War World X Takeover

There had been no difficulty finding crew for the newly dubbed Queen Grainne. Her shakedown trip around the Janesfort island had uncovered only a few minor problems with the steam engine, which Benny handily fixed. Other than that, her performance exceeded expectations. Himself ritually poured a glass of brandy over her bowsprit, and kissed her polished deck. At next full-light the ship set out on her first serious voyage: trading cargoes along the river shore on the way to Castell City—larger cargoes than the Black Bitch could ever have carried. The settlers, forewarned by radio, brought their produce down the narrow roads through the forest and waited eagerly to see the new ship. Trade was brisk and eager, and Himself was gratified by the number of requests for more labor and more finished goods. Janesfort alone, as he remarked to Jacko, soon wouldn’t be able to keep up with the demand.


“That’s where our little factories will come in handy,” he continued. “We’ll fill in the gap. Aye, me boy, I foresee a foine future for the lot of us.”

“But won’t we be runnin’ Jane out o’ business?” Jacko pondered. “And what of the trade growin’ up in Castell City?”

“All of it different, me lad,” Himself purred, filling his pipe with a light mix of euph-leaf and kinnikinnick. “The minerals an’ the wildlife vary along the river, and each bunch makes different goods of ’em. We’ll turn out large numbers o’ simple tools an’ large goods—picks an’ shovels, hammers an’ chisels—and, o’ course, ships like this. The boys in Castell City, now, they make high-tech stuff: radios an’ power-saws an’ such, not ta mention the good glass from the south lake shore sand. Think o’ lenses, me boy.”

“Much could be done wi’ them,” Jacko agreed.

“Jane’s a rare one,” Himself went on. “She an’ her mates’ll trade farm produce, an’ river-clay pottery, an’ everythin’ that can be made o’ the hemp—’scuse me, euph-leaf’ plant: cloth an’ cordage from the fiber, oil an’ flour from the seeds—”

“Say, I wonder if a good beer might be brewed from their sprouts?”

“Heh! I’ll suggest it ta her. But also—discountin’ the medicines that can be made from the resin, think o’ what she an’ her chemist ha’ done with the wood-pulp. Paper, me boy! Aye, an’ simple plastics. She an’ Benny an’ Falstaff: they also make foine prototypes that factories—such as we’ll have—can use ta turn out goodies in job-lots. Oh, aye, we’ll be gettin’ along splendidly, I do expect. All of us prosperin’ nicely, shimmer stones or no.”

“Planned economy?” Jacko sniggered.

“If so,” Himself glowered, “’Tis planned by us what does the dig-gin’ an’ cuttin’, plantin’ an’ harvestin’, weavin’ an’ millin’ ourselves—not by some king somewhere bellowin’ orders from afar off. Nay, an’ not by CoDo bureaucrats, eyther.”

“Amen,” laughed Jacko. “What would some politician know or care about th’ importance of riverjack-proof fishnets, anyway? By the by, did you know that steamed riverjack with yellowsour sauce makes mighty good eatin’? “

“Is that what we’re havin’ for dinner, then?”

“Right enough. But don’t tell anyone down river about eatin’ riverjack. Riverjacks have eaten enough people, as they know of, that they’d be a bit queasy about returnin’ the favor.”





When DeCastro got home, he found the Golden Parrot much changed. In the short time he’d been gone Inez and Ludmilla had—gods knew where—picked up a handmade book of recipes and begun putting them into practice. There were half a dozen fish dishes, all with various sorts of local fruits, an equal number of meat dishes from local land-creatures as well as goat and chicken and nearly a dozen variations on eggtree fruit. Besides the beer and ale, there were three kinds of fruit juice.

One of his guards was serving as doorman, wearing a clean suit and shirt yet, and the other two were busy in the kitchen. All the tables were full, for once, and nobody was pausing to make offers to the girls—all of whom were busy anyway with carrying dishes back and forth.

The Golden Parrot had changed from a moderately-successful whorehouse into quite a successful restaurant.

DeCastro gave orders for storing the brandy, limped off into his private office, sat down and rested his head on the desktop. Of all the changes he might have expected on Haven, this creeping respectability was the last of them. No conflict, no crisis, no CoDo was all he could think. The only conflict on the horizon was the inevitable clash between Kennicott and Reynolds-and-allies, and that might not come to a head for, well, years.

Cheer up, he told himself. In the meantime I’ll become very rich.

