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 greenthorn 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, 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 snagged 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 had 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 Reynolds 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 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 that Jomo might be eaten by a Tamerlane.
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 Dock-town, but never those women.
"Ah, Capitan 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, se?ors, 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: "Se?ores, 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 in, 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 CoDo 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 euphleaf, 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.
From the closed hearing by the Interior Subcommittee of the United States Senate, 1 September 2073. Mr. Bendicks: Why, exactly, does the Administration want to cancel the treaties with the various Indian tribes and transfer the reservations to the public domain? Sec. Pendleton: Seventeen years of free movement between national entities, ending in 2065, resulted in thirty-seven million foreigners, uh, extranationals, holding permanent residency permits within the United States. Fewer than six million of those persons have applied for citizenship, and according to figures of the INS, fewer than eleven million are competent in the use of the English language. There are twenty-eight different newsfax publishing one or more times a day in the United States, in eleven different languages. Throughout the several states, there are innumerable enclaves in which the principal languages spoken are other than English, notably Spanish, Portuguese, Russian, Chinese, and Arabic. Mr. Bendicks: Mr. Secretary, one of us has obviously misunderstood the other. Let me repeat my question. Why, exactly, does the Administration want to cancel the treaties with the various Indian tribes and transfer the reservations to the public domain? Sec. Pendleton: If the Senator will be patient, I'm coming to that. Mr. Bendicks: Please do. Sec. Pendleton: Not only the United States of America, but almost every other developed, industrialized nation on Earth, has such enclaves of unrepentent extranationals making their social and economic demands but unwilling to naturalize. This administration has gone to considerable effort and expense to absorb these non-American populations that make up more than eight percent of our total population.