse, come in ...  (15 second delay) Bourse, come in. Emergency. Uh ... Code Black emergency. Bourse, this is the Rabbit Hole—uh, Colony 4a. Come in. Please ... (20 second delay) ... Bourse, please confirm receipt of this transmission by any means possible. Please send help—send all boats for evacuation, or at least shelter. We've got a disaster down here. Those tarry deposits were not geological. They are biological. It's a ... a breeding nest for stobors. At least that's what we're guessing. The little bastards are all over the place—and their numbers are growing. It started when we sent a three-man team down to explore the lower sections of the Hole. That seems to be where they're coming from.

	Seems like an immature stage of stobor: they're only 20 percent the size and mass of the adults, according to the colonial data you gave us. But there are so many of them. And they're crazy hungry. Flame doesn't scare them off. Guns kill 'em just fine—but it doesn't stop the hundreds of others coming along behind them. Except for the few dozen that stop long enough to eat the ones that we shoot.

	We're trying to hold them off, but their numbers are growing, and you can hear the screech of them waking up, way down at the bottom of the vent. Like devils scrambling up out of the pit of hell  ...  Here, listen:., (noise as receiver is moved, then silence, then distant sounds of many high-pitched animal screams / cries) ...  And there are more of them all the time. I don't know how much longer we're going to be able to—shit! Cressy, get the (transmission ends)

09/17/2054 Z 1945 GMT (sidereal)

	"Bourse, Bourse, come in, damn you. Peters, cover the door. Pedro, look. That one by the file cabinet; it's still moving, (weapon report, probably shotgun, heard in background)

	Bourse, we have retaken the communication center. Can't hold them off for long. Taking the radio and the backup batteries and rigging a remote relay to the main transmitter. All senior personnel are dead—we think. Identification of the dead—even counting them—is pretty uncertain. These rabid little bastards don't leave much of a body behind.

	They are all over the place. Tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, of them. They're hungry, but it also seems like they're trying to get to the surface. Like its some kind of upward migration. And they had to come straight through us, so we're kind of like a snack as they make their way up to the top of the Rabbit Hole. Heh. More like a Rabid Hole.

	These little bastards are insane. They are non-stop ferocious and crazy. Everyone is terrified; there are pockets of survivors in different side tunnels. Some of the company shirts left us behind for dead and bugged out, went up and out the top. They got what they deserved: last radio report from up there indicated that the moment the hatchling stobors got into daylight, all their drive to move upward just became a double-strength desire to feed.

	We're taking the radio down with us, down as deep as we can go. I know that sounds insane, but the stobors are all trying to go up. If we can take the shaft elevator down to the lowest platform, we should be able to bypass and get under the wavefront of the little monsters. There are still some 'waking up' down there, but those numbers seem to be tapering off.

	It was like a bell-curve: a few started showing up, then more, then a wave of them that simply rolled over and through us faster than we could hope to kill them or run. Now, it seems like there are fewer stobors coming out—like we're on the downslope of the bell-curve of their hatching cycle.

	This will be our last communication from this site: we are pulling the plug and heading down as soon as—

	Damn it! The vent, Peters, the ve! (automatic weapons fire, screeching, shotgun reports, two human screams). Pedro, take the radio, NOW! Get out of here, get to the elevator, head deep and—shit! How did they—? (more automatic weapons fire, screeching: transmission ends abruptly, as if transmitter was destroyed or a power failure).

	"And the Stellar Bourse did nothing to help?" Dumaskaya's voice had the fine-edged tremor of tightly suppressed rage.

	Hagman sighed. "Ms. Dumaskaya, after delaying in a parking orbit to pick up Alvaro Gartian, the Bourse had to boost at maximum thrust to be able to take her place in the refueling rota out at Ayesha. Ayesha was on the other side of Cat's Eye, at that time. By the time the first radio transmission was being sent from the Rabid Hole, Captain Seurault had his ship well behind the shoulder of gas giant; radio signals could not get to her."

	"Then how did he know to return to search for survivors?"

	"Because on his way to head out-system, the incidental radio traffic from Haven—"

	"Incidental? You call the desperate cry of a murdered colony 'incidental?'"

	"Ms. Dumaskaya, any comm traffic other than those originating from the Registered Territorial Transmitting Stations is categorized as 'incidental.' It is non-official traffic."

