Gerald Skibbows jaw dropped. People on the nearby cots were turning over, peering at them blearily.
Do you know how late it is? What have you been up to? he hissed.
Are you quite sure you want a truthful answer to that, Daddy? Quite sure?
You despicable little vixen. Your mothers been fretting over you all night. Doesnt that even bother you?
Marie curled her lip up. What tragedy could possibly happen to me in this paradise youve brought us to?
For a moment she thought he was going to strike her again.
There have been two murders in the port this week, he said.
Yeah? That doesnt surprise me.
Get into bed, Gerald said through clenched teeth. Well discuss this in the morning.
Discuss it? she asked archly. You mean I get an equal say?
For fucks sake, can it, Skibbow, someone shouted.
We want to get some sleep here.
Under the impotent stare of her father, Marie pulled her shoes off and sauntered over to her cot.
Quinn was still dozing in his sleeping-bag, struggling against the effects of the rough beer he had drunk in Donovans, when someone gripped the side of his cot and yanked it through ninety degrees. His arms and legs thrashed about in the sleeping-bag as he tumbled onto the floor, but there was no way he could prevent the fall. His hip smacked into the concrete first, jarring his pelvis badly, then his jaw landed. Quinn yelled out in surprise and pain.
Get up, Ivet, a voice shouted.
A man was standing over him, grinning down evilly. He was in his early forties, tall and well built, with a shock of black hair and a full beard. The brown leather skin of his face and arms was scarred with a lunar relief of pocks and the tiny red lines of broken capillaries. His clothes were all natural fabric, a thick red and black check cotton shirt with the arms torn off, green denim trousers, lace-up boots that came up to his knees, and a belt which carried various powered gadgets and a vicious-looking ninety-centimetre steel machete. A silver crucifix on a slim chain glinted at the base of his neck.
He laughed in a bass roar as Quinn groaned at the hot pain in his throbbing hip. Which was too much. Quinn grappled with the seal catch at the top of the bag. He was going to make the bastard pay. The seal opened. His hands came out, and he kicked his legs, trying to shake off the constricting fabric. Somewhere around the edges of his perception the other Ivets were shouting in alarm and jumping over the cots. A huge damp jaw closed around his right hand, completely around, sharp teeth pinching the thin skin of his wrist, their tips grating between his tendons. Shock froze him for a horrific second. It was a dog, a hound, a fucking hellhound. Even a sayce would have thought twice before taking it on. The thing must have stood a metre high. It had short grizzled grey fur, a blunt hammerhead muzzle, jowls of black rubber, wet with gooey saliva. Big liquid eyes were fixed on him. It was growling softly. Quinn could feel the vibration all the way along his arm. He waited numbly, expecting the jaws to close, the mauling to begin. But the eyes just kept staring at him.
My name is Powel Manani, said the bearded man. And our glorious leader, Governor Colin Rexrew, has appointed me as Group Sevens settlement supervisor. That means, Ivets, I own you: body, and soul. And just to make my position absolutely clear from the start: I dont like Ivets. I think this world would be a better place without putrid pieces of crap like you screwing it up. But the LDC board has decided to lumber us with you, so I am going to make bloody sure every francs worth of your passage fee is squeezed out of you before your work-time is up. So when I say lick shit, you lick; you eat what I give you to eat; and you wear what I give you to wear. And because you are lazy bastards by nature, there is going to be no such thing as a day off for the next ten years.
He squatted down beside Quinn and beamed broadly. Whats your name, dickhead?
Quinn Dexter ... sir.
Powels eyebrows lifted in appreciation. Well done. Youre a smart one, Quinn. You learn quick.
Thank you, sir. The dogs tongue was pressing against his fingers, sliding up and down his knuckles. It felt utterly disgusting. He had never heard of an animal being trained so perfectly before.
Smartarses are troublemakers, Quinn. Are you going to be a troublemaker for me?
No, sir.
Are you going to get up in the mornings in future, Quinn?
Yes, sir.
Fine. We understand each other, then. Powel stood up. The dog released Quinns hand, and backed off a pace.
Quinn held his hand up: it glistened from all the saliva; there were red marks like a tattooed bracelet around his wrist, and two drops of blood welled up.
Powel patted the dogs head fondly. This is my friend, Vorix. He and I are affinity bonded, which means I can quite literally smell out any scams you dickheads cook up. So dont even try to pull any fast ones, because I know them all. If I find you doing anything I dont like, it will be Vorix who deals with you. And it wont be your hand he bites off next time, hell be dining on your balls. Do I make myself clear?
The Ivets mumbled their answer, heads bowed, avoiding Powels eye.
Im glad none of us are suffering any illusions about the other. Now then, your instructions for the day. I will not repeat them. Group Seven is going upriver on three ships: the Swithland , the Nassier , and the Hycel . They are currently docked in harbour three, and theyre sailing in four hours. So that is the time you have to get the colonists gear loaded. Any pods that arent loaded, I will have you carry on your backs the whole way to the landing site upriver. Do not expect me to act as your permanent nursemaid, get yourselves organized and get on with it. You will be travelling with me and Vorix on the Swithland. Now move!
Vorix barked, jowls peeled back from his teeth. Powel watched Quinn skitter backwards like a crab, then pick himself up and chase off after the other Ivets. He knew Quinn was going to be trouble, after helping to start five settlements he could read the Ivets thoughts like a personality debrief. The youth was highly resentful, and smart with it. He was more than a waster kid, probably got tied in with some underground organization before he was transported. Powel toyed with the idea of simply leaving him behind when the Swithland sailed, let the Durringham sheriffs deal with him. But the Land Allocation Office would know what hed done, and it would be entered in his file, which had too many incidents already. Bugger, he muttered under his breath. The Ivets were all outside the dormitory, heading along the path to the warehouse. And it looked like they were gathering round Quinn, waiting for him to start directing them. Oh well, if it came to it, Quinn would just have to have an accident in the jungle.
Horst Elwes had been watching the episode with a number of Group Sevens members, and now he stepped up to Powel. The supervisors dog turned its neck to look at him. Lord, but it was a brute. Lalonde was becoming a sore test for him indeed. Was it necessary to be quite so unpleasant to those boys? he asked Powel Manani.
Powel looked him up and down, eyes catching on the white crucifix. Yes. If you want the blunt truth, Father. Thats the way I always deal with them. They have to know whos in charge from the word go. Believe me, they respect toughness.
They would also respond to kindness.
Fine, well you show them plenty of it, Father. And just to prove theres no ill feeling, Ill give them time off to attend mass.
Horst had to quicken his pace to keep up. Your dog, he said cautiously.
What about him?