War World X Takeover

Two evenings later, Chuluun sat in the wagon with Tuya at the next camp. Naran and the column had finally caught up with the wagons, which had started the long trek home on the first morning after Chuluun’s return. Of the twelve women who had gone into labor, only four had survived with healthy babies. Three had died. Scouts from the rear of the column had reported no pursuit and messengers from the Americans relayed their success at taking a large herd.

Chuluun had told Tuya of the events in Purity.

Now the riders had pitched camp by the wagons, and the roar of their chatter reached Chuluun. A bonfire had been lit for warmth near Tuya’s wagon. The voices of the riders were loud. Many arguments broke out, especially as they drank more kumiss and liquor looted from Purity while the evening deepened. The same comrades who had cheered his arrival, offered their kumiss, and slapped his back in hearty welcome before the raid now spoke in angry, uncertain tones among themselves.

Chuluun knew he had left the riders in confusion by shooting Ganzorig and ordering the execution of those who had followed him. Since leaving Purity, his thoughts had always come back to his own actions as the Free Tribe’s leader. Ganzorig’s question had become a curse: Would he be the last khan of a dead people?

“You must speak to them,” said Tuya, as she sat propped against pillows in her bed. The baby was sleeping in her arms.

“And say what?” Chuluun asked wearily. “Let someone else be their khan. You and I will herd, hunt, and ride together. We will raise our child.”

“The women who attend me have asked the riders many questions. They, too, told me their stories of the raid. They have great respect for the women riders, who say you ordered the columns perfectly in surrounding the town. If Ganzorig had not betrayed your trust, the raid would have gone as you planned.”

“I killed the only friend I had.”

“He was no friend. The women riders are more devoted to you than ever, because you protected the women of the town from those who grabbed them.”

Chuluun shook his head, as though doing so would help him find his way.

“The women say the men don’t know what to think. Some are angry because you shot Ganzorig and had your own men executed. Many had friends among them. Others say you had to do it. The riders don’t know what to expect. They’re fighting among themselves. These are the best warriors of the tribe, breaking into factions. If we go home like this, the tribe will split up. Then it will wither and die.”

“Tribe,” Chuluun said bitterly. “We’re a bunch of escaped miners and nothing else.”

“The riders have trained well. They are devoted to their people. They farm and they herd. And until the raid on Purity, their loyalty to you was unshakeable.”

“Tribe,” Chuluun repeated. “We have no society. We’re a mob of fugitives trying to herd and plow. So what? We have no laws, no code to live by.”

“Give us one,” said Tuya.

He looked up sharply. “Let someone else.”

Tuya shook her head. “Ganzorig could be inspiring, but he was too impulsive to trust. Naran earns trust, but he has no flair. They only have you.”

“For what?” Chuluun demanded.

“For a khan.”

“They are nothing! Just barbarians!”

“Instead of what?”

“Instead of a people who believe in something! A people who have a code to live by! People who believe in their own sworn word of honor. We must be as trustworthy as we are tough! Live or die, we have to keep our humanity—”

“Not me, you idiot!” Tuya screamed, pointing toward the crowd from within the enclosed wagon. “Tell them!”

Hot with fury, Chuluun yanked back the flap at the rear of the wagon. He snatched up the Winchester and leaped to the ground. Then he stormed to the bonfire, where two women who attended Tuya happened to pass in front of him, their shadows briefly large and misshapen against the dancing flames behind them.

As he advanced, he was aware that those who saw him first went silent and watched him in fascination and dread. The troops were all on the other side of the bonfire, built in a deep, circular pit. He stopped on his side of the fire, aware of the heat and light on his face.

Little by little, the roar of arguing and shouting grew quiet. The men and women watched him, quietly shifting into a large crescent shape on the other side of the bonfire, removed a respectful distance from the flames.

Chuluun studied those in the front whose faces, dels, and weapons were illuminated by the blaze just as he was. The cold breeze blew his hair back from his face and spread his long, broad del slightly behind him.