	"Well, then the Kennicott Corporation's malfeasance is obvious: for the sake of its own safety, Colony 4a should have been designated a Registered Territorial Transmitting Station."

	"Nothing would have made us at Kennicott happier—but that was not an option. Before the Extra-National Services and Protection Board will consider any independent community's request for a designated RTTS, several criteria must be met. These criteria include minimum benchmarks regarding the population, duration, and vulnerability of the community in question. At the time of the disaster, Colony 4a only met the population criterion."

	"These so-called criteria are, collectively, an outrage, Mr. Hagman."

	"I agree with you, Ms. Dumaskaya—but I'm not a member of the CoDo Prenational Colonial Protection Subcommittee that established those benchmarks. I will however, be happy to sign any petition you care to write up which applies to that governmental body for suitable restitution to the heirs and assigns of the victims of Colony 4a. If, that is, you think you can win a legal action against a CoDominium agency."

	Dumaskaya looked away, said nothing.

	Hagman hitched his now-grumbling belly closer to the table. "So as I was saying, Captain Seurault got the message about two days after the distress calls were sent. I add, for the record, that Captain Seurault was not legally obliged to divert from his flight plan to investigate the signals. By a strict interpretation of the emergency response protocols set out by the Extra-National Services and Protection Board, the responsibility for investigating the incident fell squarely upon the shoulders of the charter-holders of the planet—which is the Church of New Universal Harmony centered in Castell City. Or, if said organization was not available, then it would fall to any in-system employees of any Territorial Protection agency. But, as it turned out, the ETSB commo traffic router on Ayesha dropped the ball, and the news did not get back to the colonies in the Shangri-La Valley until long after the Stellar Bourse had returned to Haven orbit.

	The rest is already a matter of record from the initial hearing: Captain Seurault called for a team of volunteers to go down and search the site for survivors. He had twice as many as he could shuttle down. What they found doesn't permit couth description. They landed on a basalt flat littered with the remains of the colonists who were able to get to the surface before being overtaken—if you can call a few tattered rags and well-chewed bits of bone and gristle 'remains." There were some stobor remains as well, more when they went to the edge of the Rabid Hole. But the stobor hatchlings were still coming up in twos and threes: easily gunned down, but the sound of the fire—or maybe the smell of the fresh blood—attracted more of them from up out of the darkness. Seems in that immature stage, the pads of their paws allowed them to adhere briefly to vertical surfaces: because they were able to manage short spurts of vertical climbing, they got around every defense or blockade the colonists tried to erect in the main vent."

	"And then the so-called 'rescue-party' failed to explore the side shafts in the vent itself."

	"No, Ms. Dumaskaya, they did not fail to attempt that. But after they went 500 meters down, and had entered about half a dozen of the side vents, the stobor numbers started increasing again. Two of the volunteer rescue party died fighting them off. And they had not found any sign of human remains under the 200 meter mark."

	"But the last transmission you played back—that indicated that there might have been survivors further down, maybe beneath three kilometers."

	Hagman fixed Dumaskaya with a weary stare. "The rescue party from the Bourse were volunteers. They had already lost two men. They would have had to go another 2800 meters down to get to the point you're talking about. And if the settlers' last mission to retake the comm center had finally succeeded in retrieving the radio, then where were the subsequent radio messages the survivors would surely have sent?"

	"Well, maybe the mission to retake the comm center did fail ... but the survivors down deep might still have been alive."

	Hagman nodded slowly. "I can't deny that. But I also can't think of any set of circumstances which make it probable, or even possible. Those poor people were beset by a tidal wave of these ravenous little monsters. There was no sign of survivors. There were still hundreds, maybe thousands of stobors crawling up, in drips and drabs, from the depths—which is where you're proposing these survivors might have been. There was no reasonable chance that there were any lives left to be saved.

	"On the other hand, it was a proven fact that the deeper the rescuers went, the more casualties they'd take—and for what? To prove what they already knew: that nothing could survive that locust horde of cat-sized, four-legged piranhas?"

	Hagman turned off the recorder. "Ms. Dumaskaya, I must advise you that your attempt to continue your litigation will surely be futile and a waste of your energy and good intents. The first court found no basis for charges of corporate or individual negligence. Your assertion that the colonists were abandoned is fallacious—because there was no one left to find."