He wondered briefly how Van Damm was getting on.





As the Queen Grainne made her stately progress down the river, she met the River Dragon coming back up. The ships paused in mid-river and tossed on lines so their captains could meet and confer. They had to gather on Makhno’s ship, since the wing-decks of the Grainne were crowded with cargo—not that there was much room on the Dragon either.

“Well, me boy,” Himself grinned, “It does look as if the trade has been good for both of us. What’re ye carryin’, if I might ask?”

Makhno laughed. “Medical supplies, pots and housewares, and… some interesting chemicals, if you must know.”

“Eh, blastin’ powder, ye mean?” Himself winked.

“More like gunpowder,” said Makhno. “Ah, also some useful books. Someone down in Castell City has put together a simple printing-press and Jane’s paper was welcome. What’ve you got?”

“Produce an’ timber—and a few homemade shotguns.” Himself winked. “Also the ammunition for ’em. Your ’interestin’ chemicals’ will be welcome; Falstaff said he was nearly out of ’em.”

“Ah. I take it all the settlers within miles of Janesfort are well armed, now?”

“Now, how should I know that?” said Himself, piously. “All I know is how many peculiar boxes I swapped for food, timber, furs and…ah, produce o’ the euph-leaf plant.”

“Lots of fiber, I hope? There’s a cloth shortage in Castell City.”

“Oh, aye! Enough ta keep the looms o’ the Harmonies busy for a Turn or two. …And other things.”

“Seed?” Makhno asked quietly.

Himself nodded solemnly. “Jane wants hemp growin’ all over the valley by year’s end.”

“Spread too far for anyone to wipe out. Good idea, though it’ll cut into the fort’s profits.”

“I do believe the lady thinks wider and farther than o’ next year’s profits.”

“She does, at that.” Makhno handed over a small wooden box held shut with a crude wax seal. “This is for you, from someone who just called himself The First Organizer. He also asked if I could bring him a workable radio next trip.”

“I believe I could get one in Castell City,” murmured Himself, studying the box. “Thank ye kindly, me boy.”

“I also have a message from Vanny. He says: ‘everything’s in place’, that’s all.”

“Aye,” Himself said thoughtfully, stuffing the box into his shirt. “Now all we need do is keep on as we’ve been, an’ watch for his boss’s replacement.”

“We’ll also have to watch for incoming transportees. The one thing that could mess up our plans is CoDo dumping more beggars on us than the system can sustain.”

“There’s more, laddie. All this prosperity in Castell City depends on the continuin’ good will an’ good sense of Charles Castell, an’ he’s a man not known for eyther.”

“True,” Makhno frowned. “Also, watch out for river-trash.”

“Eh?”

“When the settlers and Harmonies threw the troublemakers out of Docktown, a lot of them took to the water. They’ve got small floating cities along the shore between Castell City and Kenny-Camp and they’re not above a bit of piracy. Keep your guns ready.”






Brodski returned from his Aikido class in the Harmony enclave happily tired and looking forward to dinner. As he strolled through the door of Harp’s Sergeant, though, Flora came hurrying toward him waving a scribbled wax-board. “Mr. Van Damm called on the new radio,” she announced, “And wants you to get back to him. Here’s the channel; I wrote it down.”

“No rest for the weary,” Brodski sighed, plodding into the back room. He sat down at the plank desk that contained the clunky new Docktownbuilt radio, started the whining generator and turned the dials.

Van Damm’s voice came across a background of static, but clear enough. “’Ski, the ship is coming. Expect it in another Turn. There’ll be more transportees, of course, and Cole’s replacement. I mean to stay out of his reach as much as possible. Watch for him.”

“I think I’ll know what to look for,” Brodski replied. “Any idea when Reynolds will make its move?”

“It has already started.” Van Damm paused for a long moment. “Another ship landed last Turn, a much bigger one, out beyond the hills. The prospectors report they saw it unloading heavy equipment. All they lack is labor, and—as I said—the transport ship is coming soon.”

“I see. Everything’s ready on this end; how about you?”

“We’ve been in place for turns, since before Himself came back.”

“Ah. And the new ship?”

“She has a daughter almost ready to launch, already.”

“Heh! Those miners work fast!”

“Many of them are miners in name only, by now. I tell you, ’Ski, I am amazed at how fast everyone—the miners, the settlers, Jane’s people, even the Harmonies—have put this together.”