Everyone waited, neither moving nor speaking.

The big fire separated him from those he had to reach. Chuluun recalled, then, how the shadows of women passing between him and the bonfire a moment ago had been dark, misshapen and mysterious. He walked briskly to his left around the big bonfire, and saw that the lines of his people drew backward, away from him, as he came closer. Finally he stopped dead center before the flames, throwing a large, shifting shadow on those who stood directly in front of him.

“Who are we?” Chuluun shouted. “Are we barbarians?” He strode from one side of the fire to the other, not many steps, but in doing so he gave them a view of his shadow in profile and let his del swirl slightly as he moved. “Dover Mining and the other company slaves will always hate us! CoDo troops will always look down on us! We know that. It was the same in the mines of Dongbei and the same in the mines on Haven! We are nothing to the rich and powerful, and those who work for them. Shall we prove them right?”

He paused, catching his breath, and heard no one answer, not even a snide comment or angry shout.

“They believe we are nothing but predators! Like animals in the wild! Shall we prove them right?”

Chuluun moved to the center of the fire again. “Live or die, we will keep our humanity! I give you the First Law of the Code of Honor: We keep our word!”

“To our enemies?” A man called out from the crowd.

“To our enemies most of all!” Chuluun shouted back. “They will hate us and fear us—but the next time I give my word of honor, they will believe us. They’ll believe!”

He could hear a growing hum of agreement, then, and calls of encouragement. “We will always keep our word! That’s the First Law of the Code!”

“First Law!” Someone shouted.

“Word of honor! First Law!” Chuluun called out. “Word of honor! First Law!”

The riders took up the chant: “Word of Honor, First Law!” He shouted the words and they answered back. While he strode before the fire, whirling in his del at each side, the chants grew louder and louder. Soon the voices were deafening, and changed to “Chuluun Khan! Chuluun Khan!”

Chuluun held up the Winchester and unloaded it before them. Then he smashed the antique wooden stock against a big rock, where it shattered. He threw the rest of it into the bonfire, in a sacrifice that was the final rejection of the man who had given it to him.

“Chuluun Khan! Chuluun Khan!” The crowd roared.

He had their trust again. Before the chants could fade, he whirled one more time and strode back around the bonfire to disappear into the shadows. He was Chuluun, the Second Khan of the Free Tribe of the Steppes.





When dawn broke through the long Haven night, Chuluun Khan took a position on his mount to one side of the route leading back to the Karakul Pass. Once through it, they would again turn east to the Girdle of God Mountains and their home in the Gobi Valley. In a long column, the riders, many of them leading strings of pack mounts, started their long day’s march by passing him.


Stern and unmoving, Chuluun held his head high in the cold morning air, looking out over the heads of his riders as they passed. Even while he gazed aloof into the distance, he was aware that each rider, man or woman, looked at him as they rode by. Some gave a quick, furtive glance while others watched him openly. Though many seemed curious, others seemed to hope for the friendly camaraderie he had shared with the riders before the raid.

The column proceeded, but he refused to look at them or even acknowledge their presence.

Chuluun knew he commanded the loyalty of his riders once again. If the tribe survived, he would again share their campfires, exchange stories, and trade drinks with them on raids or wars of survival. With pride and humility, he would be their khan. He understood, however, that he would never again have a friend.

As the cold wind whipped tears from his eyes, his love for Tuya and Bataar warmed his heart.





MARCHING ON POLAND




By Leslie Fish



2057 A.D., Haven


The first hint of disaster came when Brodski, with Wilgar beside him, marched up to the gates of the Harmony enclave to give his usual lessons in Aikido and T’ai Chi, and found the gates barred fast.

“What’s the matter?” he asked politely. “Don’t the brethren want to continue lessons?”

The man at the gate had the decency to look ashamed. “The Reverend Castell has forbidden all such lessons,” he said, adding: “I’m sorry.”