	"The absence of a radio signal does not prove an absence of survivors in the dark depths of the Rabid Hole, Mr. Hagman."

	"Ms. Dumaskaya I admire your determination, but I wonder if it's starting to become simple mulishness. The Kennicott Corporation wasn't negligent in its safety surveys: it simply wasn't god-like in its speculative foresight. Before this, no one had the faintest idea of how the stobors reproduced, or where they went during the height of the East continent winters. We had no idea how different the East Coast subspecies was from the variety that had been observed in the Shangri-La Valley. And there was no way-and no reason—for Captain Seurault's rescue party to press on any further. As his first rescue reports indicated, the Rabid Hole was still crawling—and I mean crawling—with neophyte-stage stobors. And what those little demons lacked in size and experience, they made up for in numbers, speed and enthusiasm.'"

	"But there still could have been survivors," persisted Dumaskaya, her shining eyes wide and tragic.

	Hagman shrugged. "Almost anything is possible, ma'am." He sighed and shook his head. "But not that. Those people are dead."

Epilogue
Rabid Hole City, 2671 AD

	The tall man and the blonde girl stepped down into the gondola from the pre-flight loading platform. Since theirs was to be a tethered ascent, the preparations were minimal. Within a minute they were rising into the blue and mauve dawn sky, slipping between the dozing float sacs, which would soon make careful descents to sip at the condensation puddles dotting the darkling basalt plain below. Enriched by the water's oxygen, given lift by its hydrogen, they would once again be fully aloft by early morning.

	After the first fifty meters of altitude, the ground crew began playing out the line more slowly.

	"Ready?" asked the man, squinting into the rising sun. The blonde girl nodded, wrapped her wool-weed cape more tightly about her coltishly spare frame. The man returned her nod, took a scroll tube out of his satchel bag, unfurled its contents, and began: "This is called the Scroll of Passage. The reading of it marks your rite of passage by ensuring that you have heard, understood, and may relay to your children, the story of how your People first passed from dark to light, from doom to hope.

	"Our beginning seemed hopeless: one hundred and twenty eight souls, expelled as debtors from Eld Erth, labor slaves of their creditors. And within their first week on Haven, they were also the only survivors of that most fey fancy of fate which decreed that they were to be unwittingly set down atop the greatest of all stobor hatching holes.

	"And so, having rebounded from one dark travail to the next, they found themselves huddled in the dark, thinking each minute might be their last. It was then that Grigori the Engineer returned with explosives and saved them all by doing what most thought would simply bring a more swift and certain death: he touched off the explosives—and thus brought down the tunnels ceiling—just within its mouth.

	"And so, sealed in the bottom-most vent of the Rabid Hole by the small explosive planted by Grigori the Engineer, they waited. Because it was a small vent, and the tunnel collapse required was quite minor, there were still two small apertures in the debris. However, only one stobor could pass through each of them at any one time. And so all the beasts that tried to reach the one hundred and twenty-eight survivors were all easily killed.

	Those luckless stobors became the meat upon which the last of the settlers survived for those first few days. The one hundred and twenty-eight also found water—unusually fresh—in pools further back in their vent. And so it was that they learned why there was comparative safety at the very bottom of the Rabid Hole: occasional seasonal subsurface overflows made those lower levels inhospitable for the stobor egg clusters. This was what had bred the hatchlings' fierce, even desperate, instinct to race to the top of their breeding vent: the spring melt waters—pouring in from the surface, and rising up from the bottom—might drown and make an end of each generation. Unless they migrated swiftly upward upon emerging from their cocoons.

	As the survivors waited in their narrow safehold, they also explored further back into the vent. Which, they discovered, opened into a vast network of other lateral vents, many scored deep by the black waters of underground rivers that had coursed through them for millennia. And in many, many places, they found washed-down deposits of the stobor-cocoons. Having been compressed by the accumulations above them, and air-dried for millennia, the lower strata of these ossified composts burned well—more readily than peat, less hot than coal. But they were also easy to mine, even for a child. It became the survivors' first source of heat and light, and so it was that the birth-spoor of the creatures which slaughtered our forebears also became the umbilicus which nourished their first struggle to survive on Haven.