“Think of the donkey with the carrot in front and the stick behind,” Brodski smiled. “Everybody here wants to be prosperous, at least, and nobody wants CoDo to come in.”

“That is why I must keep away from my new boss, as much as possible.” Van Damm sighed. “Yet I know he’ll come here eventually. There’s nowhere else he can look.”

“Good luck then, Vanny.”

“Good allies are better than luck.”





The first sign was the landing of a quiet-running cargo-sized shuttle just outside of Castell City that certain Harmony goatherds saw and reported. The four men who got out of it and began walking down toward Docktown wore sturdy cold weather clothes of an off-world design, with pistol-sized versions of CoDo stunners hidden under their jackets. They also dragged a large fold-up luggage cart, which carried more folded carts. They took up positions at the foot of the old dock, and one of them took out and held up a sign saying: “Jobs Here”.

Brodski, watching them with his binoculars from Harp’s Sergeant, muttered: “Now it begins,” and picked up his old portable radio.

Leo Makhno, waiting at the dock, revved up the engine of the River Dragon the moment the shuttle appeared over the lake. By the time it had settled on Splashdown Island and opened its hatch, his trimaran was waiting at the shore. Sure enough, the first people out were ragged transportees. Makhno took as many as the ship could carry in the first load, hauled them back to the new dock and let them off. He noted that the man holding the “Jobs Here” sign stepped forward, smiling.

As Makhno turned the Dragon around and headed back to the shuttle for the next load, he picked up his radio and reported what he’d seen.

Little Wilgar, carrying a tray of euph-leaf packets, trotted close enough to the transportees to peddle his goods—and, incidentally, hear all of the sign-holder’s sales pitches.

It took hours to finish the unloading, and as Makhno brought the last of the cargo to the dock he saw that most of the transportees—hundreds of them—had signed up with the sign-holder. The other men with him had unfolded the carts, and the transportees were stuffing their luggage on them.

“Who are they, and where are they going?” asked his last passenger, a middle-aged man wearing a better grade of cold weather gear than the sign-holder and his friends.

“Recruiters from Reynolds mining,” Makhno dutifully replied. He had to bite his lip to keep from asking: How well do you know Max Cole?

“Mmm,” said the man. “Tell me, where is the communications center for the city?”

“Oh, that’d be Sam Kilroy’s place.” Makhno pointed, as he surreptitiously signaled to whomever was watching from inside Harp’s Sergeant. “He’s got the only radio that can transmit reliably all over the valley when the atmospheric conditions are just right.”

“Ah. And the center of whatever government this place has?”

“That’s Old Man Castell’s office, in the Harmony enclave, inside that palisade.” Makhno obligingly pointed—and signaled—again.

“Hmm. And where’s the best hotel?”

“That’d be the Starman’s Inn.” Makhno wasn’t about to steer the CoDo man to Harp’s, or anywhere near it. “Down that street there.”

“Thank you, uh, Captain.” The man handed him a 5-cred CoDo bill as a tip, picked up his briefcase and strolled away in the indicated direction.

Makhno watched him walk away in one direction and the gang of freshly recruited laborers in the other, pulled up his radio and called Brodski.





Word filtered in steadily to the Jane’s Alliance radio network. Max Cole’s replacement had signed in at the Starman’s Inn under the name of Vince Sanchez. After questioning the waitress extensively about the menu, he’d eaten a meal there. Then he’d gone out to Kilroy’s place and paid to send a coded message, which received no reply after half a T-day’s waiting. Much annoyed, Sanchez had then strolled about Docktown studying the busy warehouses and shops. He’d struck up conversations with the assorted Fleet personnel in town and hadn’t seemed too impressed with the results. He had not approached any of the Harmonies, let alone gone into the enclave. At length he made his way to Harp’s Sergeant.

Brodski was ready for him.

Sanchez took a seat at the quiet end of the bar and waited until Brodski, moving slowly and leaning heavily on his cane, came close enough to talk to. “So you’re the famous Sgt. Brodski,” Sanchez opened.

“Retired,” Brodski smiled. “And lucked into a fine retirement plan.”

“Mostly by defeating Jomo’s army, I hear.”

“Heh-heh. Well, not all by myself, I admit.”

“With just a ragtag bunch of farmers? I’d say that’s pretty good strat-and-tac.”

“Don’t sell farmers short. Anybody who survives here by farming is a pretty tough cookie.”

“So I hear, so I hear.” Sanchez hitched closer. “So, where’s the real excitement in this town?”