Wilgar, who had been growing like a weed this past year, pulled himself up to his full gangling height and said: “Surely the reverend will want to see me.”

The gateman, looking even more apologetic, explained: “No, Brother. He considers you…touched by the corruption of the wicked city and will not allow you within the precinct until further notice.”

Wilgar gaped at him for long seconds, then backed away shaking his head.

Brodski asked carefully: “Is the Reverend in good health?”

The gateman bit his lip, but didn’t answer.

That was all Brodski needed to know. “We won’t trouble him, then,” he said. “We’ll return when the Reverend feels better.” He turned and walked back the way he’d come, all but dragging Wilgar with him.

“I never thought he’d turn on me,” Wilgar whispered, seeming to shrink by several inches.

Brodski gave him a thoughtful look. “Say, Wilgar, you never told me your last name.”

“It’s…Castell,” the boy whispered, hunching his shoulders higher.

“Ah.” The old fool treats his own son like this? He never even taught his son to read? Brodski marveled. “It’s all right, Wilgar. You’ll always have a home at Harp’s.”

“Yeah, I guess,” said the boy, looking only a little less miserable.

Brodski patted Wilgar on the shoulder, thinking to himself that he needed to confer with Jane, Van Damm and Makhno again. If Castell was off on another of his Purity fits, it could ruin the fragile alliance between the Harmonies and the Alliance. That would be hard on Docktown, hard on the rest of Castell City and its burgeoning suburbs, but hardest of all on the Harmonies themselves.





The next warning of trouble to come arrived at the new dock with the Queen Grainne. Brodski noticed that the ship carried scars of damage, as if she’d had to fight a battle recently. He also noted that Van Damm was on the ship, along with Irish Himself, both of them looking exceedingly glum, and both of them came marching straight toward Harp’s Sergeant as soon as the ship was moored. Brodski simply ushered the two of them into the storage room, set down a bottle and three glasses and let them speak first.

“Motherless spalpeens!” Himself snapped, even as he reached for his glass. “The Floatin’ Beggars have turned into bluidy pirates, attackin’ any ship that passes. Oh, we fought ’em off with little effort, but look how they scratched up the Queen! And think o’ how they’re ruinin’ river-trade for any smaller ship.”

“Between the Queen, the Princess and the Black Bitch, could we clean them out?” Brodski asked.

“We could,” said Van Damm, “But that cleaning out, by itself, could give CoDominium the excuse it so badly wants. Can’t you see the headlines: ‘Castell Merchants Slaughter Innocent Fishermen’? We couldn’t keep it quiet enough for them to miss it.”

“I get the impression that CoDo is getting close to desperate,” Brodski noted. “And I’ve got to wonder what’s pushing them to grab Haven away from Castell so fast.”

“A few powerful senators, the mining companies and BuReloc.” Van Damm downed his drink in a single pull. “They want the shimmer stones, they want the minerals, and they want a dumping-ground for ‘undesirables’ from Earth. I get the impression that there’s some manner of grand purge developing on Earth and CoDo doesn’t want its plans delayed any longer.”

“I could almost pity crazy old Castell,” Brodski sighed. “If he wasn’t likely to ruin the rest of us with him. But anyway, Vanny, why did you come upriver to see me?”

“Because I think I’ll be needed here shortly.” Van Damm poured himself another glassful. “Besides,” he smiled briefly at Irish, “Hell’s-a-Comin’ is in good hands.”

“Aye,” Himself beamed, “That it is. Between the mines and the settlements, we can absorb twice the numbers we’ve got. What’s the maximum CoDo could dump on us at any one time, eh? How much do those ‘resettlement’ ships hold?”

“Ten thousand, easily,” Van Damm gloomed. “Less if they use the mining ships. Now that Kennicott and Reynolds have resolved their differences, they’ll be happy to get more cheap labor. BuReloc will be happy to send it to them.”

There was a long pause as everyone thought that over. “Another five thousand we can take,” Himself murmured, “But ten is a bit much.”