	Even as they waited for that first stobor hatching season to pass, the one hundred and twenty-eight learned that the rock beneath them was an endless maze of caves and vents and grottoes. In them our forbears found the blind eels that have become our daily meat, and also the float sacs which—in separating water into the oxygen they needed in place of that which we breathe—also collected the hydrogen remainder in the thin leathery tubules that serve as an inflatable shroud over their diminutive bodies.

	We thought the float sacs were cave dwellers at first, creatures that drifted endlessly against the ceilings of the endless dark beneath us. But then came the First Spring, and our first understanding of not only how, but why, the float sacs collected the hydrogen: to facilitate their own upward migration. Out of our Rabid Hole they floated, and out of a dozen smaller ones as well, concealed in the crevices and ravines of the great basaltic expanse that surrounded our new home. They dotted the sky, like tiny children of the clouds and the one hundred and twenty-eight looked up in wonder and declared them a good omen.

	And so, the last people of the Rabid Hole Colony and thus the first people of our city, walked out into that Eastern Highland spring and discovered that the land thought dead by those who had set them down in it had been but a land hidden and sleeping. The one-hundred and twenty-eight discovered that although life in the plain's filigree of interlaced arroyos was simple, it was surprisingly abundant, and that a perennial variety of fire-weed grew there, fast-blooming and potent, as are many plants that have short seasons. Obsidian—the true cornerstone of our early existence—came readily to hand.

	In time, so too did the thin but adequate deposits of coal, iron, limestone, quartz, tungsten, sulfur. Because our earliest sires and dams knew the earth and the use of its buried fruits, they depended upon these mineral riches: at first, to survive, and later, to thrive. And when at last they dared to go further afield, they found other stobor breeding holes, and learned how, with proper timing, to make a meal of what had first made a meal of them.

	In the course of those explorations, the other great vents were found, and so these wombs of new cities were soon fertile with the seed of our kind. And in time, emerging from those basalt loins, a new generation of wanderers later found their way to the western lowlands and the sea. Which you can see from here: it is that glimmering line on the far western horizon."

	The carefully timed reading at an end, Jothan Bailee refurled the Scroll Of Passage, put his hand on his daughter's head, and pronounced softly, "And now, Jansy Bailee, you are a woman."

	Jansy—short for her fourteen years—moved over to the side of the gondola that gave the best westward view of the sea. She stared off in that direction, standing up on her toes to see as far as she could. "Is that where the great settlement was—the Shangri-La Valley?"

	"Yes, Jansy."

	"And what is there now?"

	Jothan pursed his lips before answering. "No one knows." He spoke truthfully. But inside he spoke a further truth, one he hoped would not become manifest in Jansy s lifetime. Unless I am very wrong, my dearest blond-curled daughter, what lies to our west is trouble. Trouble without measure and without end. At least, for now, it sleeps.

	But Jothan failed to consider this: when trouble awakens half-a-world away, the sound of its stirring takes time to cross that great distance.

	Just as it was doing that very second.

The End

* * * * *
Front cover

War World: Discovery

A Shared-World Universe Anthology:
Created By Jerry E. Pournelle And John E. Carr

Printing History

One story from this anthology first appeared in WAR WORLD: The Burning Eye, edited by Jerry E. Pournelle and John F. Carr published by Baen Books in 1989 and four stories first appeared in Codominium I: Revolt on War World, edited by Jerry E. Pournelle and John F. Carr, published by Baen Books in 1992.

The other stories nine stories were written especially for this volume and appear here for the first time.

For more information on War World, visit: www.warworldcentral.com

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2010 by John F. Carr

Original Cover Art—Copyright © 2010 by Alan Gutierrez

ISBN - 978-0-937912-09-6

DEDICATION

To Victoria, my loving wife and inspiration.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

	First, thanks go to Jerry Pournelle for allowing me to expand and create new stories in the War World/Empire of Man universe. Secondly, I'd like to thank Don Hawthorne for all his support and enthusiasm for the series.

	I would also like to give special thanks to Larry King, who also maintains a great CoDominium website, for keeping the CoDominium Time Line and for his continuity work on this volume. And, to Dennis Frank, Archivist at St. Bonaventure University, who keeps the records and is a big part of the copyediting team.

	A big thank you goes to Alan Gutierrez who, as always, did a wonderful job on the cover art.

	The Haven map art was provided by Don Hawthorne, who produced and did all the design work on the original War World maps.