“Depends on what your pleasure is.” Brodski leaned nearer too. “For booze, euph-leaf and not-bad food, don’t move an inch. We also get the occasional music band, but the best place for that is the Dance Palace, up the road and to the left. If it’s female companionship you want, well, any lady wearing a red scarf—like that handsome gal over there by the front table—will be happy to oblige you. For a good game of cards, probably the bar at Starman’s Inn is your best bet. Cards and dice are about all you’ll find here; roulette wheels aren’t exactly worth the cost of importing all the way out to Haven. Cards and dice are portable, but they wear out and can’t be replaced locally. There’s the Sports Palace if you’re into watching big goons wrestle and punch each other around. A lot of the Marines like that. There’s no racetrack yet: not enough spare horses, and nobody’s imported greyhounds. That’s about it.”


“Hmm. Where do the miners go to blow off steam?”

“Not here to Castell City. They’re all over Redemption and Last Chance, or down river in Kenny-Camp or Hell’s-A-Comin’.”

“Hmm.” Sanchez rattled his fingers on his beer-mug. “This is a pretty quiet town for a port. I haven’t even seen any drunks on the streets.”

“They tend to stay inside, where it’s warm.” Brodski chuckled. “Besides, there isn’t much going on here when the ships aren’t in. This is mostly a farming town, with a little manufacturing thrown in. The mining, and most of the shimmer stone hunting, is down or up river. You can follow the Xanadu down to Kenny-Camp or go south up the Alf toward Redemption and Last Chance.”

“Hmm. And that ‘euph-leaf’ doesn’t cause any problems?”

“Nah. People smoke it and just bliss out. It doesn’t exactly encourage belligerence.”

Sanchez frowned briefly and took a swig of his beer. “No problems with the Holy Joes, then?”

“Nah.” Brodski loaded his pipe, silently thanking whoever had thought to import kinnikinnick—primitive tobacco—to Haven. “They finally figured out that there was more profit to be made by, ahh, ‘harmonizing’ with the newcomers. It doesn’t hurt that the Church has more off-world money than anybody else—except the mining companies, of course. You need something imported? Talk to Castell. The mining companies aren’t nearly as helpful.”

“Ah, I take it nobody likes the companies, then.”

“No way.” Brodski lit his pipe with a little more flourish than necessary. “They’re practicing something close to slavery, you know, with their ’indentures’. And everybody knows about how they broke up the miners’ strike ten years ago. And any miner can tell you not to trade shimmer stones—or anything else—at those company stores. Everybody knows how they loot the planet and don’t give anything back. Take my advice, young fella; don’t have anything to do with the companies. You want to hunt shimmer stones? Buy your gear here in town, head off into the hills and do your own digging. You come across anything useful, come trade it here in Castell City. Don’t go to Kenny-Camp.”

“Still….” A brief grin flickered across Sanchez’ face. “It sounds like that’s where the money is.”

“Money and trouble,” Brodski gloomed, inwardly holding back a laugh.

“Hmm. And what’s the quickest way to Kenny-Camp?”

Brodski rolled his eyes theatrically. “The River Dragon should be coming in soon; she’s for hire, and makes regular runs down there. But just remember, young fella; you’ve been warned.”

Sanchez nodded agreeably, saluted Brodski with his glass and drained it. Then he got up and strolled, not too quickly, toward the table near the front of the bar where the red-scarved lady sat awaiting customers, his intentions plain.

Brodski wished him the joy of her. If Sanchez was hoping to pump her for information, he’d be sorely disappointed; everyone else knew that Alzora spoke only Arabic and bad Russian, and her conversation was limited to the list of her fees and services.

Brodski waved a signal to Flora and took himself off to the back room. Once there, he clicked on the radio and cut through the chatter with: “Breaker! Breaker! Heads up, Leo. Codo-Boy’s heading for Kenny-Camp as fast as he can get there, and he’ll want your boat.”

“Got it,” Makhno’s voice replied. “I’ll keep him from seeing the radio.”

“Let’s keep him from seein’ the Queen, too.” Irish’s voice was staticky with distance. “Likewise the Princess.”

An even more staticky voice, still recognizable as Van Damm’s, growled: “Can you stall him for two weeks? We need time to set up the mess with Reynolds’ camp, not to mention clearing some of the floating beggars out of your path. We don’t want Cole’s replacement to see them and get ideas.”

“I think I can manage,” Makhno chuckled.