“And you know they won’t be dumped near Hell’s-A-Comin’,” Brodski guessed. “They’ll be dumped right here in Castell City, to make trouble for the Harmonies.”

“With all three ships workin’ hard and constantly, it’ll take several T-weeks to move them down to Hell’s-A-Comin’ anyway,” Himself finished. “Meanwhile, they’ll be sittin’ around in Castell City with no idea what ta do with themselves.”

“I expect Reynolds, Dover and Anaconda will have shuttles waiting as soon as they hear the ship is approaching,” Van Damm considered, “But the same problem applies.”

“Castell City will be overrun,” said Brodski. “The beadles won’t be able to contain the robberies and assaults, and the Marines won’t be much help either.”

“Will you be safe?” Van Damm asked.

“Me? No problem,” Brodski chuckled. “The Marines will cluster here, as always, and they’ll protect their beloved watering hole. Heinrick’s should be safe, too. It’s the lesser shops and the clinic I’m worried about.”

“P’int the Marines toward the clinic,” Himself suggested. “The others… Aye, an’ I’m sure I don’t know. How’s the Lady Jane farin’?”

“She’s got the island well fortified, not that anyone’s likely to go looking there, anyway. As far as CoDo or anyone else knows, the eastern river shore is uninhabited: nothing of interest out there.” Brodski shrugged. “By the way, her settlers have done a fine job of domesticating the muskylopes. We’ve got ranchers and drovers out on the plains now and lots of meat and hides coming into the city.”


“But I doubt if her settlements can absorb all those raw transportees, either,” Van Damm sighed. “If Hell’s-A-Comin’ can’t take them, we’ll have to get them out to Reynolds’, Dover’s and Anaconda’s camps as fast as possible. Even so, Castell City will become a hellhole no matter what we do.”

“If we can just keep that pot from boiling over…”

“Had you heard? Kennicott Mining has given land grants to its various managers, so as to make them officially citizens of Haven. I do not like what this portends.”

“Why are they willing to take the jobs?” Brodski asked.

“So that they can become the new rulers, the ‘upright citizens’ who will become the mayors and governors when CoDo takes over.” Van Damm glowered at his glass. “The companies are setting up their own secondary ruling class—who will, of course, have the use of the CD Marines to keep their positions safe.”

“Hmm.” Brodski gave him a keen look. “Are you in any particular danger, Vanny?”

“Not so far. I was careful to have no further contact with Sanchez before he left; I did my best to let him think I died in the ’bombing’. Still, I do not doubt that the next ship will bring another CoDo agent, seeking trouble to stir. Best I be here, not in Hell’s-A-Comin’, when he arrives.”

“Your old friend, Cole?” Brodski asked.

Van Damm shrugged. “If Cole made it back to Earth, I’m sure he got a not-so-gentle reaming. Besides, not enough time for a return trip to End-of-the Line, which is one of the nicer things they call Haven.”

“So, what’s ta be done?” Himself interjected. “We’ll dig more caves, train more miners ta farm an’ work the factories, see what we can do about absorbin’ more transportees, but what else?”

Van Damm thought for a long moment. “All I can think of is to make more ships like the Queen, and arm them well. And… if you can do it quietly, kill as many of the pirates as you can.”





The third warning came from Wilgar, who returned from a morning’s rambling to beg Brodski for the loan of some trowels. Brodski, making a good guess, steered him into the storeroom. He noticed the boy’s surprise at not seeing the radio there.

“I moved it to the…spare room,” Brodski explained. “Three trowels are the most I can give you right now. Didn’t Old Castell let you back into the enclave?”

“In, yes.” Wilgar shrugged. “I just had to…make my own way out.”

“I see.”

Brodski opened a crate on a bottom shelf and pulled out three hand-trowels, recently made at Heinrick’s shop. “How many are willing to come with you?”

“None!” The boy’s face crumpled as he struggled with tears. “Papa had some kind of fit, and he’s been getting crazier ever since. He doesn’t want anyone leaving the enclave and he’s even leaning on our farmers to come stay in the enclave. It’s like he’s trying to lock everybody up in a storm cellar, except there’s no storm.”

“There’s one coming, but this isn’t the way to deal with it.” Brodski heaved a sigh, and handed over the trowels. “Wilgar, if you can, warn those outlying farmers to get clothes that don’t look like Harmony robes, and tell them to set aside seed and tools they can carry quickly. When CoDo comes, they may have to get away from Castell in a hurry.”

Wilgar looked up, eyes wide. “You think it’ll get that bad?”

“It’ll get bad, son.” Brodski chewed his lip for a moment. “And, Wilgar, get hold of your grandpa’s book.”

“But I don’t know where it is,” replied Wilgar. “My Papa keeps it hidden.”

“Find it and get that book to safety. You’re going to need it.”

“Me?” Wilgar whispered.

“You. You’re the Last Castell and after the dust settles that will be worth something. You’ll be needed then. Your grandpa was a smart man, and by rights his wisdom should descend to you.”

“I…see.” Wilgar thoughtfully stuffed the trowels in his robe and wandered out of the storeroom.

Brodski watched him go, then went to a stack of shelves by the wall and pulled on it. The stack swung forward, revealing a hidden doorway. Brodski went through it, pulling the shelf-disguised door shut behind him. He picked his way carefully down the narrow lightless passage until he came out in a wide underground room, lighted by a solar panel. A narrow pipe coming down from the ceiling brought in a steady breeze, the creak of the windmill far above, and two narrow cables. One cable snaked over to the solar panel; the other attached to the radio on a table directly under the pipe. Brodski pulled out a chair, sat down at the table and turned on the radio.

A moment’s fiddling brought the sound of static and a woman’s voice saying only: “Yes?”

“Jane,” Brodski sighed into his microphone, “Old Castell’s gone off the deep end, and there’ll be no saving the Harmonies. He’s trying to lock everybody up in the enclave and ignore the rest of the world.”

“Damn,” Jane sighed in return. “Well, the deal was good while it lasted. What’ll happen to the rest of the city? It’s as wide open and helpless as Poland was before the German troops, and the Russians, and everybody else.”

“Next load of transportees will make it a hellhole, and our only hope is to move them out as fast as we can.”

“Hmm. If your team can pick out a thousand good ones, we can settle them up here—but it’ll have to be done quietly.”

“A thousand for you, five thousand for Hell’s-A-Comin’, maybe another three thousand for the other companies… We just might make it. That still won’t save the Harmonies.”

“I guess nothing will.” Jane paused for a long moment. “Can you save those outlying farms?”

“Maybe, if they’ll listen to…my, uh, agent.”

“We’ll keep trading with them, then, but we may as well cutoff trade with the enclave. If Old Castell won’t keep up his end of the bargain, there’s no point keeping up ours.”

“Keep goods coming into Docktown, though.” Brodski paused to think. “Jane, is there any way we could start overland trade? Once the CoDominium takes over, you know they’ll be watching the river.”

“We’re working on it.” He could hear her smile through the radio. “Benny and Jeff have a design for a steam-powered truck. If Himself can start manufacturing them….”

“He’ll need the tools to make the tools. How fast can you get him the specs?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a few T-weeks, maybe more. How’s he doing on the next ship?”

“He says he’ll have it ready, crewed and armed by the time the shuttles arrive. Cross fingers.”

“Fingers, toes and everything else. We’re getting braced for the arrival here.” Brodski automatically glanced upward. “We’re doing everything we can, but it won’t be pretty.”

“I could almost feel sorry for Old Castell.”

“So could I, if he hadn’t brought it on himself.”





The beginning of the end came when Sam-The-Ham Kilroy got the first message that the Kennicott ship was entering orbit above Haven. He relayed the word as fast as he could: to Janesfort, to Hell’s-A-Comin’, and to everyone he could think of in Castell City. After that he duly informed the company offices for Kennicott, Reynolds, Dover and Anaconda.


By the time the first shuttle landed at Splashdown Island, the Black Bitch, Queen Grainne, Princess Maeve and the new Finn MacCool were waiting just off the island to take on cargo and passengers. Just outside the last buildings of Castell City, passenger shuttles from the mining companies landed and lined up. Signs sprouted everywhere along Docktown, pointing to “Jobs And Housing Here.” Smaller signs, marked with the hand-painted logo of the 26th CD Marines, pointed to “Starman’s Inn”, “Harp’s Sergeant”, “Heinrick’s”, and “Clinic”.

Owen Van Damm, watching through binoculars from discreet concealment on top of the main warehouse, took careful notes. The first shuttle, naturally, unloaded a contingent of CoDo Marines. The Black Bitch and the Princess Maeve duly took them to the Old Dock and let them off near the sign pointing to Harp’s Sergeant. The unloaded shuttle took off, and another promptly took its place.

The next shuttle unloaded a lot of large Marine-guarded crates. Weaponry, Van Damm guessed, making a note. The Queen Grainne and Finn MacCool took them to the new Castell Dock, from which—Van Damm saw—they did not proceed to a warehouse but waited expectantly. Again, the shuttle took off and was quickly replaced.

Then came the transportees, shuttle after shuttle full of them. The riverboats hurried back and forth, loaded until they rode low in the water, but couldn’t keep up with the demand. It was dim-dark before the last shuttle unloaded and left, and full-dark before the river boats deposited the last transportees on land. The shuttles from the mining companies filled early, pulled up their signs and departed. Himself, visible by torchlight, stood up on a stump and urged remaining transportees aboard the riverboats which then pulled out and headed down river toward Hell’s-A-Comin. There were still thousands of transportees left milling about on the docks with no idea what to do or where to go.

By the light of his hand torch Van Damm stared bleakly at his notepad. Yes, as bad as he’d feared: a full ten thousand transportees, all dumped on Castell City. Maybe three thousand had gone off on the mining company shuttles. Maybe another thousand were headed for Hell’s-A-Comin’. At top speed, the riverboats couldn’t return for another two T-weeks; by then the abandoned transportees would have grown desperate and started making trouble.

Oh, and who was that strolling along the docks, studying the bewildered crowd and peering at the local fishing boats, as if he had plans for them. He’s familiar….

Hell, it’s Simon Shawley! One of BuIntel’s Off-World Operation Officers. Shawley was sent out when things were getting dicey. If he was here, there were probably two or three other agents around.

Van Damm turned off his flashlight and flattened himself on the warehouse roof, swearing in three different languages. If Shawley was here, it could only mean that he no longer trusted his various agents to overthrow Castell and meant to do the job in person.

This is the end of the Harmonies.

And another ship would come, doubtless bringing more transportees, in six months.

…And they’ll concentrate on Castell City.

For a long moment Van Damm seriously considered cutting out and running upriver to Janesfort, taking up his old homestead and being a farmer for the rest of his life. It took a long moment to banish the temptation and start considering what he could do to help Jane’s alliance now and save what could be saved of Castell City.




2057 A.D., Cat’s Eye Orbit


Maxwell Cole sighed when he heard his name called out over the space yacht’s intercom. Throughout his thirty years of service in the CoDominium Bureau of Intelligence, Cole had visited over twenty different worlds, not counting Earth, Luna Base and Ceres; some multiple times. A few he’d enjoyed, like Tabletop, New Washington and Sparta; others he’d hated, like Folsom’s World and Tanith. But even the worst of them were better than Haven, his own personal hellhole.

On the other hand, this was the first time he’d traveled by space yacht with luxury accommodations. I could get used to this, he decided. It sure beats the hell out of that Kenny Co ore carrier I was forced to take on my previous visit.

“Maxwell Cole please report to the penthouse,” the intercom repeated.

Ah, the master calls, Cole thought. He had traveled aboard a lot of different space craft, but never one with a penthouse!

He punched a button, replying, “Tell Taxpayer Bronson I’m on my way.” He put down his tumbler of Scotch and rose to his feet. His tunic and trousers were tolerably presentable, not that this was a royal audience. He was a BuIntel agent, not a Dover toady, but orders were orders. Wainwright had said to follow Bronson’s orders, but “use your own discretion,” so he knew he was going to be walking a tightrope over this assignment. If anything went wrong, he was the fall guy; the upside was that for once he had as many CoDo credits as he needed and military backup.

The space yacht’s corridors were better appointed than the best New York hotels, not that he had much familiarity with them. Not a lowly and expendable feet-on-the-ground agent like himself. After that last little fracas they called the Janesfort War, he wasn’t likely to come out of this situation with anything much more than his basic pension. Regardless, he’d have to do the job, otherwise he’d either be abandoned on Haven or forced to spend the rest of his life condemned to a Welfare Island back on Earth. Not much payback for thirty years of faithful service to his CoDo overlords.

Entering the penthouse, Cole was directed to a large office where Ehrenfeld Bronson sat behind a big nineteenth-century style partners’ desk that did little to obscure his bulk. Bronson wasn’t a fat man, just a big mesomorph, like a linebacker with an extra hundred pounds.

Cole pointed to the portal which displayed the blue ball of Haven with a wide brown and black girdle across the center.

“Ultima Thule, at last,” he observed.

“Enough of your wisecracks, Cole.” Bronson paused to shake his head. “I haven’t enjoyed the last year myself. Couldn’t they find a worldlet any farther away?”

Cole shook his head. “It’s a good place to die.”

Ehrenfeld sighed. “You just don’t get it, Cole. You’re in enough trouble as it is after your last screw-up. If your little revolt had gone off as intended, we’d both be in a better place.”

Bronson was wrong, Cole did get it; he knew exactly just how deep he’d sunk into this particular septic tank. He also knew that getting out of it meant taking orders from this fathead, which was something he wasn’t going to enjoy. On his last visit to Luna, Assistant Director Wainwright had made it very clear that he was to follow any and all orders of the Bronson scion. Cole’s own due diligence had informed him that Ehrenfeld Bronson was in the same cesspool that he was, although at a much higher level; and, knowing just what it was that flows downhill, he knew exactly where he stood.

Thomas Ehrenfeld Bronson had suffered as well, having been cashiered from his cushy CEO position at Dover Mineral Development. He had been sent out to Haven to corner the shimmer stone market and regain the monopoly Dover had lost when some lucky miner discovered the shimmer stones on his own. It was do the job or be stranded on Haven for the next few decades for both of them.

He also knew about Bronson and DeSilva patronage and power. It was no coincidence that the CD cruiser, the CDSN Invincible, was scheduled to arrive in a few T-weeks with a battalion of CoDominium Marines. This time the Harmonies were doomed; there would be no rabbits popping out of this hat.


“Just to make things perfectly clear, Cole. This is a joint operation between Dover and Kennicott Metals. For once we’re both united in our goal, which is to have Haven declared a CoDominium Protectorate.”

“I’m well aware of your joint stand, sir,” he replied. Sure, both companies want to strip the moon of all its resources with the CD’s permission and help. Nothing could be clearer, The Masters of the CoDominium have spoken. Who am I to stand in their way?

“Well, you have about four T-weeks to provide the Marines with a token excuse to clean up Castell City and declare martial law. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Cole answered. “The Harmonies are not the most sophisticated of opponents. This time we’ll keep our activities centered on them rather than the farmers and outlying prospectors.” And you’d better hope I succeed, you fat frog. Or we’ll both be stranded on this ice-ball for the rest of our lives. And, when it comes to corralling the Haven Shimmer Stone Cooperative and controlling the shimmer stone market, your are on your own, as per Asst. Director Wainwright’s orders.